I'll Have The Usual

Okay then . . . On to bigger, greater things.  My first college semester is over and it's life as usual again.  Wait. . . Can we define that first?  What exactly is "usual?"  Is there even such a thing as "usual?"  Sometimes, I'm not so sure.  I know there are many things that can be qualified as "UNusual" (at least in the eyes of others.)  Usual is one of those words--like "pretty" or "smart" or "funny"--that has a different meaning for everyone.  So, what's your usual? 

I can state this as a personal fact--music is my usual.  It's a familiar face in a new town, a bright beacon in the middle of a stormy sea, the guiding trail through a decieving forest.  It's a common language among nations, a lovely middle ground between new aquaintances, a healing element for broken friendships.  Can you imagine a world without music, my dear readers?  How dreadful would that be?  I'd rather hear nothing at all than everything except music.  But friends, as long as I have a voice, I'll sing.  As long as I have fingers, I'll play.  I promise.  Will you promise too?  There is something I once read, and it goes like this:  ". . . and he answering said to them, `I say to you, that, if these shall be silent, the stones will cry out!'" We are "these," my friends, and "these" are much better musicians than the rocks (yes, even singing off-pitch in the shower.)  Let's not leave the music making to the rocks.  Their usual is lying in the forest and looking pretty, not pouring forth songs from their hearts.  That usual belongs to us.  Music was made to be humanity's usual.  We are the only earthly creations capable of it.  Let's not waste that, eh?

So, maybe my question has changed from "what's your usual?" to "how usual is music to you?"  Is it a best friend, or more of the "new kid?"  Is is your favorite blanket, or an unfamiliar, itchy sheet?  Your hometown, or a foreign country?  Your forever-and-always . . . or your not-just-yet?  Wherever we stand, let's not be rocks.  If we become as rocks, then the actual rocks will be forced to take away our most sacred possession as a creation--our melody.  Know this, dear readers:  music speaks, and it will always have something to say as long as there are open ears to listen to its message and musicians to pass it along.

One.

My heart is broken for our world.  We have to see that it's about more than who's right and who's wrong.  It's about who's loved and who needs to be.  There's so many cries for help across the globe--all races, all religions, all ages, all cultures.  We are too disconnected, too many separations.  It's only one planet after all.  We all came from the same earth.  So why do we fight and kill for superiority?  Can't we see that we're killing our own?

In the end, we're all the same
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
All identities will rust
Graves will fall unnamed

In the end, you cannot tell
After all, we'll each bleed red,
Share Earth, a common bed
And show our bones as well

But in the end, we should be proud
Did we unite, did we stand?
Have we loved across all lands,
Or did we fade into the crowd?

In the end, when we look back
Did we live only by a ballot?
Will we see a color potrait,
Or is it all just gray and black?

Before the end, please hear my plea:
"We were made for more than this;
Push aside all differences
And be one humanity"

Another Appetizer

I've spent my whole day studying for this test (grr).  I'm seriously about to gouge my eyes out with a wooden spoon.  Ok, not really.  But it's frustrating.  So, what do I do when I'm frustrated?  You all know the answer to this already--I write things.  Lots of things.  Today, I bring you another appetizer.  Comment or message me if you want to vote for your favorite or just read more from one of them. 

Appetizer #3-

The sky was on fire.  Huge oranges and expansive reds sliced through the billowing clouds.  And there, in the center of it all, was the source--a molten globe of flaming yellow just totally filling the surrounding space.  I was truly breathless.  I know people always mush and gush about sunsets, but man, this was not a sunset.  This was an explosion.  Someone (I've forgotten exactly who over the years) used to tell me that the sky turned red and orange because it was absorbing all the hate and anger in the world and burning it up.  When the sky went black, it meant the fire had no more bad stuff to destroy and you could sleep peacefully, not having to worry about that hatred and anger attacking your dreams.  I wish I still believed that.

For Starters

For those of you who don't know, I am starting a novel! (eek!) Here are a few starting paragraphs to ponder.  Message me or comment if you like them or have more ideas.  I'll probably be posting a few more like them as I am struck by creativity.

Appetizer #1

The words will come.  The words always came.  He stood there for the longest time, waiting for the words to come.  They hadn't yet.  The blank page laughing at him from underneath his poised pencil was too much to bear.  But, he had to do this.  He had to apologize, set things right once and for all.  The way he'd left things two years ago had haunted him ever since he'd left.  These "hauntings" were growing more frequent now, and that's why he knew this had to be done today.  He had to make the words come, because if he didn't, he'd be facing another sleepless night of tossing and turning and playing out in his head all the "what if's" and "had I only's".  He was determined.  So, he pressed his pencil onto the snowy white, pristine page and wrote the first words that came to his mind...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Appetizer #2

"Run!"  A voice from behind her shouted.  She turned her head just in time to see her friend finish forming the word.  Branches and leaves grabbed her as she tore through the darkening forest.  How much longer until the trees emptied onto the road?  Were they lost?  It didn't seem to take this long to get into the woods. "I knew we shouldn't have come here,"  she thought, pressing onward.  They had come on a dare, though.  And she was never one to turn down a good dare.  Suddenly, she stopped short.  There was a light in the distance...two lights...headlights.  "Look!"  She shouted behind her.  "We made it to..." She didn't need to finish the sentence--her friend was gone.

Rewriting The Dictionary

I have words.  Many, many words that are tumbling around in my brain so fast that they keep stopping up the passage that sends them to my fingers, then onto the page.  Words and words and words and no sentences.  I feel like a dictionary.  All my words have meaning but they don't form any kind of order at first glance.  I have to put them together before the people who might read those words will think they apply to them.  I just have to take my dictionary and rearrange it.  That's all.

By the way, that essay at which I was so angry last post actually turned out to be one of the best I've ever written (nevermind that I never got the chance to actually submit it).  Don't let me forget that technique.

It's Not Writer's Block, I Just Need A Flu Shot.

Today I cannot write.  I have the words inside, but they will not come out.  So, I'm attempting to fix this by... writing!  Ironic?  I think so too.  College application essays.  By the thousands.  That's what I'm trying to avoid this evening.  Actually, I'm not trying to avoid them, I'm putting them off untilI can make them better.  Isn't it funny how our performance in any given task changes when we know it will be criticized?  I know that whatever admissions officers will be reading these hateful essays are going to look for an outstanding performance.  I know I can do it, and that's just what bugs me.  I'm not doing it.  I just tried to write one, clacking away on the keyboard, thinking it was going great.  So I finish it up, read back over it and think to myself "Oh goodness this is terrible!"  I hate that.  So, I took a drive.  A very uneventful one at that.  I drove, hoping that the mundane task at hand would clear my mind so I could come back home and fix whatever atrocities lay in that essay.  It didn't.  I brewed a cup of the tea I had just bought, sat down to write and went blank... again.  It's so frustrating, knowing that I can do something, but whenever I try, I fail.  Since we were just on the topic of irony, I find it a little bit hysterical that part of the topic I'm writing about in this college essay is persistence.  Right now, I don't exactly want to persist.  All I want to do is get a refill and watch An American Haunting.  (After all, it's Halloween...)  Since driving didn't help, I'm trying a new approach.  What I have isn't writer's block (obviously, because I'm sitting here writing).  I don't know what it is, but I think I can cure it by getting my brain and fingers moving by writing something that won't be analyzed and criticized and however else they process application essays.  Maybe it works like a flu shot.  By injecting a small amount of the flu virus into your body, the doctor develops a stronger antivirus that combats those ugly little cell monsters that could possibly constitute a real flu virus.  In my mind, by writing a little harmless blog post, I can prepare myself to tackle the bigger monster that lurks in my minimized Word document.  So, readers, thanks for ignoring this and by the way, I appreciate the fact that you aren't forming an angry mob to come burn my house down since I haven't posted in over a month.  Don't worry.  I'm going to give you a real post soon.  This is just an experiment.  I'll let you know how it goes.

