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.
