There Will Always Be Light

The world takes a lot from it. Sometimes it is lethal, ruthless in it's attack. Things are often gone as quickly as they have come. Countries are at war, natural disasters destroy as quick as a crack, and children are swiped away before their time.

 We spend a lot of time being swallowed up in the darkness that is death. hate. addiction. guilt. loss. Every now and then we open ourselves up to it. We surrender our positivity that can at times be made of steel, and we just feel. We don't justify, we don't try and understand. We just succumb to the fact that sometimes, the light is very dim and very far away.  The darkness is vast and wide. And it will always be there, ebbing it's way into the every day news and into our very own lives. The darkness now becomes familiar and personal. It stretches it's spindly fingers long and wide until soon we have to desperately remind ourselves of what is good and just, and light, and happy, and everything that world was meant to be in the first place.

Tonight there are too many brothers without their sisters. There are too many mothers without their children, and far too much emptiness to bear. But we have to.

Because, in a world where someone can be taken from you in a matter of seconds, a ruthless world that doesn't give anyone a chance for a goodbye, it is because of it, after all, that we are even here to experience it in the first place.

And with the responsibility that comes with being given all that we are given, sometimes things have to be taken back. Things have to be devastating. Sometimes trying to find light in the dark 'wonderful unknown' seems to be more than we signed up for and we feel like we will never find happiness. That place somewhere far in the clouds where nothing bad or painful ever happens, it doesn't exist.

"People get lost when they think of happiness as a destination. We're always thinking that someday we'll be happy; when we get that car, that job, or find the person in our lives that fixes everything. But happiness is a mood, and a condition, not a destination. It's like being tired or hungry. It's not permanent. It comes and goes and that's ok. And I feel like if people thought of it that way, they'd find happiness a lot more often." --One Tree Hill

So is it okay to feel darkness when our world is supposed to be full of light? It's okay. Just like it's okay to feel hungry from time to time.

 Five teenagers from my area have passed away in the last few weeks, two of them hitting close to my heart. Death is a constant around us lately. There seems to be more crimes than acts of kindness, and we have grown accustomed to assuming the worst about someone so we are 'better safe than sorry'. We are closing in ourselves, trying to protect our hearts and families from a world that is too far gone. A world we have pegged as 'ruthless'. It is because of this mantra that darkness is becoming harder to fight.

I have always believed that whatever you want, GIVE IT AWAY. Today I want more light. So I'm going to give more away. I want to feel more happiness, so I'm going to make others happier. I want people to stop hurting, and I want their ache to go away... but I don't know what to do for that. And that's what sorrows me most of all.

But... only one redeemer could truly give everything away, and he did. He gave it all away so we could feel whole. He fills up our gaping wounds and emptiness with his love and grace. And that, is the source of all lightness. This light is what makes up the very core of the earth and the core of the human, vindicating our hearts from the darkness that was never meant to belong there. We have to remember that it will never go away no matter how devastating everything surrounding us may feel.

We have to trust that in a world that is filled with the wonderful unknown there will always be overpowering darkness.                            
                                       But somewhere,                       
                                                                    there will also be light.

The Shiniest Versions of Ourselves

A friend I met with ALS asked once, "Do you know what's so great about having a terminal illness?" ...(To which I stared at him blankly)..., "You get to hear what people would say about you at your eulogy." He continued, "People don't hold back when they know you are leaving. You get to see the impact you have made on the world before you are gone."

Since that moment a big question on my mind has been, "What will I be remembered for?".

The people that have made the biggest impact on me have sometimes been nameless, faceless, or not the most profound, yet I will always remember them. I've come to realize people will often forget what you say, they will forget what you do, but they will always remember you for the way you make them feel.

So that leads again to the question, "What will I be remembered for?"
"How did I make people feel?" "How do I treat people on a day to day basis?" "How do I treat others when they can do nothing for me in return?"

I do not have a terminal illness, but I am leaving a studio and students I have taught for the last four years. I have seen some of these girls grown from children to teens, from teens into beautiful women. And I have loved every second.

Last week when I explained I was leaving, the air in the dance studio was heavy and somber. One of the other teachers walked in to try and lift our moods and said, "Come on guys, she's not dying!", and a student replied, "It's like she is. We will never see her again."