College, Choreography, and Psalm 98

Oh, dearest readers!  My humblest apologies.  I've been gone for far too long.  I visited the blog this morning and after dusting the cobwebs off, I discovered my last post date- August 29th! 29th!!!  So, here I am, making excuses.  I've started college.  Hold on, have to let that sink in for a second.  I've started college.  It's pretty great actually.  I've made some new friends, learned some new things, and gotten into a new schedule.  I'm actually rather enjoying it.  My professors are pretty cool (especially my English professor, but maybe that's just because we have a lot in common).  I must say, my favorite classes so far are Psych and English. 
Anyway...enough about school.  Let's talk about music.  Music... I'm choreographing again, for those of you who don't know already.  I'm acting/dancing in the Christmas musical at the church and for one of the main dance numbers, I get to choreograph!  I'm so excited because I just finished the last piece today!  I've been missing regular dance though.  So, so much I've been missing it!  My cousin and I talk about how awesome it would be to join a dance class together, but neither of us have the time.  It's so frustrating!  We could've danced in the church's group, but it met at the same time as something else I'm involved in.  Actually, this brings me to my next announcement- I've joined a band! Getting involved at church this year has meant helping to start the band (which is named by my suggetion which was pretty cool).  PS98 we call ourselves- after Psalm 98 which says this:
 
 ¹ Sing to the LORD a new song,
   for he has done marvelous things;
his right hand and his holy arm
   have worked salvation for him.
² The LORD has made his salvation known
   and revealed his righteousness to the nations.
³ He has remembered his love
   and his faithfulness to Israel;
all the ends of the earth have seen
   the salvation of our God.
 ⁴ Shout for joy to the LORD, all the earth,
   burst into jubilant song with music;
⁵ make music to the LORD with the harp,
   with the harp and the sound of singing,
⁶ with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn—
   shout for joy before the LORD, the King.
 ⁷ Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
   the world, and all who live in it.
⁸ Let the rivers clap their hands,
   let the mountains sing together for joy;
⁹ let them sing before the LORD,
   for he comes to judge the earth.
He will judge the world in righteousness
   and the peoples with equity.

I am a singer.  In all, there are 5 (ish?) singers and 7 (ish?) instrumentalists.  And at this point, I must tell you something awesome.  It was the Wednesday before last and it was the first week of band practice.  Everyone was deciding if they wanted to go with the singers or go with the instrumentalists, and when all sides were decided, the instrumentalists left to go practice.  That left me, four girls, and my mother and her friend who have to be there for liability reasons (and to keep us all straight- they're kind of our managers, I guess you can say. Ha! Just kidding...). Anyway, so there we were, just the seven of us and a grand piano, all alone in the sanctuary.  We sat there for a while, just talking about who is a soprano, who is an alto, etc.  We soon realized we had no way of singing the songs because we had no track.  A few people who knew I could play that grand piano told me to get up there and do my thang.  I offered it to someone (anyone) else, but they insisted I do it.  (GASP! I GET TO PLAY THE STEINWAY?!)  Ok, so it's not too bad.  Fast forward a few minutes.  Everyone is gathered around the piano, I'm banging out some chords, and everyone is singing in perfect pitch, harmony, and balance with everyone else.  I mean, we really sounded GOOD.  I smile a little smile.  Occasionally we'd lose our place, or sing a wrong note, but I mean, we just went together.  Really, really well.  It was a fantastic feeling.  If that's what it feels like to sing without practicing, I can only imagine how God will use us once we have practiced!

A Musical Storm

Crash.
Rain throws itself against my window, as though trying to out-do the howling of the wind.
The trees groan in protest as the churning sky whips them to and fro.
Flicker.
Lights dim, then blacken as the electricity is lost to the darkening atmosphere.
I light a candle, it's fire illuminating my small table. I lift my pen again, just hardly set back by the loss of light.
Whimper.
The dog lays at my feet, whining with nervousness at the monster who wreaks havoc on the outside.
The sky, black and heavy with storm, pours the rain upon the fragile flowers in the garden.
"Please..."
Flowers try to gaze upward with tired eyes, but are beaten down relentlessly by the sky's burden.
The clouds above grumble with thunder and scream with lightning, each streak a reminder of how furious the storm is getting.
Goosebumps.
I watch, intrigued from the danger.
I'm tired, but won't let sleep hamper my creativity.
But the storm- it plays me. Coaxes me.
"Sleep..."
Pulling my energy like a harpist pulls her strings.
Breathe.
I resign myself to the fact that the storm is more powerful than I. Putting down my pen, I wrap myself in a blanket and curl into bed, exhausted.
Crash.
The rain still pounds.
The thunder still roars.
The candle still flickers.
And I lie there watching it, hypnotized.
Until finally, I close my eyes,
And sleep.


*Inspired by, but not directly taken from, Hurricane Irene. Praying you're all safe and will get power back soon!*

To Each His Own, To Me A Mountain

Mountains...and lots of them.  Everywhere you looked there was another monstrous hill rising in front of you.  And behind you.  Left, right, front, back, 360 degrees of rock, coal, and trees. 

Pick up a rock and it doesn't exactly invoke wonder.  But pile it together with a few billion more rocks and you start to get lightheaded just by looking up in amazement.  Mountains are probably my favorite geographical phenomenon.  Something about the humbling feeling you get as you cast your gaze upward.  And upward.  God must've been showing off when He created them.  Each one is unique, holding a story and mystery all its own.  Have you ever hiked a mountain?  What about hiking a mountain with no trail to follow?  Kinda throws you off a bit.  You hear a waterfall, and would swear that it was atop this next little hill, only to discover that the water's cascading sound was echoing from the complete opposite side of the mountain.  It's adventurous, thrilling, and a little scary knowing how easily you can get lost if you wander too far off the trail. 

And the air, so pure and untouched by human pollution.  It's enough to make you dizzy if you breathe too deeply.  You know it's a high that's good for you though.  So breathe again.  And again.  Get as much of it as possible before climbing back down to the humid, polluted reality that we constantly breathe.

