Old habits die hard. I realised this, when I arrived at the community centre in West Hampstead, half an hour before the class began, and found myself, locked outside.
It's a dancer thing. You instinctively show up for rehearsal, for class early, because you need time to warm the body up.
The night before, I took a pair of ballet shoes out of storage to stitch them. I've had these unused pair for the last 12 years!
So many good memories with each stitch! Trace and I seated side by side or across from each other, sewing the tips of our pointe shoes.
Mom? Summie, surprised. I didn't know you could sew!
I can't.
The sun like brush strokes on the old wooden floor. The music meek, but sweeping away cobwebs and sorrow.
God? Thank you. Thank you for the gift of song, of dance. As it did then, so to it is now, healing and saving me.
Grateful, to dance. Grateful to be anonymous in dance. Grateful for a teacher who teaches with intelligence, warmth, and without ego. Grateful that my mind did not wander into wanting to re-choreograph the class she offered. Grateful.
I think it's finally, spring.
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