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.