The Church of Dance

         The tiny, crumbling, vine-blanketed church off of Middle-of-Nowhere Street seems out of place. Obviously, it's been years since a sermon was ever held there. The sanctuary floor has probably forgotten what the tread of serene sunday morning church-goers feels like. The creaking stairs certainly haven't known the steps of energetic altar boys for ten years or more. Why, then, has this little building survived the constant barrage of years?
         Now, over one hundred years since the church was built, something else lingers in the halls. Music echoes once more in the chapel, and vibrations shake the ivy-covered bricks. Thud thud thud. Thud thud thud. A torrent of noise--voices, laughter, music--reverberates through the entire structure. Thud thud thud. Footsteps that are more like gunshots ring where local farmers used to walk reverently. Children crowd the chapel, raising their arms, lost in a simple progression of seconds. Five and six and seven and eight. The church has been transformed by life--It vibrates with energy.
         On the front lawn, sheltered by two ancient pines, stands a simple wooden sign. It reads, "St Croix Ballet" in hand-painted purple letters. If you get to the church early enough, you might find a pair of turkeys scratching among the pine-needles for their morning meal. The ancient graveyard out back serves as a place of quite solitude for deer, or birds, or whoever seeks peace. But to find the magic saturating this building, so humbly labeled, we must follow the much-worn sidewalk to the heart of the church, up the stairs into the sanctuary.
         No pews stand under the stained-glass windows. The great chandelier still hangs, dusty, yet proud. The alter remains, complete with the communion goblet, but no pulpit stands before it. In the choir loft is a pile of tulle tutus, thrown haphazardly over the railing until they are needed again. A distinct scent of sweat lingers, a perfume to those who who smell it daily. Now the frequent inhabitants of the chapel are those who seek beauty and receive joy. This is the St. Croix Ballet.
         The church is more than just a studio. Make no mistake, the nature of the building hasn't changed. It is a sanctuary of beauty, nobility, and friendship. Here tiny feet pound on the floors, there students slump, exhausted, onto sagging leather couches.
     
I had to stop there. No description will ever do the studio justice. The harder I try to show you what this strange church-turned-studio is like, the more I know I'll never be able to. The English language can only carry me so far. Imagine, then, how a sanctuary of dance must look, and know that a church is a fitting place to dedicate to learning beauty.

Catching Up (It Might Take A While)

       I realize it's been awhile since I talked to you people (Yes, that's your name: you people). But cut me some slack. Not only have I managed to not get lost in the woods on a camping trip since I've last spoken to you, I've tasted what it's like to work a full-time job, planned a murder, applied to a college, drunk about three gallons of coffee, learned how to shower in a campground bathroom, survive thousands of those blood-sucking vampires we call mosquitoes, managed to cope with the loss of our local library, gave a horse a sponge bath, and went through the drive through at McDonalds with seven other people in the car.
       Say that ten times fast--I dare you.
       Needless to say, my summer has been crazier than usual. I could name a few people reading this blog who could match those feats and surpass them while only looking at a single month of their summers, but hey. My summer usually consists of dancing and cabin trips. That's it. Today has been the first day in a long time that I've had time to spend brain power doing nothing. I'm actually struggling to shut down the part of my brain that works with agendas and productivity.
       GASP.
       Who knew.
       Today I undermined my biological alarm clock and went back to sleep after waking up at eight-eighteen, when my physical alarm clock goes off. The experience was liberating. My brain-computer (whom I have named Carlotta) is in the process of rebooting. I haven't heard from her all day, except for garbled attempts to make me believe I have so much on my plate I need to make a list of things to do. At last! FREEEDOOOOM!
       But I guess I'll have to find something to do....Because despite how much I love having no obligations....I'm not sure I can handle it.  
       I'm a hot mess. A beautiful mess. This summer, I am chaotically amazing.

Eye Spy

In a cage made of smiling faces

Of polite salutations

Of tense undertones

In this cage of smiling faces

I sit in fear of eyes.

Eyes.