I felt like a bucket of icy water hit me. It was that moment that I remembered my friend with ALS and since it seemed I was practically dying to these kids, I began to worry what I will be remembered for, or if I'll be remembered at all. There were no do-overs, no more time to leave them with something of importance. I thought back on all the years, the good days, the bad days... the long hours. If I could go back and make all those moments perfect, I would. If I could do over moments of frustrations, weakness, or impatience, I would. I would leave these girls with only the best shiny crafted image of myself possible. But it's never as you experience life that you think of these things, it's only as you are leaving, or the moment is over and things are changing that you go back and think, "I hope I did all right."

I was thinking tonight that if only we could always be the best version of ourselves, we would never have any regrets. We wouldn't look back and wonder if we did all right. If only we could strive to be better each and every day, we would never have to be afraid of what versions of ourselves will be the most remembered. We would never have to paint over our bloopers or downfalls because we would always be at our SHINIEST.

I feel so overwhelmed with the amount of love from my students as I have received cards and letters and some of their most prized possessions that I was asked to keep "so I could remember them always". I'm overwhelmed because I think that maybe if I had any idea just how much I was being watched and how much my words have impacted, I would have tried harder and chosen them more carefully. I would have tried harder to always be shiny.

I'm so glad that little ones have tender hearts that seem to always remember you at your best. They are willing to love you whole heartedly, mistakes and all. I hope as a teacher I can always be worthy of that love and admiration and always be worthy to be called someone's role model.

The only way to always leave just the shiny memories is to live shiny. Each and every day. We need to be shiny even when moments seem trivial. Sure, we all put on our best face when we are in the spotlight, or when we have an opportunity for imparting wisdom, but that doesn't build someone who is truly shiny. That is practicing to have shiny moments, not to actually BE shiny. It's the little moments that define who we are. It's how well we shine when the clerk at Ross is extremely rude (today), or how much love we expend when little ones are tugging on our arms and dropping chocolate icing on our white shirts (also today).

To be able to live without regret, we must be our best selves every day. And when we mess up and create a moment we wish to paint-over, we try again the next day until slowly and surely, we get it right.

I'm blessed to teach young impressionable children, and I don't take that job lightly. As a part of my life closes and another one begins, I'm going to try harder. I'm going to remember just how much impact one person can have, and I'm going to remember that person can be me. I hope we all get a moment to hear how we will be remembered by another person, or how we have changed a life, because it is after that that we see a small glimpse of who we truly are and how we are doing in the game of life. Every moment that we have the choice to smile or be offended, be grateful or be entitled, be patient or be hurtful, we create a memory of ourselves that can't be painted over. Which one will we chose?

One of my favorite ideas for living is: "Whatever you want, give it away."
 If you want peace, be peaceful.
If you want more kindness, love more.
If you want more magic, make the lives of others more magical.

Don't wait until something is over to realize your impact. Live each day impact-fully!

-McKenna

Grief and Pine Needles

 

I pushed my legs higher up the mountain. They were weak and exhausted but I wanted to put as much distance between me and the earth below as possible. Before I left I grabbed a few things and headed to the place where I always feel safe, the mountains.

I didn't stop until I was high enough to believe I had put enough space between me and my problems. I stopped on a log and finally let the tears betray me as they slid endlessly down my face. A knob jabbed my leg but I didn't shift positions. I didn't even bother to swat the bugs off of me. I just sat peering up at the tall trees whose tips faded into the sky and wished, like them, I could disappear.

It took me a long time until I felt calm enough to let the anger and sadness inside me begin to disappear. The sun slid down the trees before I began to feel cold and very alone. Just when I remembered that when you have no one to talk to, you always do. I looked into the sky and prayed. I prayed for peace. I prayed for solace. I prayed for the chance to open my heart and feel of God's love.

It was almost all the way dark now. I had wandered through the wilderness and had the distinct realization that no one knew where I was. I jogged through the tall grass and dirt with more vigor and energy than I had had in days. My throat and lungs burned, making me feel alive. I slowed as the mountainside evened out and I gained my bearings about where I was. I walked pensively, my eyes at the tip of my hiking boots, when I felt it. A surge of hapiness. My head shot up as my heart filled with warmth. I inhaled again. Pine Trees.

