What does “looking like a fool” mean?

The wrong turn, up the dead end alley, spinning in the round about, landing in a cul de sack subdivision bland designed homes pseudo village that has no relationships at all to offer let alone one to the past decades proximity intimacy of those who have spent generations side by side living out their lives can make you or me look like a fool.

We avoid the wrong thing:  the wrong choice; the wrong words; the wrong opinion; the wrong shade of blue not this season out of step ugly duckling with the too small purse or dangling gigantic bike messenger purse of anointed lack of status value.

We cannot be unlike. We cannot be unmatching. We cannot be the wrong “style” of person.

My father once said,”Everything is relative.” He explained to me when I was seven that being quiet in a hyperactive crowd would draw attention. He sat with me until I understood being studious in a group of merry go round fun seeking attendees in a classroom would mark me as the odd one out.

If I were still when they were moving, I would be the focus. If I were moving when all others are still, I would hold attention. There was no “me” other than my behavior in comparison to the behavior of others.

Last night I had a dream that I returned to the past to a red neck, farming community where life was brutal and serious. The blacksmith did not get his massively muscular structure in front of a mirror at some gym. No one was “performing” to try out an identity. The game was survival and survival of one’s children.

In the visit to this place back in time, or before my current life, or in an alternative life, I stood before the elders and I knew their expectation of me. I was required not to “make a fool” of myself.

To be sent to coventry would be to die. To be exiled from the source of food and shelter of the village was to perish.

And in my dream being one who was serious about “fitting in” was important, the elders instructed me.

To make a “fool of yourself” means that you lack intelligence; it means that you can never be a leader; it means that the cloak of dignity and respect of wisdom will never be thrown upon your shoulders.

As I lay drifting away from my body, I saw myself turn away from the elders and find a wide open place to stand. I held out the skirt of my dress and took a deep curtsey toward them. And then I began to dance.

I danced with an invisible partner a wide ranging waltz with dips and spins. I moved to unshared music that only my dream partner and I could hear. Free flowing energy carried us beyond the boundaries of everything I had been told was real.

The joy was the dress I wore, the braids in my hair with white daisies stuck in them, the patent leather shoes I tapped upon the ground.

The joy was the ground, the sky, the trees, the softening of all dimensions to choreograph my own way of being in the world. The joy flooded in beyond any possibility of fear. My body was without boundaries, limitations. It was beyond the skeletal touch of death or the sharply structured nails of artificial beauty.

Somewhere last night I found a way to disappear into the place beyond restrictions and judgement. I was simply dancing.