*Pictures of my favorite mountains on earth- The Blue Ridge Mountains that cross Sparta, NC*

Rain

What is it about the rain that brings calm,
Yet urgency?
Hope,
Yet sadness?
Peace,
Yet disturbance?
Why do the same drops that persuade you to dance so energetically under their shower sing you into a motionless sleep at night?
It caresses,
But stings.
Whispers,
But screams.
Comforts,
But exasperates.
That's why I like it.  All emotion, all feeling, can be brought to the surface with just a short soak in the rain.  It's amazing what the sky does to a person.  The rain you just so spontaneously and happily danced in has all of a sudden turned you into a grouch who hates getting wet.  So beautiful in its contradictions.  That's why it fascinates me.  I love to hear it.  It plays with the same orchestra over and over again, but each time the melody has been re-composed.  It colors the earth the same shades, but paints with a different brush each time.  It soothes you, it angers you; it helps you sleep, it wakes you up.  It's so complex and just when you think you know how it's going to make you feel,
It changes.

Revel Grove

Ok, so.  I've made the executive decision to expand my blog's horizons.  I've got a lot of thoughts that need a place to live so they're not tumbling aimlessly through my brain.  A lot of these thoughts that may or may not be music-related.  Don't worry.  I'm still focused on music and dance.  Just a few other things as well. 

Anyway.  On to bigger, greater things.  Like the upcoming season.

Fall.  One of my favorite things in life.  Nothing invokes such calm as the changing leaves.  I drive to work every weekend and I've been seeing the leaves gradually fade from bright green to a muddier version of their summer color.  Its exciting.  It promises spiced apple cider, scarves, bonfires, Halloween, and most importantly, the Renaissance Faire.  Each October, the family (plus Amanda) makes a trip to the Faire to enjoy the merry-making and festivities.  There's jousting, costumes, theatrical performances, food-on-a-stick, and quaint little shops to visit.  The whole atmosphere is just enveloping.  Once you step through the gates you are whisked away somewhere back in time, hundreds of years ago.  The ages of knights and ladies, courtly love, quests, chivalry, castles.  And the smells.  I mean, there's nothing like it.  The scent of crisp leaves and sugared pecans dances softly through the festival, mingling beautifully with the sound of laughter and music. It's just kind of surreal and you can't help but smile and pretend it really is 1512.  Then you turn to look behind you and you see this towering, majestic figure shrouded in white.  It's wearing a porcelain mask.  Whatever it's supposed to be, it's on stilts.  And looking up, you can't stop yourself from cracking a grin as it tilts its head and dips slightly toward you in greeting.  Offering a small wave, you turn back to meander through the crowd.  You can see the elephants to your left and at the bottom of the leaf-laden hill, a woman sells roses from a hand-woven basket.  A man dressed as a pirate (and just because it's the Faire, you let yourself believe he IS a pirate) touches your shoulder and dips his tricorne hat below his eye, offering a coy smile while doing so.  "Good day sir," you say in a practiced British accent.  The scene from atop the hill hasn't changed, but a breeze is blowing now.  Chilly and laced with the mystery of the past.  Somewhere in the distance, the clash of lance and shield can be heard, followed by a tumultuous  "HUZZAH!"  A horse's neigh.  The sharp clink of tankards.  Raucous laughter from a tavern nearby.  Stand there for a minue.  Just take it all in.  You probably have the best view of the Faire from up here.  Through the amber-colored trees, you can almost see the performance happening on Fortune Stage.  Children run around chasing one another, giggling and squealing, brandishing wooden swords and shields.  Wandering down the hill, you come to a little shop.  Paintbrushes and palettes sit in the window sills and costumed figures stand over their customers, decorating them with strokes of deep purples and reds.  Works of art, really.  You sit in an empty wooden chair and a lady walks up to you.  You let her work magic, making pleasant conversation all the while.  When she's finished, you look in the mirror.  Glittering ribbons of paint cascade down your cheek, branching off in all different directions, forming a mask over your face.  Everyone turns to look as you wander along the pathways.
Soon, the chilling Autumn twilight descends upon the festival, giving it a new atmosphere, one of secrecy and enchantment.  There's not very many people out anymore.  They have all either found their way to a tavern or gone home.  A feathered costume brushes past you.  Goosebumps.  You spin quickly enough to see the hooded creature disappear into the darkness.  You smirk at the excitement of it all.  Music still plays somewhere.  The warm glow of the glassblower's fire beckons you near.  He's still hard at work, creating beautiful masterpieces by the dozen.  "Come in," he calls.  You enter.  Your eyes wander around the shop.  It's warm, comforting, crammed full of beautiful glass vases, gazing balls, and ornaments.  You find yourself standing beside the fire, watching as the old man crafts a blue globe from the top of a long tube.  You can still hear the music.  It's slower now, becoming accustomed to the approaching night.  You know you have to leave.  But what a hard thing to do.  You slowly turn from the comfort of the fire and head back into the growing darkness.  It's a hard walk, the one from the Faire to the car.  One you wish you never have to make.  Bittersweet, though.  You know you'll be back.  Next year, the leaves will change again and you'll find yourself caught up in the mystery and intrigue of the Faire once more.  And at that thought, you can't help but smile.

Frozen

A totally unrelated post.  Sometimes though, you just can't stop the pen from writing what it wants to write.  Thank you, Facebook buddies for telling me to do nothing.  It worked.

~Frozen~

Ever wish you could make time stand still?  The scene before you captured; locked away in your memory forever, ready to be recalled at a moment's notice.  How often we fail to remember what we promised ourselves we would, or worse still, what we wish we could.  That moment you so cherish loses small details over time, a snip here, a bit there, until you can't even remember the year in which it happened.  It seems so important when you first commit it to memory.  "I will never forget this," you say as you lock it away in the safety of your long-term memory.  When you try to remember though, you realize you've placed your special moments in the hands of a false security.  Sure, you'll remember the important things- the way your grandfather's signature joke lit up the room no matter how many times you heard it; how it felt at 2:00 am laying deliriously on the floor with your best friend, talking about nothing and everything and life and death and all the important questions.  However, the small details of those frozen frames have a tendency to melt away.  Lost forever in the hapless depths of your own mind.  What was the punchline of your grandfather's joke?  What was it your friend had said that suddenly made you see things so clearly?  And thinking about it, its those little details you long so desperately to remember, grasping out in the velvet darkness of your brain, listening to the cruel taunting of your "safe" long term memory as it teases you with "I can almost remember".  But you can't help it.  What can you do, except keep searching and in the meantime, replacing those disappearing memories with the new ones you are bound to make?

