to dance
January 16, 2016 § 5 Comments
I used to watch a popular, reality based, television program called Dancing with the Stars. Each season novice dancers who are celebrities of various accomplishment, in seemingly unrelated professions, compete in dance competitions broadcast live.
Weekly I watched edited pieces from practice, the emotional highlights of conflict and struggle that documented both the relationship between partners and the evolution of individual dance routines that culminated in a live performance.
More than the elegant costumes and choreographed movements beneath theatrical lights, I admired the novice dancers for their willingness to be seen imperfectly to an audience of strangers, the honesty of their effort, and the uncertainty of success.
There is something to dance that we cannot pretend, a letting go that transcends the performance for something intimately uncertain.
We are all called upon to dance in our own way, to take risks and invest in ourselves wholeheartedly that our life is more than empty movements.
This morning I’m thinking of the ways I let go in faith and the places I hold on in fear.
For all the topics I dance around, the ways I struggle to be visible in my fears; it hadn’t occurred to me I was begging to be seen. Me, too, comes from first placing self in a position of sight.
There’s magic in stretching our arms high and looking out into the world tenderly.
to my son
April 7, 2015 § 4 Comments
There is a moment from last week that I keep returning to; an image just askew of my periphery that pulls my eyes off task and towards a recent memory. It is a small thing, but in each remembering it offers a lingering delight.
We had just delivered your sister to a lesson and I had dragged you, to your great disappointment, on an errand. As I combed the store for the necessary items, I caught a sudden movement and turned to see you dancing. It’s the kind of performance most would leave for the privacy of their room, an exhibition I myself would probably reserve for the borrowed bravery of a rarely indulged second glass of wine. Uninhibited you snaked your way through the empty store intoxicated by the music.
I’ve spent so much of your life noting the social norms that it was second nature to entertain a lesson. The words felt bitter on my tongue, puckering my thoughts from the ease of the smile you had only just gifted me. I told you then how much I envy your reckless disregard for thoughtless rules that bind us to a hyperconsciousness for others’ opinions. If I were braver I might have danced with you.
We talk of dancing like no one is watching, but you live with a truer fearlessness. I hope you always hear the music in the mundane.
Love, Mom
to my ballerina
May 4, 2013 § 5 Comments
This morning you lingered in the margin of the dance studio, watching the performance of preparation among students gathering for class pictures. I marveled at the quiet, unassuming strength your casual posture belied. Each week you navigate a path into a setting that once was shadowed by the unkindness of an uncompassionate instructor.
Years have passed since the unfortunate lesson that invited harm. I honored your departure from dance, some days worried another had robbed you of a source of joy. I set aside memories of your eagerness to sit among a circle of dancers and allowed you space to chase new dreams. Still, I watched the scuffle of your feet and saw a love tucked safely to yourself.
This year I met your request to revisit dance with the humble hope to offer you a new experience to challenge an old memory. I wished you friendship in the point of tiny toes, the encouragement of a kind instructor, and the exercise of embracing joy. As we near the end-of-year recital, I am holding tightly to the smile that chases new friends and the sense of belonging you found stretched across Thursday evenings this school year.
Today I looked past the elegant costume and mature sweep of your carefully orchestrated bun to the little girl who once soared in wide circles across an empty studio. Pieces of a lifetime overlapping, an old beginning and a new ending in a never-ending celebration of a small spirit who guides me with her joy.
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