I squinted through the dark and edged to the side of the path to scoop up a whole handful of the glorious needles underneath the tree and held them to my nose. I took in again their bitter-sweet scent.
Christmas. Family. Laughter. Joy. Tradition. Mountain air. Freedom. Love..............PEACE.

In an instant I felt it all. Warmth filled my soul and I choked on my tears and laughter as I took a needle and bit it between my teeth.
I was redeemed.

One tender mercy from the Lord was all it took to be reminded. Just like the Ghosts of Christmas past and Christmas Future had come in the dead of night, those pine needles where sent to remind me of my good, wonderful, happy memories. Memories past, and hope of those yet to come. Life was going to go on. Though I didn't feel anything but emptiness now, I saw through the darkness and found possibility.

***

I was feeling better. Moments of light lifted my spirits, but I still had those times of bleak sadness. I was having one of those moments in the drive through line at McDonalds, of all places. I thought maybe a Diet Dr. Pepper and some fries would at least bring me momentary happiness. The silence in my car was deafening and I felt heavy pain threaten to squish me whole. I was stuck in the crowded drive through and had no choice but to wait and let the tears fall. We were finally moving and I pulled up to the window and I had my two dollar bills and quarter in my hand reaching to toward the window while I kept my eyes down.
"Miss," I looked up. The manager and cashier were both at the window. "The lady in the car in front of you bought your meal and says to tell you to have a better day." I was shocked and mumbled a reply while I tried to stuff my money back in my wallet.

I pulled out of the restaurant and was trying to get a glimpse of my sweet stranger, but she turned left and I turned right. We both went about our day. I tried to see the freeway entrance through my blurry tears. It wasn't about the $2.13, it was about the love. I felt the Lord working through his servants to remind me I was noticed, cared about. I was loved and never forgotten. No matter how small of an act, the meaning to me was full of grandeur. My fizzy drink never tasted so good.

***

Just as I was feeling lighter and back to normal, my body started to go through the changes and my day was one of the worst I've had. My heart ached and wished for release, but I had nothing left to give, no more tears to cry out.

I sighed and sat on my bedroom floor and put my head between my hands. I tried to regulate my breathing so I wouldn't break again. It was hopeless. Minutes later I told myself to get up. I put on one shoe and looked around for the other. I reached underneath my bed to retrieve it and felt something slide on the hardwood floor underneath my palm. I brought whatever it was towards me and lifted my hand. Pine Needles.

I stared at them in shock. It was February. But I did not have a Christmas tree in my bedroom even in December. Besides that, I had just swept underneath the bed last week. But they were there, though slightly yellow, as real as ever. A tangible miracle.

Again I felt the arms of love wrap around me as I wept and grinned and reached my hand to my nose to inhale the very faint scent. I whole heartedly received my tender reminder. "This too shall pass."
 

"Where do we go from here?
How do we carry on?
I can't get beyond the questions.
Clambering for the scraps
In the shatter of us collapsed.
It cuts me with every could-have-been.

Everybody says that time heals everything.
But what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?
Are we just going to wait it out?"

 Nothing to do now but rest, chase sleep that leads to a dream land where no one hurts for real,
and wait it out.
 And never lose faith.

"The Widow's Walk" (A short story)

 

 

I'd like to share with you a symbolic short story I wrote inspired by the picture below. My mom was extremely touched when my sister sent her this photo she took of a place she visited while sight seeing down south. My mother said this photo spoke to her and she knew there was a story there just waiting to be told, so I tried to tell it.

 

 

The Widow’s Walk

The wooden boards were sodden and bogged, much like her thoughts. She paused with her hand on the rail and was once again stricken by the beauty of the terrible abyss before her. She lifted her soiled petticoat and with one tentative step forward she sunk a little in the marsh and looked down at what should be firm and solid beneath her feet. The greying boards were splintered and wet, although there was no water nearby. Down below the cliff there might be, she had never gotten far enough to peer over, but not up here. There couldn’t be water amongst the dead yellow grass and the parched and crumbling dirt surrounding where she stood. The boards where she trod should be dry and brittle. But tonight, they were not. She was not sure why this bothered her so.

