Three years old and I’m smitten with these ballet shoes. My legs are too skinny for my tights and they wrinkle up around my ankles, but none of that matters. Because I’m a ballerina and it’s wonderful.
My first recital and we all stand in a long row. I’m on the end, half my body hidden behind the curtain — because I’m the littlest one. But my teacher tells me I’m on the end because I’m the leader. Obviously, I’m sold. And that pink tutu becomes a treasure as I dance, dance, dance.
Fast forward 13 years. Dance has become far less fun. Something fell apart as the years went by. Maybe it became too serious, too competitive; whatever the case, I couldn’t keep up. Not so suddenly, it’s dance I loathe instead of dance I love. My body grew awkward and lost the playfulness that made dance a joy. And so, “to focus on my writing,” as I said, I retire the ballet shoes and the tap shoes.
Dancing . . . such a piece of shame for me, for years. I was no good and so I quit dancing, I’d replay in my head. Oh, but joy! There’s joy in dancing, I’ve forgotten. Dancing doesn’t have to be just a plie and an arabesque at a lesson; dancing can be how we move through life.
Slowly, I reclaim it.
I redeem it. At wedding receptions, in the driver’s seat, to Christmas carols, to our record player, when the radio gets it right . . . redemption. Because dance ought not be a dark word.
Love linking up with Lisa Jo for Five Minute Friday.