Dance, when you’re broken open. Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you’re perfectly free. – Rumi At first it was simply a fun distraction, but it grew to be a passion that helped me love being in my body again and view relationships through a new lens. It was a month after my husband moved out, and I was visiting New Orleans for a painfully dull convention. During the evenings, some colleagues and I did as NOLA tourists do: drank Sazeracs, ate crawfish, and visited the jazz bars on Decatur Street. At one of them, a small band was playing 1930s jazz, and a clutch of dancers caught my attention. Click here to read the full article on The Fine Line