        Perhaps it was because every single night she awoke and started again. Until this night, she had awakened before her black boots touched the path before her. This is the farthest she had come. She had always figured that if she could just make it this far her feet would strike against the wood in a confident state of knowing. They would bound beneath her and soar her to The Point. They would take her to her Maker and all of this would end. Every thought haunting the inside of her skull, the voices tormenting her off of this path night after night, the lonely dread that spread from her cold heart to the tips of her fingers the moment she awoke and had to endure it all over…all this, would be gone. She ached for that bleak state of nothing when she was allowed to exist no more.

        Tonight however, as she craned her long neck to glimpse where the matter-less moor stretched on, she was not sure. She was not knowing. Her feet did not stride, but shook as she tried to shift her weight forward onto her unsteady feet. Is this what she was intended? How could she be sure this was the plan of her Maker and not her Demons?  

        It had been more than forty summers that she had been filled with torment. Three weeks plus forty years ago she had sent her bridegroom on his voyage. She stood with her hands grasping the wrought iron railing around the west balcony of her manor and watched the ship fade away into nothing as it departed, almost certain to never return.

“Jacob.” She whispered when the ship was no more than a mere speck of her imagination against the empty horizon. The name left her lips and clung to the silence around her.

Now, it still hangs heavy in every room of the estate. His name is whispered over and over with the same sound of thousands arachnids scuttling over the walls and echoing throughout the endless corridors. There was not one place of solace for her except her dreams, which were filled with more lifelike and terrorizing unknown than the haunt that habituated within her during her actual consciousness. Whether asleep or awake, she’s always faced with The Path.

Even now, a damp wind breaking her reverie, she could glance back at the crumbling pillars of her home against the moor and feel nothing; nothing but emptiness and the ghost of what once was. She squared her shoulders forward towards the orange angry sky and the rising path leading to freedom in front of her. She felt no constraint in choice or action this time as she took one more creaking step forward onto The Path. 

The wind rushed against her skirts as if it were a punishment, making her stumble and reminding her that she is still unsure and unsafe. She lost her footing and felt the forces pulling and threatening to make her lose her way again. She ducked her head and plowed on. Only a little further. She was almost halfway down The Path to The Point. She collapsed against the wooden rails on the side of her. She thought of the first time she noticed these rails during the past tests when she first began to face The Path many years ago. She thought if only she could reach them she could at least drag her weighted legs forward until she reached The Point but after decades of failing to reach them, the thought became admissible.

        But she was here now. She hooked her boot around the first beam on the hand rail. She wasn’t going to accept any possibility of peril. She paused only for a moment to tuck away the grey streaked auburn tendrils that frizzed around her head in disarray like a halo. Her long hair had been a silken sheet of youth that was as warm as her laugh and smelled of sunshine. Decades ago she tied it in a knot underneath her high collared blouse and hid it away. It made her think of him, and she had no more use for it.

        She hadn’t touched her porcelain face or hair in years, for she was not aware of the living, or the dead for that matter, but always alone standing on her balcony or out on the moor fighting the winds and the demons. She was about to meet him… and Him, and suddenly she was aware. She pinched her pale cheeks and the sudden sharp pain felt as if an icy breath had entered her lungs. She could feel. She was not asleep, but she knew she could not be awake, for when she squeezed her eyelids and fluttered them open again, The End was still in front of her looking so beautiful and serene she felt her throat harden and hot splashes run down her cheeks.  She did not dare glance back to see how far she had come and conquered. She didn’t need to know how much she had attained because she could feel it. She could feel the opposition tugging her back like a magnet intended to return her to grey and brittle and cold desolation. She gritted her teeth and gripped the rugged wood with both hands. For behold, fortune favored the brave.