Meaning that if you find some you must react

Eye.

I.

Eyes are the window of the soul, I've heard tell--

It’s true.

The eyes that seek to look away,

The eyes that boldly go

Where no man has gone before

All these eyes and so many more

Are windows of the soul.

It rapidly becomes clear

That Eyes are dangerous things,

For the one who smiles and yet shrinks

At the thing that eyes mean.

If Eyes were rarer than the gems of the earth

Or were merely pretty pieces of glass

Then we might look more boldly into their frightening depths

But still we fear the simple clause

Cause and Effect

Look and React

Smile, then talk.

Eyes are the window of the soul.

You know what I mean. There is nothing more frustrating than polite conversation (cage of smiling faces) and Eye contact is more scary than the threat of rain on a beach day. You know.

On Books and The Fault In Our Stars

     I've been reading quite a few books lately. I'm working my way through the Search For Significance (A wonderful choice, thanks Ashley), which has been wonderfully helpful. (That is a discussion for a much more solemn post). I just finished the second to last book in a series that deal with the question, "If all of the extraordinary minds (People like Tolkien, Verne, Poe, Tesla, Richard Burton) from the past gathered together in one room in an imaginary world, what would happen?" Short answer: Mayhem, murder, the end of the world, war, death, and some very witty humor. It makes quite an interesting read. But as nothing could ever be simple with that many deep thinkers trying to work together, the series is so confusing I'm going to have to re-read the entire thing.
     I've also been catching up on my history with a little of Stevenson's Kidnapped, an excellent book that doesn't receive as much notice as it should. Come on. Who wouldn't like pirates, swashbuckling, and flight through the Scottish highlands with a somewhat crazy (If they ever remake the movie, David Tennant should play Alan) Scotsman? Why Treasure Island got more notice that Kidnapped I'll never know.
      There are probably more, lying on the floor of my bedroom waiting to be noticed, but I'll skip to the last one. The Fault In Our Stars. As you might know, this book is making something of a tidal wave in the teen community right now. People rave about it--it's humor and pathos, warmth and darkness--but I think if you stripped away the pretty words and fun, lovable characters, you'd find something a little less pleasing to read.
       John Green's words are soaked in a kind of bravado, that even though life is pointless and we are all just "side-effects" on a randomly spinning globe, we (humans) face death and refuse to sink into nothing. Not bravely, but at least with more attention on living than dying. Now, I'm only six chapters into the book, so any assumptions I make are likely to be blown to bits by the end. But I think I'm right in one thing--John Green is an incredibly skilled writer--so skilled that his opinion seeps off the pages and onto you without realizing what he's saying. He writes with such eloquence that the concepts he presents are pleasing to agree with, even if you actually don't. Impressions are so easy to come by.
       Now, I don't believe in a pointless existence, but it was only due to the comments made by my friend that kept me from accepting what Mr. Green said.
       It's a little scary, when you think about it. If I, who thought myself sceptical enough to disagree with an opposite worldview, really wanted to agree with Mr. Green, how many other books have I, or you, read and absorbed that distracted from truth?

Food for thought.

A Post About Nothing Much in Particular, or, The Essence of Summer.

       Funny how when after school has finally run its annual course, you find your brain suddenly freed up but have lost the will to think. Even remote thoughts like, "I think I might clean my room today," are unwelcome.
It's a lovely feeling. I've enjoyed it so much that even writing a little blog post happens only when I'm not basking in the warmth of nothing-to-do. I have a great deal less pressing thoughts all clamoring for attention, cluttering up my brain-attic and bickering amongst one another.
       This is summer. To us Minnesotans, that word means warmth, mostly. Now that our finicky globe has turned towards the sun we poke our pale faces our of our houses (they feel more like caves, and we like hermits), blinking in astonishment. What is this lush, green world? Have we been transported to a different planet?

       I've run out of words. All my description of the bliss of summer seem to fall very, very short. Maybe I should stick to poetry. But I find poetry lacking something, even if I can't decide what. Perhaps if I had something to rant about....but no. Not today. Not when the sun is so clear, and sky deep and wide and blue. I think I'll just sit and breath. 