No Humble Opinion

I officially have no voice.  But then, who would, after seeing Pat Benatar and Dennis DeYoung live?  We screamed, we sang, we danced, we went crazy.  Last night will go down in history as one of my all time favorite nights EVER. 
Too often I realize I was born in the wrong era.  Let's face it.  Most of today's music is CRAP.  Can I go on a little rant?  It's my blog, so yes, I will rant.  Let me start with one of all time least favorite "artists" on the charts today.  Her name is Lady GaGa.  Actually, I don't know what her real name is (nor do I care) but anyway, not only is her songwriting/singing terrible, but her whole image is just dreadful.  She tries too hard to be outrageous. I mean, seriously.  How can you call yourself unique when all you're doing is copying Cher and Madonna?  (Btw, the whole raw meat thing, totally done by the Beatles first.  Don't believe me? Here's proof.  Told you so.)  I don't like her style, I don't like her image, I don't like her music.  If you can even call it that. 
I can't stand the sound of Autotune and electronicalization. (Yes, I made that up.  No you can't use it.)  Why would you waste time listening to a fake, robotic voice when you could be hearing the multitude of raw talent that already exists?  I understand that most people listen to music to be entertained, and that entertainment comes in many different forms and is relative to the entertainee, but if you're looking for music, please, please, PLEASE do NOT try to convince me that Lady GaGa is top of the line, best in the industry, yada, yada, yada.  I don't want to hear it.  Emphasis on the DON'T. 
A part of me feels sorry for today's kids, believing that Lady GaGa is all there is out there.  Part of me also feels a little disappointment in the parents who allow their kids to believe that when they are keeping the good music of their generation a secret.  It's not fair.  Kids are growing up believeing that all there is to listen to is Justin Bieber, Ke$ha, Lady GaGa, and (heaven forbid), Glee.  Yes, that noise you heard was a small part of my soul crumbling in anguish. 
One of my favorite things to do is start music wars at red lights with cars blasting the "hot 40" from 104.3.  Give me Queen, give me Yes, give me Foriegner.  Give me ANYTHING but that ridiculous overplayed Ke$ha song.  Is it wrong to say that I like the confused looks I get from adults who converse with me about music?  So many times, I have found myself in a conversation about music with an adult my parents' age.  It's so sad to see their amazed expressions when I'm able to name more 80s songs than just what appears on the Guitar Hero menu.  It's sad because that means kids my age are expected to not know about the good music.  They are expected to be so dumb to the musical spectrum that they are stuck like a broken record talking about Justin Bieber's newest hit.  Gosh, it just kills me inside knowing that these amazing bands and artists of the 60s, 70, and 80s are slowly disappearing into the "oh yeah man, that was a jam way back when" archives. 
I want to start something.  I want to cause a revolution.  A music revolution.  I want to get people out of the rut that is today's music.  Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying abandon all music produced in the last ten years.  But seriously, guys.  Purge your iPods and reset your car's radio stations to the ones that play the good stuff.  Like I said, I really do love some of the more recent stuff like Adele, and I will admit that Katy Perry and Rhianna have amazing voices as well, its just that their songs are so shallow, empty, meaningless.  The lyrics have become just cliche verses and choruses that appear over and over, reincarnated from the hit last month.  I'm serious about starting something.  And this is why, dear readers, I need your help.  I know that only 14 of you (so far) follow me.  But hey, it only takes a spark to light a fire, right?  I want to start a musical fire.  I want to explode the airwaves like they were exploded in the 80s.  The right way.  With the good stuff.  There is no such thing as an overplayed Journey song.  You won't go crazy after hearing Come Sail Away a hundred times.  You will still headbang to the guitar solo in Bohemian Rhapsody even after you've had it on repeat for the last two hours.  And I know you know that somewhere, deep inside you, you agree with me, even if you won't admit to that hairbrush karaoke session you had this morning to Heartbreaker. 
I hope I haven't offended any of you.  Lord knows I'm not trying to pick personal fights.  Just trying to voice my opinion.  Its not humble.  In fact, music is quite possibly the biggest and most outspoken opinion I have.  I can go on for hours about it.  I'm generally a quiet person who won't get into arguments, but I just can't seem to keep my mouth shut about music.  It's SO important to me and my identity.  Which is why I don't mind ranting about it.  I'm so grateful to have my buddies who like to rant with me.  Many a conversation I've had with my cousin, bestie, and boyfriend on the matter.  Join us?  Who knows...maybe one day I'll pull up next to you at a red light.  Let's just hope that the music war would be between Aerosmith and Van Halen.

Cookies

You know that moment, the one when you're just like, "oh!"  And it suddenly all makes sense.  Well, I'm waiting for that moment.  Increasingly often I'm finding myself in that state of mind that reminds you of when you were little and you saw the cookie jar on the top of the fridge but you didn't know how to reach it.  I can see my goals, I have a plan, but I can't see how I'm going to get there.  But I know that when I do reach the cookies, they will be the best cookies I've ever tasted. 

*This post is dedicated to Amanda Testerman.  Thanks for helping me reach the cookies.*

The Perfect Bass Guitar

It's beautiful. 
So vintage and full of character, like I can't wait to get to know it.  So how did I get it?  My awesome grandfather, the guitar buff, passed it down to me.  We were in a pawn shop looking at guitars when I told him that I was saving for a bass.  He seemed interested and happy with the idea of me learning to play, and proceeded to tell me about the bass he had somewhere that he would give me if we could find it.  Of course, I was ecstatic.  So after driving home, we went on a hunt through the basement. 
We found it in a dusty beat-up case back in a nook behind the furnace.  I watched as my grandfather clicked open the rusty latches and lifted the lid.  There it lay, its thick, silver strings and semi-hollow body clouded over with age.  Man, it was beautiful.  I loved it instantly, and I hadn't even heard it yet.  Under the strings, little pieces of masking tape written in in my grandfather's handwriting marked the notes.  I had to smile to myself.  Hard to imagine someone as musically inclined as him needing to be reminded of something as simple as notes.  Upon closer inspection, we saw some pretty major flaws.  The neck had sunken in, the strings needed replacing, and there were some cracks in the top coat of varnish.  Nonetheless, I was in love. 
It gets better.  We took it out to the garage and set it on top of the four-wheeler seat to clean.  I stood there Pledge dusting the wood and my grandfather left to get something from the house.  Next thing I know, he's lugging a 1960's vintage tube amp out the door.  Painted with blacklight white and flourescent pink paint, it was quite nostalgic.  "Let's plug it in and see if it works," he said, blowing the dust off the cord. 
As he plugged it into the outlet it made a fizzling sound, reminiscent of a freshly poured glass of coke.  There was a soft pop as he plugged the other end of the cord into the guitar.  The vibrations sent little shocks through my fingers.  It was working.  I plucked a few notes and had to smile.  It was horrendously out of tune.  But all at the same time, it was one of the best sounds I'd ever heard. 
My bass.  Me, playing my bass. 
It fit me well. not too big, not awkwardly small.
Just right... 
Perfect. 

"We're all in the mood for a melody..."