        The path turned upward. It became increasingly steeper and more slippery; the last obstacle is always where one loses their valor. It is the final battle where the soldier dies to become a hero, but nonetheless dead and no more than dust. She felt the grass, a vibrant green, scratching at her knuckles as tall as the rails, and chanced a glance down. The plants and foliage pushed and shoved from under the wooden path. Life had been hidden much too long and now it is gasping for breath. She smiled at the shades of green that turned yellow and brown and black once she had moved away from them. She was life; she was making it towards abounding life.

        In the midst of all the darkness, she found that within her there was an invincible light. She had not known this until now, when the demons began to fall away from her. She grew taller with every sound of snapping chain and wails within the confines of her mind until she was large with stature and might.

        She was no longer afraid. Because, she thought to herself as she climbed on, I will never really die because I existed once before, I was never actually born. She turned her face to the sky, her matter-less moor, and closed her eyes trying to remember The Time and let the soft purple and yellow light play against her eyelids.

        Her hands reached on but felt no more wood for her to grasp. She had reached The Point. She let her arm dangle down into the emptiness. How strange is it going to be to feel nothing? Be nothing? No, she corrected. How much stranger is it to be anything at all?

        The crossed gate in front of her was her last barrier. But she was no longer doubtful or wary. Fear and faith cannot exist in the same place at the same time. She was surprised when the gate swung away from her rather than towards her. It made perfect explanation though, why would she take two steps back to allow room for the gate when she had already come this far?

        Her toes escaped the ledge as she edged closer to peer down over the cliff. She drug air through her slowly so she could revel in this moment in which she had searched and longed for during her thousands of days of banishment. She opened her eyes.

        “Oh!” her voiced scratched aloud for the first time since she had whispered his name one last time as she took in the sight before her. This was not what she expected. It was more wonderful and full of splendor then she had ever imagined. This is her purpose and her decision.

        She turned around slowly to see what was behind her one last time. She did not look because she was unsure. She wasn’t glancing back because a part of her was still tied down and imprisoned; she looked to see upon which she had stamped. She wanted to search the bluff leading to her stone dungeon and scoff at her demons. She gasped though, as her hand searched for the rail to lean against. There was nothing behind her. Nothing but space and atoms and all things that truly exist, for everything else is only opinion.

        Facing forward again and into the treasures folded in the purple and yellow clouds, she felt the gate threatening to close shut. Her knuckles were white so she released them one by one and held her arms straight out to her sides and rocked her weight forward onto her the tips of her boots… onto nothing.

The warm wind whipped and snapped at her robes until she was no longer bound. Heat spread from the roots of her hair and she felt the knot at her neck untwist until her hair was a blazing billowing fiery red torrent of warmth around her. She smelled sunshine for the first time in years.

        Just as she was braced for impact she glided further upwards. She was a dove. She landed on a gold tapestry of silk that stretched on. A golden path to follow, but she was certain of where this one ended. Her Maker. Her feet struck the ground in a confident state of knowing.

        She glided on until she could see no path before her. Declare thy great worthyness. She felt, rather than heard, a deep rumble say.

Compared to this light, she was an infant, scarcely able to speak. She tried to lift her chin but couldn’t. But she had come so far! Your light is too brilliant for me to bear. She moaned. Her voice floated like a series of musical chords.

        No my angel. She felt her neck straighten and become weightless as it was lifted tall and straight. You are my light, and I am yours.

Her heart exploded with blessedness and the wretched walls in her mind burst free with song as she remembered.

        The golden path and light before her was then replaced by the view of her matter-less moor, this time unhindered by a gate, rolling on and on into eternity. She saw a speck in the horizon growing closer rather than farther this time, and she knew. She felt her feet fly. Miracles do exist among the ubiquity of the mundane. Light can conquer demons.

And now, she knew what it was to exist even if she didn’t really exist at all, or never did.

        “Jacob” She whispered again. The speck resonated before her. “Josephine.” He finally answered back.

“Jacob,” she said more loudly.  “Jacob, oh My Jacob. I am Freed.”



 

Practicing to Have a Truly Thankful Heart

Once a year we are extremely thankful.

Once a year we sit around the dining room table and remark on all that we have been given and all that surrounds us. But...there are 364 more days of the year. One day of humility and warm hearts and pie can't hold enough hours in it to begin to pay gratitude to all that we have been given.

