Maybe not this EXACT poster.
But I had a dream.
A prima ballerina.
I could see myself on a big stage, dancing the Nutcracker or wearing some beautiful faire costume, bowing to the applause of the audience, with flowers showering the stage from the fans shouting their wild approval.
No one in my family had ever danced formally, in any sense of the word, so the dream obviously came from somewhere deeper, somewhere from the heart of One who had a deep-rooted plan, One who deposited the heart of an artist into my inner being.
At the age of four, I would have an opportunity to study ballet under French tutelege, but my sensitive soul shrank at the intensity that IS the French way of instruction and I begged to withdraw.
I have often asked my mom why she did not just push me to do it anyway, cause surely I would have gotten over it eventually once I was famous, right?!
She just smiles and shakes her head.
Thirty years later, I am finally learning to give the artist in me her rightful place and name. She never disappeared completely, but often provided merely a small, supportive role on the screenplay of my life -- through music, through drama, eventually through dance, and now through writing and photography.
I remember that freckle-faced, little girl.
And her unabashed confidence in the outcome of her dreams.
I embrace what that two year old already knew -- an artistic soul cannot be denied,
I welcome the wisdom from the mother of that four year old - an artistic soul needs space to breathe.
One. two. three.
And. one. two. three.
Let the dreamer dream.
Set the artist free.
May you always dance.
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