                   

A Bird The Other Day

I was watching a bird the other day
And saw something that made me stray
Off the hard beaten track I am so wont to tread.

It wasn't really the bird that made me pause,
But the trees around the sunlit ground
That swayed and sung
The Song they constantly sing.

But it wasn't the trees that caused my feet
To slip and me to fall
Maybe it was the tossed ball
Thrown by a tiny little child across the street.

But even then, as I lay, aching on the sunlit ground
It might have bumblebee
So jolly in his way
Who labored on in the lengthening afternoon
And caused my feet to stray.

But as my wide eyes followed the bee's haphazard path
They lit upon a sight they rejoiced to see.

It wasn't the bird that made me stray
Off the hard beaten track I am so wont to tread,
It was the beat of the slow turning earth
That rumbled in time with time.

The warm afternoon so captured my soul,
That it wasn't the bird that made me stray:
It was wonder at this wonderful day.

Time

The Man with clocks in his eyes came to me

He streamed tears of blood and smiled at me

“Time!” He sobbed, “no time to play.”

The man with clocks in his eyes staggered down the street

Unaware that his body was dying and couldn’t carry on.

He looked straight ahead and didn’t stop to smile

And the people with sunshine in their eyes recoiled

for the man with clocks in his eyes couldn't see the passing time.

The Man with clocks in his eyes

Heard the bells of a new age dawning

Heard them tolling into his ears.

The man with clocks in his eyes heard the bells tolling

And the man--

Just a man, after all,

Curled up in the gutter.

The man with clocks in his eyes cried out for help

He sobbed tears of blood that marked his cheeks with helplessness.

The man with clocks in his eyes

Cried into his suit

The perfect black tie

And shiny black shoes.

The man with clocks in his eyes finally knew

His eyes, so perfect, he thought,

Couldn’t

See

Time.

What If

It's the end. Again. 

Fancy that! 

Sometimes I think...

I think...

Think I, 

That it never ends.

That I have wasted half my life

In comfort and complacency.

I worry that,

Think I,

That I will not rise to the challenge,

When the time comes.

Think I, these things. 

I, a worrier, will never restful be, 

Unless the peace of God

Be in me. 

What if!

What if, 

Think I,

What if!

What if the earth comes crashing down!

What if I shame myself!

What if I did something wrong!

What if, if, if,

IF the sky were to fall, could I hold it by thought?

IF I a mistake did make,

Could I then, by turning my thoughts backward,

Change the past?

IF I had done differently, Think I. 

What if is a disease

That preys on the roiling mind

That preys on my joy.

What if,

What if I, 

Think I,

Chose to 

What if the if away?

What if I,

Stopped iffing and put

the f on faith instead?

What if?

What if I stopped iffing and listened to the truth around me. 

Think I, these things. 

Method in the Madness

       I could spend quite a lot of time extolling praises for the Royal Shakespeare Company's adaptation of Hamlet. But those words would be lost, because it was much too excellent for idle sentences. I might even deem it too sophisticated for the Awesome-O-Meter.

Na. Never. My O-Meters are still the best way of rating that I've come up with.

It rated a ten on the Awesome-O-Meter for emotion, laughs, and acting (David Tennant plays crazy like he's not faking it), a ten on the Drama-O-Meter for gripping scenes and heart-rending speeches, and a nine on the Everything-Else-That's-Awesome-O-Meter for some wonderful, creepy themes of spying, watching, Hell, and evil. The very set of the play radiated "something rotten in the heart of Denmark."

Sometimes it's frustrating to be the only Shakespearean fan in my family. Can you not see his genius? His speeches and poetry--even his prose--is another language to be pondered over and admired (Even though most of the time I only understand half of what his characters are saying).

Did you know that over half of the sayings like "method to his madness" (Hamlet), "neither here nor there" (Othello), and "sweets to the sweet" (Hamlet) were invented by Shakespeare? Not only this, but when he felt the need he simply made up words to suit his fancy. Think on this the next time you use "rant", "majestic," or "lonely."