In the 1600s Pilgrims left England to find their "New World' where they would find the ideals of freedom and liberty. 102 passengers traveled for two months when finally... "Land!"

After arriving, these people suffered many perils. Half of them died of starvation and illness. But, they carried on with faith and planted seeds with only the prayer that in giving all that they had and humbling themselves they would flourish. Crops grew, and the first iconic feast was given. However, this feast wasn't driven by gluttony or commercialism and I highly doubt they ate until they felt sick. They didn't feast "even though" they lost many members of their clan. The feast was offered to give thanks for two simple things: sustenance and survival.

2013. Here we are, fellow Americans, living in the New World where we have gadgets and gizmos that would pretty much blow the pilgrim's minds. It's hard to remember how astounding these things would be in the 1600s when we've already got our eye on that new Ipad Air that we don't have (Poor us!). So we will eat our bountiful feast quickly so we can fight to the death at Wal-Mart for it. Our day of thanks has even been cut short to a mere "few hours" of Thanks, "thanks" -yes-that-was-a-pun- to Hot Black Friday Deals that actually start on Thankful Thursday.

Our nation is struggling with national debt, but again, that is just another monetary objective thing to worry about. What worries me most is the struggle we are having to find those morals upon which our country was grounded. Thanks to our Founding Father's belief in a "New World" we learned that only by unmaterialistic values of hard work, self-government, courage and unrelenting faith can we find it in our hearts to be truly "Thankful".

We may shout our thanksgiving proclamations around the dining room table, or as our Facebook statuses the month of November, but I want to learn to always be truly grateful. All year round. We have the world. We have freedom and opportunities and the power to choose. While our perfect "New World" America is far from what it was when our Pilgrims first dreamed it, or even what it was a few years ago, without our thankful hearts we will never be truly satisfied in what we have been blessed with and what we still have.

Our generation is known as "The Generation of Entitlement". Awesome. I'd much rather be a Baby Boomer. Baby Boomers learned hard work and value from parents who grew up in the Great Depression, the ultimate trial. Our Generation (Generation Y) grew up with impractical expectations. We think we are more deserving, more special...all that and a bag of chips. We're not. We are not Americans who grew up with much adversity, therefore we know no triumph. The grass is greener on the other side, we don't appreciate the flowers because there aren't any weeds and all that jazz. My generation thinks that by being born, we were given a right of passage to own the greatest cars, buy first homes the size of our Parent's long awaited dream homes, and suffer the greatest injustice when we don't get the latest Apple product on the first day it comes out because, you know, it's our right.

Well guess what. I'm going to stop being comfortable being the typical entitled Generation Y member. I'm going to try to live with the Pilgrim's values, the Baby Boomer's positive attitudes, and a Generation-um-Zero Christ-like heart.

I'd like to sit down to dinner across from the Wampanoag Indians back in the day. They wouldn't eat in a rush. Their dinner would be plain, but plentiful. They would laugh and share stories and I wouldn't even glance at my phone or rush to a sale because, well, they didn't have them back then. But also because how could I tell them of all the things incredible things I have been blessed with at my young age and not even simply sit for an hour of harvest feasting to thank the Lord.

I imagine us going around the table and each of us sharing something we are thankful for; them in their bonnets and me in my skinny jeans. Maybe through watching their simple, humble thanks I'd learn to make mine likewise. After all, this is the feast that would set off thousands of years of thankful traditions, I better do it right.

I would tell my dinner friends about my '96 Toyota Corolla. I wouldn't even tell them of the rust spots all along the hood or the squeal it sometimes makes, because only my generous would be proud to be thankful DESPITE of these things. That's not being thankful. I would explain to these sea travelers how quickly my car gets me to work, to visit family, and to many great adventures all with the turn of a key and the push of a pedal. I wouldn't glory in being thankful even though I don't have the latest most beautiful model. I would tell them I own one of this inventions for myself, not because everyone NEEDS or SHOULD have a car. I own one because I am BLESSED and I am thankful.

