When I was thirteen, I bought a photograph of Mikhail Baryshnikov.  He was in mid-flight, muscles taut, and the expression on his face was one of sheer freedom. There was nothing but air around him to drive home the point. I recall staring at it hoping my body might eventually feel that way (or at least would get to feel him). Around that same time, I also discovered Annie Leibovitz, a female photographer whose portraits stunned me with their simplicity and her ability to capture the private portion of her subjects’ famous public persona. For the first time, I saw what the eye of a woman could behold and it had a profound effect on me.

In part because of her influence, photography is part of my life. My daily-life of design and writing however, has me sitting for hours. So at 40, I realized the freedom must be within dance itself (and a realization that Baryshnikov will never ask me out). So a girlfriend of mine and I started jazz classes on Tuesday, and I found freedom within minutes. It was in the rhythm of the music. In the mentality of letting go. Radiating from my limbs. And right when I thought, “I’m dancing at 40. This is fabulous!”… POW! I blew out my hip. A trip to the orthopedic doctor confirmed strained muscles, and two weeks of constrained movement.  I am not thirteen anymore. Yes, I will return to class, but perhaps life is freer behind the lens.