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. The fantasy of soft pink stretched quite tangibly before my Mother-May-I eyes. I imagined the delighted gasps of my fantasy woodland audience to my free form pirouettes. This was perhaps the penultimate marquee of my bursting on the Thomas scene as a girl. There was nothing outwardly prissy about me. And yet I was raised in Miss Clark’s ballet classes, placing gum on the bottom of my feet, and stretching myself upward with an imaginary puppet string. Captivated by this dream, I made it my own.
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. :-)