Leotards

Dancing after cleaning, to Gogol Bordello. Remembered when I was small and taking free (or at least very cheap) ballet classes at Patton Park. The teacher dyed light, horrible green leotards to a reasonable black for the girls. There was an actual piano player, an elderly black man who kept time and a tune for seven year old girls practicing plies in an unheated, but much mirrored, dance studio. I was sent because my feet turned in, a birth related deformity. Of course, all ballet did for my feet was cause me to pronate instead, but such is life. I liked the discipline, the work, the space to move in. I would all my life bruise myself on smaller spaces, having learned to dance in a large open one. A physical courage learned.

Once, I was awarded, "Most likely to succeed in ballet." My brothers decided this was actually said "belly" which turned out to have more truth in it. I accepted this without thought as a child, but to think that back then, my movements were so pleasing. No dancer, not really, but a dancer for myself certainly. I don't move to the music, it moves me. A natural, if not an exceptional one. I still dance, more recently, with a good floor, and playing my music. Have not gotten out the scarves, and the coin belt has lost it's chain - making it too short for my hips. But I will, it has begun.

I would not be younger, even in body. Even my pain is part of who I am. To live without it, without even the memory of it in my scars would steal the lessons learned, the precious experience, the understanding writ on my tendons, scored into my nerves. I cannot separate my body from my mind from my soul, they are all of a piece. I would not be younger in any part, without deranging the whole weave, weft, embroidery. Patches and pulls are as much a part of me as what I know from having survived them.

And so, as the fifth decade rushes toward me with arms outstretched, I stand awaiting the embrace with a wry smile, and a profound satisfaction. Yes, this is the beginning of a very good and interesting story, much to be written, much to be told. A few weeks, a good excuse to get people here. I am so content.


Home, and Loved.