Every year since Michael Jackson’s death in 2009, my aerobic dance class has celebrated his music. This class is more than huff and puff. Each week our instructor designates a different theme with choreographed songs to match. For example, Memorial Day saw us honoring World War II by dancing to the Andrews Sisters snappy ’40s tunes and on Father’s Day we did songs from Fiddler on the Roof. Our teacher
broken thoughts burrow down deep into bed with lies both keep residence in the part of my brain where discernment lived before he went off to war. *** Linda Battson is a writer and artist living in Austin, Texas. She spends her days selling pens and her nights engaged with those she loves. Linda enjoys authentic conversation, participating in the mental health discussion, and using writing as a tool to
We who lived in the concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.
Everything around me is an imposed illusion, an undisclosed projection I observe as an unwitting and sometimes unwilling player, privately assuming that something beyond perception is what I’m supposed to know. Maybe I’ll understand better before I’m gone, but for now, the beautiful things translate meaning, perched on a rocky ledge at sunset, watching the valley turn to gold.