Shakespeare's genius wasn't the only thing that contributed to this production. Whoever did the casting should be awarded a medal. David Tennant is the best Hamlet I've ever seen, and Patrick Stewart has yet to play a role that isn't excellent. But then again, I do have a soft-spot for tortured male protagonists....

Sleeeeeeeep...

Sleep.
Even now, the word sounds like a synonym for "heaven."
Sleep.
Oh, Lord I'm tired.
Sleep.
Turns out, forty winks on the curvy part of the stairs is almost as comfortable as my bed. I curled up there today because I didn't have the energy to move. The computer screen is a distraction for my blurred eyes, my confused mind, my shaking legs.
Sleep.
Literally, my legs were shaking. Its a wonder I made it through pointe class today.
Sleep.
Yup. My brain has now died.
Sleeeep....

Follow-up to Good Girl

       I've been reading Do Hard Things by Alex and Brett Harris. Well, reading is a bit of a loose term. I got half-way through it on our road trip in January because Iowa was so boring, and haven't touched it until today. This morning, I read a section called "Be Known for What You Do (more than for what you don't)
       Let's take a look at what I said in "Good Girl":

         Technically speaking, I'm a "good girl." Homeschooled, Christian...who doesn't consider "dating" to be          something that should happen unless both parties involved are thinking of marriage. I stay out of trouble          (sometimes), I don't loiter, and I try to obey my parents.

      In essence, what I said was this: I don't do all these things, and that makes me a good girl.  But today, I read this in Do Hard Things: "Being considered a good teen only requires that we don't do bad stuff like taking drugs, drinking, and partying."
      Wow. Talk about a jolt. What the Harris's just told me is absolutely true, that teens are often considered "good enough" or even "exceptional" if they don't do bad stuff. I don't do drugs, and somehow that makes me a "good teen?" What the heck! I was falling victim to a ridiculously low standard without even knowing it.
       I have a confession to make. This year, I've been able to get straight A's (except in math, but math is evil) in all my college courses. This morning, I got a message from the Dean of Admissions at Concordia St Paul saying that I was eligable for some program that puts me on some list that makes me automatically considered for an academic scholarship. Yes, that made me feel proud. But when you compare the amount of effort it took for me to earn a place in that program, suddenly I don't feel so good about myself.
      Getting A's is not hard. At all. I can get A's in my classes with minimal effort and some serious procrastinating. That's what I've been doing this year. And somehow, I managed to get on the "Go Farther" program at age sixteen?
       It is SICK how little effort it took for me to reach this point. I'm not being pushed. I float through college courses, get good grades, and am being rewarded for minimal effort? I'll say it again: What the heck! The worst part is: this is nobody's fault but my own. Look, people. Being above average isn't something to be proud of because the average is so low.
       I consider myself to be an adolescent. By saying that word, I conform to society's expectations for my life. I've even used the "I'm just a kid" and "I'm growing up" argument as an excuse.
      Yikes.
      What I'm trying to say is this: I made a mistake. My mindset is still stuck in a rut, thinking that my age is an excuse to not make the hard decision. I need to push myself, and to hell with the "Go Farther" program.

Golden Thyme

Golden Thyme
Coffee and Tea
You don't have any room for me

"What can I get for you?
Coffee, light, with room for cream?"

I'll take mine hollow
With brine.
You don't think
Anything of me.

Midas Touch

The streets and roads
Are paved with gold
But no heart is left in them.
The Midas touch lies over this land
And has left the people heartless.

The streets and roads
Are paved with gold
But the crude and base
Have not suffered.

Instead, like Jason hunting the Fleece,
The glitter is what draws us
Stalks us
Kills us.

Your other master is left in the dust

And all you have is dust.

With airy smiles
That charm ad beguile,
We ignore the world before us.
Our minds are clouded,
Filled up with lies,
We miss the truth before us.

