Every Little Step
Like the 5-year-old girls in blue leotards and pink tights who jostle in the hallways, trying to be first in line for their dance class, my dancing experiences jostle for position in my writing. Me first, they say to me. Write about that humbling dance class in New York , where you had to learn a routine four counts at time just to keep up. Write about that crisis of ego before your performance in May. And hey, isn ’t it time to reflect on the class that you fled, weeping, last year? That was big. Joy, ego, humility, emotions, breakthroughs, breakdowns. Like the outstretched hands reaching for the balcony in A Chorus Line’s opening number, the Jazz Combination , my thoughts and themes plead: Pick me. Personally, I have been reflecting on my return to dance because my born-again dancer anniversary passed at end of July. Two years since I stepped into a class that I was longing to take but deeply feared. Two years of change -- physical, emotional and spiritual changes that are tedio...