Ahhh, Sparta, North Carolina.  More than a few words come to mind when I think of the town (and no, gladiators are not involved).  Among them are peace, beauty, home.  I love the atmosphere, the people, and pretty much just the whole aura the small town possesses.  Unfortunately, I only get to make the trip twice a year.  This year, the farm feels empty.  My great grandmother happens to be in a nursing and rehabilitation center to heal some broken ribs.  So, needless to say, I have been making many visits up there to see her. 
The first time I went up there, I noticed a piano sitting in the corner of the dining area.  I know, I know.  Leave it to me to gravitate to a piano.  It was humble to say the least.  An upright Baldwin, in nice condition but in terrible need of a tuning.  Behind it there was a window that looked out into the hall where I stood.  Looking through the window, I saw something beautifully inspiring.  There, sitting at the piano was a little old lady playing hymns.  Walking into the room, I asked her if I could sit and listen to her for a while.  After another hymn, she asked me if I played.  I smiled a little and nodded.  "A little bit".  She stood up from the bench with some help from her walker.  "Well honey, let's hear it!" her southern accent was adorable.  "I can't hardly see no more, so sometimes I end up on the wrong keys, but it don't matter.  Nobody can tell it anyway." 
We traded seats.  I felt the keys under my fingers, guessing how it might play for me.  I couldn't stand the suspense, so I played the first C7 of Billy Joel's "Piano Man".  It was comfortable, out of tune though.  Definitely out of tune.  But somehow, beautiful.  My fingers took right to the keys, like I had played it my whole life.  It practically played itself.  As I played, a few residents and urses began trickling into the dining area, coming to see who was causing the ruckus, no doubt.  I looked around sheepishly when I realized that everyone was watching and listening.  Not wanting to appear nervous, I kept going.  A few chords here, a riff there, just messing around, really.  I'm not used to playing solos to people.  But the best part was that the people loved it, no matter what I played or how many times I messed it up.  It was a great feeling. 
When I was finished, I stood up to leave and was surprised by a smattering of applause from the people who had gathered to watch.  I hadn't expeced that.  What to do?  Smile and wave :).  Finally, I was able to leave.  Before I got out the door, however, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  "Honey that was beautiful!"  It was the same old woman I had first talked to.  "Thanks." I offered.  "I don't think I caught your name?"  "Esther,"  she said with a smile.  I introduced myself and she squeezed my shoulder.  "I hope you come back and play for me again.  I really enjoyed it."  I smiled back.  "So did I."

Noblesse Oblige

She smiles into the mirror, hoping to convince herself that she really does want to be here.  The bright lights reflect in the vanity, illuminating her perfectly made-up face.  She pauses.  The feathery powderpuff sits poised in her hand- a fuzzy butterfly, designed to disguise and transform.  A pat here, a fluff there, perfect.  Her smoothed complexion would be spotlight-ready with just a few passes of the dark pink blush.  She makes a fish-like face in the mirror, finding the apple of her cheek.  A tired sigh escapes her chest as she absent-mindedly tucks a stray piece of hair back into a bobby pin.  A knock at the dressing room door snaps her from her thoughts.  "Come in" she calls- not bothering to rise and answer the door herself.  She hears the soft patter of dance shoes and suddenly sees her best friend's reflection staring at her own in the giant mirror.  Perfectly smoothed, tucked, hairsprayed, and costumed, her friend is the image of what she could never quite achieve.  She made it seem so effortless.  "You're on in ten", she says, flashing a brilliantly white smile, and fluttering out the door.  Offering a half-hearted thanks, she rises in her chair to reach the satin shoes that had been less than carefully tossed over the mirror's edge.  The ribbons are tangled.  Again.  Just her luck, too.  Working quickly to iron out this latest wrinkle, she thinks back to the countless times she'd had to untangle her shoes' ribbons over the years.  One would think she'd learn to store and transport them better.  She quickly laces the freed ribbons over her slender ankles.  Criss-cross, criss-cross, right over left.  Or had she accidentally just done left over right?  She has to focus.  Standing up from the chair, she smooths her costume, tucking in any loose strings, straightening the crinoline and tightening the zipper.  She spins slowly in front of the full-length mirror, inspecting herself for any overlooked details.  Seeing none, she rises to Arabesque and performs a slight Penche to relax her clenched muscles.  "Why am I a dancer?" she asks the mirror.  It offers no reply.  It never does. 

Another knock interrupts her again.  This time, her friend doesn't wait for permission to enter.  "Let's go.  You have one more song before the stage is yours!"  With another brilliant smile and a soft swish of the costume, her friend glides back through the door again, and this time, she is accompanied.  Out into the hall they tip-toe, the dim light glinting off the sequins on their skirts.  Narrow corridors and small staircases lead them to the stage doors.  Quietly pushing through, they pad through the wings; avoiding sandbags, switches, and boxes. 

She peeks through a tiny tear in the curtain.  The dancer before her is almost finished.  She knows the number by heart now, so many times has she watched it through this tear.  After one more pirouette, the tiny woman will perform a gravity-defying leap, the lights will black out, and the music will end dramatically.  As she predicted, the woman executes the steps perfectly, and wastes no time vacating the stage.  It's her turn now.  Passing the woman, she walks quickly onstage.  With each step she reminds herself of why she is here.  To pay the bills.  To make a living.  To prove her peers wrong.  To stun the audience.  To dance . . . to dance.  She closes her eyes and takes note of her internal rhythm- her heartbeat.  It beats quickly and sporadically.  She still gets nervous, even after all these years, all this practice.  She knows though, that as soon as the lights wash over the stage, she will be purged of that nervousness, and unhindered in her performance.  She will dance, and she will stun the audience.  After all, that was her dream . . . to be a dancer.

"I Have Been Changed For Good"

I know you all are dying to know how my first voice lesson went.  OK, maybe you aren't, but I'm going to tell you anyway.  I'm not going to lie.  It was kind of scary walking into voice lessons for the first time.  I had no idea what to expect and this made me nervous and tense which made my throat tighten.  This made me nervous that the sound would come out strained and squeaky, which in turn made my throat tighten even more.  Its a vicious cycle, let me tell you.  Upon entering, my cousin and I were asked to take a seat, and the teacher asked some basic questions (have you sung before, what do you like to sing, do you think you are an alto or soprano).  After this Q&A, she took us over to the piano to find our ranges.  This was scary as well.  I started out facing the piano so I could see exactly where I was singing.  Not a good idea.  I chickened around G#.  So, I was told to turn around.  Reluctantly, I did so.  back up the scale I started.  This time, I got all the way to D# before I had to stop.  This was surprising to me because I was always told not to sing higher than a G when I was in choir.  I wonder why?  Apparently, I can hit way higher.  Anyway, the rest of the lesson went by way too quickly.  My cousin and I were sent home with Wicked music to practice over the week.  Fast forward a few hours.

It was Tuesday night.  I had sat down at the piano as usual to practice my lesson for Thursday.  I was expecting my cousin to be at the house any minute to practice for our voice lesson.  Well, about fifteen minutes later, she arrived.  We were both so insecure and scared of failure as we sang through the CD the first time.  However, taking away the CD, we squeezed onto my piano bench and I began to play the chords, slowly, to the song we had the most difficulty with.  We practiced for what seemed like hours, working hard to establish the gorgeous harmony in the piece.  Eventually, it paid off and we started to nail it, every time.  I would play just chords, she would sing melody and I would harmonize.  Just two voices and a piano.  We realized it was a beautiful thing we had created when we listened to our recording later. 

