The Dance Becomes Itself

I am barely seventy-four
and find my way in nervous fits and starts
off the crowded interstate.
The city of my youthful dreams awaits me. 
Familiar summer heat enfolds and 
Crepe Myrtle trees are blooming. 
I remember being barely eighteen and innocent 
of future realities:
I am a dancer: young and promising. 
Nothing else is real except...

I carry the weight of a lifetime with me into the city. And it is as an aged woman that I must deal with the logistics that accompany my courage. I will dance. I will share my writing and my memories of my father. But first I must navigate the city, find some comfort in a too cold hotel room: no bathtub to hold hot water and epsom salts and me, and find some food that won't do battle with my sensitive stomach. It isn't easy.

And Yet... I find my way. 

On Sunday, more navigation between the hotel in the lower garden district and the Marigny. I am brave; not brave enough to take the expressway, so I ask for help from the nice young woman behind the front desk and do a trial run on Sunday morning. The words I have learned by heart for my performance run through my mind as I take the once familiar streets. The flavor of the city mixes with my preparations. Bicyclists follow the same slow lane as I do down South Rampart to St. Claude. It is a summer Sunday and the people are relaxed into the pleasure of the day. 

I find St. Ferdinand and the wonderful old Church for the second time that day. I find the friends who have made my New Orleans rebirth possible. I am embraced by Phyllis, Deb, and Dave, and I embrace the moment.  It is time to dance.

This has been an experience which completely overwhelms my capacity for conveying it. I feel incapable, even as I long to share. Phyllis took the photos and for a while I couldn't relate them with the actual performance. That got easier, except that there were so many. Almost impossible to share. I think I like the ones with my brother the best. Yes, he came to see his sister dance, as did my daughter, Moira. But, John was the one who took off his shoes and accepted my invitation to join me on the stage. This dance is dependable; I can rest in this dance... Thank you, sweet brother... 

One amazing woman from my New Orleans ballet days, was in the audience. In her nineties, and accompanied by a long time woman friend of more recent years, she still looks like a dancer. Her coming and our embrace was a highlight of the evening. 

So I will post extras. Probably too many... Something about that last one. It may be my favorite. Timeless. so I post one in sepia, too...