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.
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