Music never ceases to amaze me.  I know it's cliche, but it's true.  There's so much to learn and discover about it.  I thought I knew a lot about music as it was, with knowing the piano.  But, embarking on this new musical journey has already started to teach me things I never knew about the musical world.  I can't wait to get deeper into this new endeavor to see what's in store for me.  I'm glad that I left my comfort zone, and I'm so happy to be singing to the piano instead of making the piano sing to me.

Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do....Hopefully.

Once again, I apologize for the lack of posts within the past few weeks.  Nothing exciting has happened to me though, and I figured that you, as a reader, would most likely rather not hear about my boring life.  However, yesterday something did happen.  Something exciting.  My cousin and I scheduled a whole summer's worth of voice lessons.  You must understand something about me.  I am nervous, nervous, nervous when it comes to vocal performance.  I once sung a solo on stage and it was the most nerve wracking thing I have ever done.  On stage, that is.  Anyway, for those of you who don't know, my cousin and I are writing a musical (It's going to be amazing), and since it is a MUSICAL, we realized that, inevitably, there would come a point where we we would have to open our mouths and actually, vocally, perform.  This scares the living daylights out of both of us since we are both very inexperienced as vocal musicians.  (Notice I say "vocal".  There's plenty of talent to be witnessed between the two of us in other musical areas.)  So, off to voice lessons we go- weekly, for an hour, over the course of the summer.  I am excited, but also slightly nervous.  Although, being there with my cousin, whom I have no problem singing in front of, will probably take the edge off of the nerves.  I know that my goal, personally, is to be able to perform in front of people and not be nervous and actually sound good instead of just average.  I just hope that my insecurity about my voice won't hold me back from achieving my goals. 

Little Encouragements

*Sigh*.  Graduation.  All my highschool life, I've waited and worked for this- to be able to breathe, relax, call it over.  I'm sitting here on the bed watching raindrops bounce off of the flowers in the garden below my open window.  I can finally afford to chill out a bit and just take it all in.  I love the rain, I love the breeze through open windows, and I love hot vanilla tea.  I also love to be able to enjoy those things without the constant feeling of stress weighing me down.  I feel the need to share the phrase that has been repeating itself in my head like a mantra since I heard it.  But first, I need to tell the story.
It was December 18th.  I was working an annual Christmas Tea catering job, and everything was going wrong.  We ran out of dishes, the tea from the boiler was cold and we couldn't figure out why, things were misplaced, and a few carefully counted finger sandwiches had been dropped on the floor, rendering them useless and us sandwich-less.  The hundred-and-some tea-goers were getting antsy, and therefore somewhat rude to us.  Fast-forward two hours.  The guests had left, the dishes were being collected from the tables, and we had somehow managed to keep everyone satisfied and a teacup never ran empty.  How the three of us had managed it, I will never know.  But as we were exhaustedly (and somewhat deliriously) washing lipstick-stained teacups, the manager of the venue paid us a visit in the kitchen.  She had been in a few other times to check on us and offer help, but staying professional, we had politely declined and said that we were just fine.  During this particular visit, however, she asked us how we had managed with so many mishaps.  After relating the whole story and the things we had used to make-do, she smiled a small smile and said just a few simple words to us that I will never forget.  "See," she said, pouring herself a cup of leftover tea, "it's never as bad as you think."
Those words have rung in my ears since December 18th and have become a motto for me.  During this schoolyear I have been so stressed, and it seems that a majority of the days have been days just like December 18th- when everything seems to be going wrong, and nobody can understand why I'm so frantic.  However, the profound little phrase that Mary said to us in the kitchen that night has struck a chord with me and comforted me whenever I feel like it can't possibly be any worse.  I just convince myself that its not as bad as I think, and someday, in retrospect, I will realize that that phrase couldn't be more true.
That day has finally come.  I'm down to the last sip of my vanilla tea, the rain has slowed to a slight drizzle, and the breeze that's dancing through my open window smells like fresh earth.  I'm in that state of retrospect now, and I see that it was indeed, not as bad as I thought. 

Words of Apology and a Bass Guitar

Wow.  I just realized what day it is, and how long it has been since I last posted.  My apologies.  I do have a resonable excuse though.  I've been busy having a birthday, getting my driver's license, and trying to graduate.  Check, check, and check.  Well, there's a half check on that last one.  The actual ceremony hasn't taken place yet, but it will on Saturday.  I am finished all schoolwork though, and that is exciting and scary and relieving and stressful all at once.
On another note, I have an important decision to share!  I have been fortunate enough to come across a rather random discovery.  A few weeks ago (or has it been months?), my boyfriend decided he was going to buy a bass guitar.  This was totally out of the blue.  So, two weeks ago, I picked it up and started to play it rather jokingly while I waited with him for his band practice to start.  Sitting there listening to him explain notes and strings to me was fascinating.  It was like learning music all over again.  It made sense and I was even able to pick out a few melodies on my own, even though I had never touched a bass guitar before.  It just felt right, and I had an epic vision of rockstardom.  I want to learn how to play the bass now, and hopefully be good at it too.  I've been listening to the bass in songs on the radio and on my iPod (who we will call Buddy from now on, because that's his name), and sometimes I will stop in the middle of the store to see if I can pick it out through the speakers between the noises of the crowd.  I'm fully intrigued and I can't wait until I have my own.  Hopefully, by July that will happen.  I've been promised a trip to Guitar Center as soon as I save enough.  One more thing to look forward to.  I think it will be a good summer. 

The Baldwin on Lexington Road

Inhale...exhale. Beat.
She pushed open the door. It squealed a little on its hinges as it made its slow journey inward. She was hit with the smell of clean floors. Clean, wooden floors. They had probably just been mopped. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Her shoes made a rhythmic sound as she walked across them. Definitely just mopped. Her glance rose from her squeaking shoes to the unlit fireplace in which a large, wooden swan sat poised, reminding her of the many scoldings it had caused her when she was younger. Shifting her gaze still higher, she caught a glimpse of it.
The piano.
It stole the breath right out of her lungs. So ethereal and majestic, it dominated the room. The studio lights were trained on its glimmering dark beauty. The lid was open, a sight that poured music into the heart, even though the instrument remained soundless. It had always been an object of great mystery to her, ever since she was small, but only just that-an object. But now, purposefully standing here in its formiddable presence, she felt its mystery as if it were a living creature, not just a piece of furniture to hide behind during her childhood games of hide-and-seek.
She felt a chill shimmy over her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Those studio lights. They were warm.
Hot.
White hot.
She closed and reopened her eyes. The creature was still there. She hadn't moved any closer to it. Why not? Was it fright? Nervousness? Maybe a hint of unworthiness? She shook the feeling, whatever it was, and stepped closer.
Closer.
She could see it clearly now, every detail, every nonexistent flaw. It was gorgeous. She sank to the bench that was perched before it. Lifted her hands above the keys. They suspended hesitantly there for a moment before sliently alighting on the warm, white notes. She looked at her hands, now resting there on the instrument. Chipped black nail polish and a white seashell ring interrupted the perfect pattern of the keys underneath them. They looked so out of place there. On the paino.
Slowly, she willed her right index finger to depress the key on which it rested. The sound that emanated from the belly of the beast was beautiful to her. A solid D rang in her ears, blossoming with vibrato as she held it.

