I’d twirl until I was dizzy.  A more sensible child might have had something else in her mind besides being a prima ballerina twirling endlessly, but not me.  I imagined the delighted gasps of my fantasy woodland audience to my free form pirouettes.  I was born a whirling dervish. 

This music you're hearing is Dance of the Elves  by Popper.  That's me on cello and my friend, Grace Choi, on piano.

By the way, twirling, I later discovered as a mother myself, can also signal autism.  :-)


My father was a sundrenched man.  He was creative of telltale depth, always turning leaves into hats and sticky maple buds into noses.  He crafted and painted in color block all those endless pieces of scaled down furniture.  He even built a log cabin for my playhouse.  Our walks were full of father-daughter splendor.  We counted a lot of rabbits.  Often he would insist I taste each confection of pine needle and have magic tea completely unencumbered by demitasse and etiquette inside a hollowed out tree.  My father had a darn good time on these walks.  And I did too, by golly.  :-)


I wish I hadn’t worn those shorts that made my flabby thighs pop out around the edges.  I did track & field, and let me tell you.  That is all I have to say about running.  :-)

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