I Dance on Paper
Last night, I spent the evening re-watching past episodes of So You Think You Can Dance on YouTube. Over the course of several hours, I cheered, clapped and even shed tears as I watched the contestants — ambitious, young dancers each with their own style — execute incredible feats of strength, ability and discipline. These dancers command their bodies and their bodies rise to the challenge. I am in awe of them.
If I were offered one wish, I know immediately what I would wish for.
“I want to dance.”
In my mind, I am already a magnificent dancer. My arms and legs move as I will them to. I express, I emote, I time my movements for maximum effect. If dance styles are like languages, I’m a polyglot. The Holy Spirit fills me and my body speaks in tongues. The audience comprehends it all.
In reality, my imagination and my limbs never had a good relationship. They just couldn’t seem to understand each other or function as a team. After multiple attempts to improve their relationship and make it work, they finally had to admit that it simply wasn’t meant to be.
Every once in a while, my body and my imaginary dancer will meet for drinks and catch up “for old time’s sake”. They retell stories and take turns playing their favorite records. And for a few hours they bask in each other’s admiring glow, wondering why they ever separated. But then the night ends and the bar closes. The alcohol wears off and they see each other in the cold light of morning. And then they remember.
It’s a shame, really. My lonely arms have stories they so desperately want to tell. My torso would lift and expose its heart to you, even its throat, if given the chance. My legs would elaborate, my feet en pointe. And you would hear me and understand.
(Sometimes, when I’m having a nightmare, I yell for help, but no sound comes out no matter how hard I try. It feels kind of like that.)
This morning, I was driving along, wishing for the millionth time that I could dance like those kids on TV, when a thought occurred to me.
I AM a dancer.
I dance on paper.
My words are my limbs, elongating into sentences. I can turn, hold a pose, then leap across the page. I will dance to the music of my life.
I am a dancer. And this makes me happy.