That's how it began. There, in her grandmother's house, with the six foot Baldwin. She had an attachment to the instrument ever since that day, knowing that it was what had taught her and molded her into the musician she had turned out to be. It had played her more than she had played it. The connection she felt to that piano was electrifying every time she sat down to play it.
Thinking about it, she decided she probably had more connection to this piano than her own. It's playful personality and sudden mood swings mystified her. A tempermental thing, really. She'd never played another one like it. Even with all of its random whimsy, it was home. Her own piano, although passionate in mood and familiar in feeling, would never be as comforting as the Baldwin on Lexington Road.

Qualities of a Dancer: Raw and Essential

Grace
Enthusiasm
Wonder
Spontanaeity
Excitement
Beauty
Flexibility
Emotion
Fascination
Intensity
Passion
Intelligence
Energy
Swiftness
Synchronicity
Electricity
Understanding
Connection
Feeling
Courage
Whimsy
Individuality
Love
Tranquility
Musicality
Coordination
Rhythm
Confidence
Devotion
Agility
Expression
Perserverance
Perfectionism
Discipline
Strength

Amazing Grace

There's nothing quite so amazing as feeling used. This Sunday, Easter Sunday, I danced to Amazing Grace and I felt very used indeed. I feel like I gave one of my greatest performances. I think its because I wasn't performing for the audience. I was performing for Someone far greater, and the joy that came through the performance that was portrayed vicariously through me was incredible. I was used. Used to touch lives through a dance. To me, that's the most gratifying feeling, and I'm so grateful to have been able to experience it. I left the stage feeling speechless. I had a surreal moment of personal reflection as I quietly climbed the stairs to the dressing rooms, and I couldn't help but smile. The sight I witnessed at the top of the stairs was proof that I wasn't the only one who felt that way. The rest of the dancers were speechless too. Some were teary-eyed. But we were all smiling the same smile. We had all been used, and sharing that unspoken knowledge in that moment was incredibly beautiful.

So, my lesson learned? Life is too short to be useless. We overanalyze situations too much sometimes, and end up talking ourselves out of participation. In this way, we prevent ourselves from being used. How can you touch a life if you have closed your mind to the idea by convincing youself that your knowledge, personality, talent, whatever, is inadequate? What a sad life to live. We all have doubts about putting ourselves out there, but we need to learn how to ignore them so we can be of the most use possible. I had a purpose on Sunday, and sure I had my doubts and "what-if's", but I didn't let that stop me from providing myself to be used for that Divine purpose. You can't let it stop you, either. You have a purpose too. Go fulfill it.

Take The Shackles Off My Feet

There's a big diference between dancing onstage and dancing in a parking lot. Looking out into the audience from the stage, you see only blackness, no faces. However, looking out at the crowd in the daylight is a different story. You make eye contact, you see their reactions to your dancing, you are at their level. That's what got me the most today- seeing my audience. It threw me off just a bit, dancing on their eye-level. But, eye-level with the audience, I felt more connected to them, and I could tell by the smiles on their faces that they were connecting with me too. And, with that connection established, I felt like I spoke closer to their hearts than I would have been able to do if I were dancing from a blinding stage's point of view. It was a new experience for me, and I can only hope that the ones dancing with me felt the same connections to our audience. I hope that the people left that parking lot today feeling a sense of happiness because of the message we delivered. I know I did.

P.S.-here's the link to the song if you guys want to know what we danced to: Shackles

Stage Fright- An Eventual Love Story

Funny how you can be so nervous to do something then turn around and have it be the thing you miss doing the most. In other words, I wish I were back on stage. With the success of "Proud Mary", I'm ready now to focus entirely on my next two upcoming performances. I cant wait to dance again, despite the butterflies I know I'll get. I love the unique thrill that only comes in the split-second silence between curtain and music.
I stood there today, perfectly posed onstage, waiting for the curtain to part and the music to begin. I felt the hot lights on my face, that wonderful temporary blindness. I drank it in, shedding my nervousness. Then, the music started. I felt the energy rise from my feet to my head. This sudden rush of adrenaline filled my movements. Every jump was higher, every turn was fuller, and every kick was sharper than it had been at dress rehearsal. Each time I am on stage, I walk away amazed at how much the experience improved my performance. To be caught up in the pounding of your heart as your energy level rises with every 8-count is truly a feeling like no other.
These are the moments I live for. The two-minute, thirty-second rush that dancing on a stage creates is the most fantastic thrill I think I have ever and will ever experience. So, the lesson I feel I have learned through performing and the stage fright that inevitably comes with it is this: you can't let yourself be held back by your nervousness. If you do, your performance will be limited by the things you've told yourself you can or can't do. Don't become limited! Don't set restraints for yourself with fear. If you do, you might just miss the thrill of a lifetime.

Just Listen

Ever have one of those days? Like someone just yanked the covers off of you in the middle of a really good dream? I think we all have experienced sudden intense bouts of stress. I sat at the kitchen table this morning trying to catch up on some history reading that I was supposed to have finished yesterday, and was suddenly slammed with some tough questions. How will you ever get everything done that you need to get done to graduate? What were you thinking you could finish highschool early? What if that doesn't happen? Where will you go to college? Will you be accepted? How are you going to bring up your test grades? And there went the warm blanket. My mind laid there for a moment, cold and exposed now; rudely awakened from the dream I had been having of my relatively carefree life. I became completely caught up in the "what if's" and uncertainty I had been unwilling to face. I'm not sure what brought it about, but it seemed as if every indecision I'd ever had, every uncertainty, was surfacing, screaming through my brain. I had to make it stop. Somehow, I had to make all the questions and instability disappear. So, what did I do? What any reasonable musician would. I closed the history book and wandered in to the piano. I let my hands rest there on the keys for a moment, feeling their familiar warmth and potential beneath my frigid fingertips. It started with a note, as it always does, then slowly grew into something beautiful. I smashed the keys under my fingers, pouring all my frustrations and fear into the piano, and hearing them played back at me was liberating. I felt relieved, knowing that whatever uncertainties I have, and will have, that music will always be there for you at the end of the day. I thank God for the steadfastness of His music, and the liberating power it has, a constant reminder that the truth will set you free. You just have to clear your mind and listen for it.

Little Details

So, I've realized that I haven't posted since Wednesday. Time is flying by! Only four days until the Proud Mary performance! I'm so ready for it, too. I have been dancing around the house, practicing, trying to perfect little details. Are my arms off center? Should I put more weight on the left foot? What direction should I turn my head for this step? These are the things that drive me crazy before a performance! But, I have found by observing and practicing that it's the little details like these that will really make or break a dance. Think about the last time you saw someone dance. What struck you the most? The way they had memorized the movements, or the way they portrayed the emotion the music was trying to convey? I think about what makes professionals so much better than everyone else, and I've found that the answer lies in the way they flourish their dance to embody the music. And, they do it so naturally. You can't teach emotion, and by knowing this I come to appreciate the way a dancer commits entirely to stretching the emotion of the music into every cell of the body. This, I believe is what separates greatness from mediocrity. So, as the upcoming performances draw near, I will be reminding myself to pay attention to the little details, because without them, all of my hard work may be percieved as simple mediocrity.

