Eva

I sit with a sore head, looking numbingly out of the window at the lovely passing clouds, that just don't seem that lovely with a headache. Similarly, the light bouncing off of the leaves outside would appear magical at any other time. But my temples at the moment feel dull. I look to my right, and through the mesh window screen I notice the faded yellow and gray shingles in rows, along the wall of the theatre. Very New England, thank you very much. And through the window next to it, one can observe the beauty of the studio. The dancers are there.

Long, thin and beautiful. They are completely engaged in every part of themselves. They are aware of every bit of them. They move like fluid animals; with passion, but with more beauty and elegance. They are balanced and poised, but in no way like aristocratic statues. They flow; carry rhythm; prance; fly; hypnotize. They dance.

We carry a rigidness in our bodies, that accumulates with time. We carry a norm. The norm is that we do not jump and tumble and spring into prophetic motion as we walk down the street. We are discouraged from acting differently than others; walking with expression; hell, we get odd looks for walking backwards! And since we don't express ourselves through our bodies, our muscles become useless, soft. We go tender, like expensive steak.

But they, oh, they can move in ways that others can't! They can move from the floor to a 4-foot leap in the air with their feet lifting even with their shoulders. Oh I would feel exhilarated to be a dancer. Her. Her name, is Eva.