Do You Hear the Music?

It rained this morning. It's pouring now. Thanks to daylight savings, my body woke at it's usual time, but at the new hour of 5:30am. I laid in my warm bed, briefly contemplating how I would use this gift of time--sleep, read, work. After ten minutes of trying to keep myself awake while closing my eyes, so as not to drift off and lose the time to unconscious rest, I heaved myself up from the shamble of my cosy covers.

My family is having car problems--it's a habit of ours--so my mother was driving the girls to school and my dad into work. I elected to go with them and help my mother after dropping off the crew. With all sisters in dance, she has been cleaning the ballet studio to supplement tuition costs for years.

My cold, tired body hoisted itself into the car, flipping through the pages of my new novel as quickly as I could in the dim light of the morning.

Soon, we were in the studios, mopping floors, washing mirrors, and scrubbing bathrooms. I haven't really danced in years. I may have dabbled in a few college classes here and there, but nothing like my time spending every afternoon as a "studio rat."

As I bent over, reaching to a child's smudged handprint on the mirror between to bars, I had a powerful and unexpected flashback. I recalled standing in that very room, the air heavy with body heat and sweat. I remember the aching muscles, the lack of confidence, the shoes and tights and leotards and hairnets. My body marinated in the memory, growing heavy the longing for that elated rush of finishing a combination with a perfect triple pirouette, landing with precision and poise. I could almost hear the melodic, classical piano notes filling the rooms, begging to carry your fingers and toes.

I miss it. I miss dancing so much. 

The Beautiful Ballerina Project