Just A Few Songs

Well, its that time of year again- recital season. As I sit here enjoying my wholesome lunch of shrimp flavored Ramen Noodles and Coke, I realize that there are only ten days until the Proud Mary performance, seventeen days until the Shackles performance, and eighteen days until the Amazing Grace performance. And I'm getting nervous because they all three need a lot of work before they are stage-ready. So what happens when I get nervous? I listen to music to calm my nerves. And so, I've decided to share a couple of my favorite songs with all of you.

Thank You For The Music

~ABBA

Hey Jude

~The Beatles

Bright Lights (Live)

~Matchbox Twenty

Dancing Through Life

~Wicked

Dancing With Trees

"For winter's rains and ruins are over,

And all the season of snows and sins;

The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins;

And time remembered is grief forgotten,

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,

And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the spring begins."

~Algernon Charles Swinburne

Every year, I look forward to spring- the fresh smell of mowed lawns, the shining colors of blossoming flowers, the warm breeze tossing dandelion seeds through the air. I love everything about the season (except the allergies!) and I aslo love the inspiration it provides for a lot of the things I do, especially dancing.

Every time I turn around, I see how the earth is filled with dancing- butterflies caught up in their fluttering waltz, llittle birds dancing a jitterbug through the treetops, streams laughing as they twirl across creekbed ballrooms.

But the trees are the most beautiful of all. The grace in their magnitude is overpowering, and you can't help but pause to watch them as they bend and bow with the musical wind. Releasing their blossoms to tumble behind them like the sash of a ribbon dancer, they create quite a vivid spectacle of beauty.

Each year, when the trees are in full bloom, and the breeze is warm enough to coax off my jacket, I celebrate by joining the trees in a dance.

At the college near my house, there are lined up neatly beside the road three gigantic trees that produce the biggest, bright pink flowers for about two weeks every May. The first time I remember seeing these gorgeous trees, I was about ten years old. My mother, little brother and I were driving down the road when we were struck with their beauty. We happened to catch them in the prime of their bloom, and the breeze was an orchestra that day. We were so taken by their dance, that we decided to join them.

So, we made the right into the parking lot beside the tennis court, and strode up the small hill to where the trees beckoned us, "Come and dance."

And dance we did.

I remember feeling like a butterfly as I ran under the branches, catching the falling blossoms as they drifted like snowflakes. I spun through the maze of the floating ribbons of flowers, I climbed to the highest branches as they leapt to the windy crescendos; and during the breezy interludes, I sat down on the cool dirt stage with my family and we played the part of the audience, just catching our breath and enjoying the trees' performance.

We vowed to come back every year in May, to dance with the trees and celebrate the renewal of youthfulness that only springtime can bestow.

Too often, I believe, we forsake spontaneity. We get caught up in the hum drum of daily life, and overlook the beauty of nature that was created for us to enjoy. And why? Why do we not take advantage of every little opportunity to celebrate the life we have been given? We only have a few years on planet Earth. Why waste it focusing only on the mundane chores day in and day out? Don't rob yourself of happiness! Get out there and dance! Fill your lungs with the warm spring breeze, and just for a moment or two, forget about that worry or stress that's been such a burden. Just dance. Let tomorrow worry about itself.

Because I Danced

What do some people have to say about the beautiful art of dance?

"There is a bit of insanity in dancing that does everybody a great deal of good."
~Edwin Denby

"Please send me your last pair of shoes, worn out with dancing as you mentioned in your letter, so that I might have something to press against my heart." 
 ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Dancing is like dreaming with your feet!"
~Constanze

"Dancers are the messengers of the gods."
 ~Martha Graham

"Dancers are instruments, like a piano the choreographer plays." 
~George Balanchine

Dance is, as Constanze says, like dreaming. Just as most people love to dream and be dreamed about, they also love to dance and be danced for. There's an electricity in the air when a figure dances, a sort of energy, I think.
 I was recently at an event that took place in a large arena. During intermission, most people left their seats to go get concessions, or to find their place in the endless restroom lines. But, I decided to stay comfortably at my seat, and it was there that I witnessed one of the coolest things I've seen in a long time. There in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the crowd, a single girl was dancing to the music that was streaming through the arena speakers. There was no one around her, or so it seemed by the way she isolated herself from the people milling about. Just herself and the music. I sat there in row 200, and I watched amazed at what she was doing. I wish I had the courage and the carefree attitude to just full-out dance in a crowd of thousands of people, like no one was watching.
So, my experience has begged the question over and over in my head, "When was the last time you danced like no one was watching?"
Its such a cliche, but such an underperformed act. Who do you know that would get up and pour their soul into a dance in front of the world, but perform it like they were the only figure in an empty auditorium? I would love to say that that person is me, and it remains my goal as a dancer to embody this carefree virtue, because, as someone told me recently, dancers tend to smile more, and be happier people in general. It makes me wonder if I danced more often like no one was watching, even though they were, and if the statement that 'dancers are happier people' is true, and if happiness is contagious, then wouldn't the people who I pretend aren't watching become happier people too? And if dancing is an external reponse to an internal happiness, then maybe those people would start dancing too, and maybe, just maybe, the world would become a happier place. Because I danced.

Satin Shoes and Crimson Silk

Ever since I heard about blogging, I wanted to join in the fun. I had written a few entries on websites like Yahoo, but never really developed a theme or kept up on the posting. Well, this time it will be different. This time, it will (hopefully) be interesting, new, and fresh. And this time, I will get some followers. These are my goals as a blogger. On this blog, I plan to manifest my love for music and dance.

I've been a dancer since I was about three years old. I distinctly remember slipping my tiny feet into Mommy's old pointe shoes and pretending to be a prima ballerina as I twirled around the house. Now, thirteen years later, I have my own dance shoes, and I still twirl around the house.

My life as a dancer began with a pair of tiny white ballet slippers and a matching white dress. I must've been nervous as I followed the line of similarly outfitted tiny dancers padding down the backstage hallways. I remember peeking through the seams in the monstrous black curtain as I waited in the wings, watching the beautiful dancers in ribbons of crimson silk spin and float across the stage. Their pink satin pointe shoes never rested as their glissades and grand jetes urged the music forward. I remember longing to be one of those dancers in the crimson silk. All too soon, the music ended, and the river of silk came to a gentle stop as the dancers floated into a final pose; motionless. The curtain fell. The dancers rose, floated past the line of little ballerinas. I watched them leave through the stage door, and I've still never seen such beautiful dancers.

Since that day, dancing has remained my dream. Now, I wish to share my experiences as a dancer with the world through this humble blog. So, put on some music, pour a cup of warm tea and read on.