Questions read (and answered) this morning, from Walking in this World, by Julia Cameron:
1. When I was a small child, I dreamed of growing up to be _______
2. In my childhood, my interest in what art was encouraged? _______
3. In my childhood, my interest in what art was discouraged? _______
4. If I’d had more encouragement, I probably would have tried ______
5. If I let myself admit it, I think I have a secret gift for ________
6. If I weren’t afraid, I’d tell myself to try _______
7. As my own best friend, I would really cheer if I saw myself try ______
When I was a small child, I had a celery green, silky nightgown and matching shimmering robe that I loved. I would put these things on, close my bedroom door, put Swan Lake or The Sound of Music on the record player, and dance until the needle jumped and skipped. Downstairs, my parents must have heard the thud of my feet on the floor. But they never interpreted me,; they never mentioned it.
I took a few horrible ballet classes and felt clumsy and dumpy, nothing like the girl in the celery green, silky nightgown and shimmering robe. Self-conscious, I didn’t raise a ruckus when the classes suddenly stopped—probably due to my parents’ busy schedules. Maybe due to money. Or maybe because music was the brass ring to grab for in my household.
I stopped moving. (Cheerleading (though I was one) wasn’t the same. Not for me.) I sat and the piano bench and fought with the keys, the notes on the page, the standard of excellence I could never reach. Or I retreated to a still, quiet place on my bed or in a chair and read. Read. Read. I drifted into the world of my imagination and stared into space. I imagined girls, women, the me I wanted to be, moving, dancing, running, hiding, fighting, surviving—artist warrior queenly females all.
I am so happy my daughter loves to move. I will do what I can to help her thrive in this.
It is a journey, nurturing gifts and desires. So easily abandoned, and sometimes so dangerous. Recently I saw a movie that shall remain nameless because I so deeply loathed it. It concerned a troubled dancer. (I cast it like back into the video store’s drop box the next day like an evil spirit. Out out, damned dvd.) I realized, girls and their dreams too often twist and die. Or that’s the trope in our culture.
I’m going to go take a hot yoga class (“free trial offer!”). Move, sweat, get a little light-headed, maybe, sure. Maybe the steamy room will go a little celery green.
