She had taken many dance classes over the years: tap, ballet, Hawaiian, jazz, African Haitian, but her true love was modern. She got to class a half hour early, do one hundred crunches, stretch, and be totally warmed up before one of the goddesses (as she called the instructors) came in to teach the class.
Two of the teachers Kristie loved unequivocally, worshipped really as you would a Guru. One old witch she alternately tolerated and admired anyway even though she lacked a charming personality. She respected what she learned from all of them.
The dance itself was her religion. The studio was carved into the middle of a large stand of Redwoods visible through the wall of windows on the east and in the reflection of the mirrors in the other directions. Surrounded by Redwoods, the early morning fog rising from the ground among the ferns decorating the undergrowth. The Temple of the Dance. A religious experience.
Down in the splits and up in a back bend. The group to which she was assigned for their final project were not the best dancers in the class, but their choreography was good. They had intensity, focus, multiple lines, and levels. They showed themselves off at the highest level of their expertise: triple pirouettes, splits, back bends, hand overs, rolling, falling, twirling, leaping….
They danced to the Whales’ Song, a trio of misfits at the height of their youth and fitness. And they were satisfied because they got an Honorable Mention in a field of tall lithe beauties. She was a dancer and in her heart she flew above the trees…
She had two years there with the most excellent teachers. Her body became strong. She longs to relive the feeling she had then, but the decades have worn her down. She can’t do triple pirouettes anymore. Down in the splits and up in a back bend is just not physically possible. But in the dark as her long time lover sleeps, she dances in the quiet Soundscape, waving her arms in the patterns she has learned in a prayer of love.
(First published 3/22/12)
