You Just Don't Get It

You just don't get it, said her eyes into my silence.  My beautiful dark-skinned friend from a South American country had just told me of her troubles getting a Visa, indicated how hard she worked in a restaurant to support her dancing.   I felt for her, so the distrust was painful.  Was it distrust, or was I projecting my own?   

Like most of my young dancer friends, she asks me nothing about my life, as if it is already established, not in question.  If they did ask, they might hear that I am in one of the most turbulent periods of my life.  Approaching 50, no longer postponing my dream of living through my body.  Bringing my body to life in dance class, in performance, even while experiencing pain and limitation that these young ladies cannot even imagine--not even when they are most sore.  

In fact, when they complain about their sore muscles or some weird asymmetry in one hip, for example, I go numb.   Commiseration is necessary currency in the dance community, but I cannot participate.  I give a murmur of sympathy, like a mother, while my insides shriek.    Disconnected then, and so lonely, I think, you just don't get it.

May 2009 

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