As we all celebrate Thanksgiving, not the commercial holiday with the parades and the sales, and the hurry-hurry, and the 5 cheese bacon pecan macaroni, but the       Act       of        Being      Thankful, I hope we can reflect the attitudes and simplicity of the first Thanksgiving dinner. As we take time this holiday to look at all of the things we have been bestowed, not because we deserve them, but because we are truly blessed, I hope we can practice to have a true and innate thankfulness for each and every thing we have and continue to receive. I know I am going to try a lot harder. I'd like to fit in at the first Thanksgiving dinner, not be embarrassed.

Maybe today, this ONE day a year, we were extremely thankful...

but 365 days a year we are extremely blessed.

I am a Candle

Life sometimes is tiring.

My words are a jumble in my head. My joints ache and I'm so tired that breathing is somewhat of an expended effort. Days like this, I wonder if what I do matters. I wonder if it is worth it to push myself so far and thin that I lose the steady being inside that keeps me grounded and whole.

You could say I'm feeling a little burned out. But writing is peace. I sometimes forget that it's my sanity. With every thought, every list, every bit of choreography claiming it's space in my head there leaves no room for moments of revelation, enlightenment, or moments of self discovery. The more that time is robbed without these cushioning effects, the bleaker it becomes. And soon, we begin to experience life as nothing but a trudgerey. I don't mean to trudge, but isn't that what living is sometimes all about? Still experiencing life even when you are simply plowing through?

Just as a candle burns, so am I. I start with a wick and a strike of a match. It could be a spark of innovation and creativity that ignites my flame. It could be a yearning and desperation so powerful it forces me into moving. Or it could be just a simple act of duty; I light the wick because I know I should.

However your flame begins, it ends the same. A white candle, tall and proud and sturdy will inevitably begin to soften and relent. When it can't bear to hold the weight any longer, the wax rolls off its shoulders and down to the bottom of the jar. It sinks and caves little by little. As it burns, the very candle itself--this solid inanimate object--begins to disappear. It loses with nothing more than a wisp of carbon and perhaps a puff of artificial vanilla. It burns and glows until it is nothing more than a nub and there is nothing left for it to give. There is no more energy left to expend. A candle can only hope it did what it should in its melt; provide light, scent, and maybe a spectacle of soft lit beauty. Only until is cools, rights itself, and maybe is clipped of the blackened wick, is it ready to again glow brightly and cast its dancing shadows on the wall. It will burn again, because it is a candle. I am a candle. And I know I was meant to burn.

Grande Reverence

"Reverence"
Webster Definition: honor or respect felt or shown; a state of being revered
Ballet Definition: A bow or courtesy. The last exercise of a ballet class in which the ballet dancers pay respect to and acknowledge the teacher and pianist. Reverence usually includes bows, curtsies, and ports de bras, and is a way of celebrating ballet's traditions of elegance and respect.

Bone grinding on bone. The doctor said it was the worst hip he has seen in his twenty years of doing hips. He said it was Superior ++. I know these words were meant to berate her hip, but in many ways they described my mother. Superior ++.

She was scared, yes. But do you know what my mom, affectionately know as Miss Taunia, said wistfully like a child right before she went into surgery? "Maybe I will be able to do a Grande Jete again!". And asleep she went, with visions of Sugarplums dancing in her head.

How many years has she been dragging that bad leg behind her? I don't know. But it was long enough to train herself to walk in a lopsided fashion, a new way of walking to try and avoid the pinch and stab that took her breath away with every step. This was not the gait of a ballerina. And if anyone is a true ballerina, it is Miss Taunia.

An impeccably performed single Plie can bring her to tears. She no longer moves with grace exactly, but it emanates from her still, finding a way to seep into her words, her softness, her kindness. She points her toes when she watches TV. You can take my mom out of ballet, but you can't take the ballet out of my mom. It's her essence.

I wanted to love ballet so much. I wanted to love it because my mom loved it, and I loved her. As a child, I struggled. I was not born with natural ability, but with knobby knees and pointy elbows that did not seem to have the strength and curve to hold themselves the way my mother's did. But I was nurtured, I was taught. I was strengthened, I was primed. And then, I was a Ballerina. Thanks to Miss Taunia.