That Midas dream
Would be filling,
It seems,
But all that is left
Are streets and roads
Paved with gold
With no heart left in them.

Good Girl

       I finally relented. After a winter of hinting and winking, I took the leap and bought a skateboard. My brother was ecstatic. A year ago Dj bought a longboard and ever since he's been petitioning for me to get one. Due to my phobia of spending large amounts of money, I waited. And waited.

       And waited.

       Over spring break, my brother took me to Zumiez. If he didn't consider himself too dignified to bounce up and down in company other than my own, he would have been doing jumping-jacks all through the mall. We looked for a while at the longboards, but my gut told me to go classic. That meant a skateboard. I flipped through the racks of decks, trying to decide. It would be pretty awesome, I thought. And after all, I can pull off anything I want. I can be a skater chick if I want to. I hefted a deck--this one was green with leaves all over it. I like leaves. 

       "Karly, that's weed." Said Dj.
     
       I dropped the offending deck like that time I threw my knife and grabbed it by the blade. Maybe "Skater chick" was a bit too loose a term for me.
 
       After much deciding, I did go with a skateboard and had one custom built. It's sitting downstairs as I write, the scuffs and dirt a testament to my efforts to not take a faceplant.

       The problem lies not with the skateboard, but with the stereotypes that go with it. Technically speaking, I'm a "good girl." Homeschooled, Christian (boy do I hate that label, but that's a discussion for another time), who doesn't consider "dating" to be something that should happen unless both parties involved are thinking of marriage. I stay out of trouble (sometimes), I don't loiter, and I try to obey my parents. A good girl shouldn't ride the streets on her (granted, incredibly cool) skateboard.

       I hate labels. I hate stereotypes. I hate that because I've live a certain way I feel like people expect me to be a certain way. I'm not a good girl. Nor am I a bad girl. I can ride my skateboard to church. I can enjoy a day at the gun range and put on my pointeshoes and tutu an hour later.

       That skateboard is a testament to my identity. I do not fit into a mold.        

     

Blue-collar Ballerina

Two weeks ago I fell down the stairs. Sadly, the fall was all pain and no style. It was nothing serious, but it kept me from dancing for two weeks.

Two weeks.

That's when I start hating myself. Two weeks is a frustrating number when you don't feel bad but know you need to take a break. But in the midst of all that mental stagnation, I started thinking.

Ballet isn't beautiful up close. It's painful. A dancer often looks worse before she looks better. And its  stinky--really really stinky. My brother can attest to that.

Ballet isn't always fun. Fulfilling, yes. But it's hard to have fun in the midst of aggravating those blisters over and over again. It's hard to feel happy when you are so ludicrously sore that moving hurts. Everywhere. Even in places you didn't know muscles existed.

I think to myself--there has to be a purpose to all this. There has to be a reason I keep returning. Well, even if I don't fully understand it yet, there is a reason. For now, dance is my calling. My goal is to follow God and bring Him glory through it. But I'm still learning how to put in "Him" instead of "I."

Dance isn't as much for fun as it used to be. It's for work. Glorious work that doesn't reflect on me, praise God. The thing is, with God, joy and work fit together like those heart necklaces that say "Best Friends" on them.

Two weeks ago I fell down the stairs. Praise God.

Greater

      In a world of prejudice and spite

In a world of pain and horror

In this place of beauty vs. ugly

Kindness vs. cruelty

man against man

woman against woman

Child against child

Where is the place of rest?

Is it found in the trees, the beautiful trees?

Or maybe in the rushing streams along the forest floor?

Could it be--are peace and rest found--

In laughter of other people,

In the presence of other souls,

In the touch of a loved one?

Turn to the child who says

“Mother I love you”

Turn to the dog who barks in happiness

Turn to the joys of something greater,

Of a presence we can’t ignore.

If the trumpeted cry of the mountains,

The pleading voice of the eagle,

The pounding feet of the deer in autumn

Were not passed by,

Perhaps we’d find the Greater Rest,

The presence we can’t ignore.