My mom looked so little in that hospital bed for a woman so mighty. The nurses and doctors said she handled the surgery better than they could have ever imagined. Strength. My mom would take a sip of water, flutter her eyelashes and dab at her mouth, still half asleep. Dignity. She would never fuss or push the button to call in the nurse because she wanted to be a star patient, and someone the staff loved to take care of. Grace. See? A true ballerina.

Time heals everything. Or so they say. I believe that when something is sacrificed, it's never given completely back in return. Instead it is shattered in fragments so generous and plenty, that when it is gathered and redeemed, the result is futile. The pieces never really come back together. They are misconstrued and lopsided, but they will have to do, for a sacrifice is a choice.

I watch Miss Taunia swing her leg out of bed and lean against her walker. I know we are both holding our breath. This is a big moment for my mom, one she has dreamed about for years but only recently had the means and the insurance to make it happen. She walked unsteady and unsure. I know in those few steps it is not what she had wished for. It's going to take time and practice to train a new ballerina.

Physical therapy, unbelievable pain, nausea, swelling, this is nothing compared to the years of teaching eight hours a day on a bone on bone grinding hip and a bad knee. From three year olds learning first position and not to pee their leotards, to trained dancers preparing to leave into the professional world, every day my mom works her magic. Her happiness and cheery attitude radiates and fills the hearts of students when they are feeling empty. Never does my mom complain. Never does she give less or hold back. So what is a little hip recovery to her? A small hill amongst mountains she's already overcome.

I feel hopeful knowing this. But in my heart I know something else. We were her sacrifice. I was her sacrifice. She has given her ballerina body to us, only keeping her soul. Generations and thousands of students have passed through her life, taking this and that, and moving on. Taking her joint lubrication, her good knees, her hips, her flexibility, her feet. Every hour she spent working her aching body, she lost something, letting us be the one to gain. Dance was her life, and she has given it freely to us so it could be ours. The only thing we can give back in return is to love it. To live it. To always have the strength, dignity, and grace of a ballerina. I can pirouette and grande jete like I've been taught, but I know that my time too will come when I have to sacrifice that. I have to wear my body down to be able to give of myself to my students and let them be the ones to live and be free. It's the debt I owe for the sacrifice my mother has given to me.

I know it will never be the body she had, but my mom is healing. And when she does, that just means that this makeshift body has more to give. And she will. I've learned that this is her calling in life, and her greatest joy. So I will let her give. I only hope that this new hip will bring her more happiness, more fragments to share, less pain, and more time seeing the fruits of her labor. I hope she gets to Grande Jete again and be free. She has earned it. Superior ++.



My favorite thing in the world is to see Miss Taunia step in front of the class and lead a Grande Reverence, a way to say goodbye and thank you. Her to us, and us to her. The movements are slow and simple, and don't require two good knees or a good hip. They are full of love and beauty, and respect for Ballet, things that can't be sacrificed, not even by my mom. Her arms flow like willows. She never looks at her self in the mirror, but at the top of her fingers, extending the beautiful line and lifted chest for as long as it will last, or until the Grande Reverence music has played the last note. These thirty seconds we get to see her dance are so sweet and beautiful like a poem, so I decided to close this blog post with a sonnet I wrote for my ballerina mother.

She gives her reverence dutifully, heart and body bowed.
It is to bend to fold, to surrender yourself to the art.
Walking stiffly and in pain she comes to do her part,
But when she moves transforms a swan, long necked and proud.
Every class is a test, a detergent of doubt, "Will she ever be dimmed?"
Yet every day she makes her way back to the floor to pay homage to her love.
When it's over she invariably glides, she moves, assisted by angels from above,
Like a ship plows through uneven waves and a lily survives the wind.
It is a feudal ceremony, she acknowledges herself the vassal of a lord;
Subordinate to the law of ballet, she is tested.
A ballerina, no glory, but a fighter whose title never rested,
Axed and hammered, bent and broken, but she will never fall to the sword.
Silence falls when this warrior dances.
A glint of applause, for a brief moment you see,
The world is her stage, the earth is her dance.
She will bow, but as she does her story enhances.
She is trapped but for a moment she is free,
This is her Grande Reverence, this is her chance.

Wishing you a speedy recovery mom. Love you forever!