Growing up I was always "the artist."
At least, that's how my Dad liked to introduce me.
To this day I am grateful for the approval and satisfaction with which he said it. Somewhere inside of those words I found a sort of identity. Not only was a I THE artist out of his 10 children, he was proud to describe me as such!
But I wonder if he ever knew what else was going on behind those happy, but moody and petulant, eyes.
Yes, I love drawing and painting. I always have. I've also always loved photography. Singing. Cooking. And writing.
But we had no fancy cameras. Joanna was "the musician." Food was a necessity, not an outlet for creativity. And until recently, I didn't even know I had anything about which I could write. So I was the artist. I drew, I colored, I painted, and I drew some more.
Only I had a secret.
All of my life - at least as far back as I can remember - I've longed to dance. Dancing, dancers, dance music, dance shoes, dance floors - it was like a forbidden world. A world which I knew I would never enter.
Why?
Well, first of all, when you have 9 siblings, it's unrealistic both financially and practically, to expect any kind of extra-curricular activity. And second, my parents disapproved of many traditional "dance costumes" along with the physical contact involved in many kinds of dancing.
So I was the artist.
Yes, I took some art lessons at one point in my life. My teacher liked me. I liked painting. I felt it was something I could excel in, and something I enjoyed. But when I would look at other so-called artists, I'd see them pouring their souls out through their paintbrushes. As I went through high school, I attempted a few times to do the same, but as my inability to express myself became more apparent to me, my frustration grew. Unfinished drawings and half-filled canvases only exacerbated the pain I felt as the bottled up emotions refused to flow through my arms and hands, pencils, paints, and brushes.
I started writing in college. It's only taken me a few years to realize that writing is good for my soul. In writing, not only can I express my emotions, but I I can express them in such a way that others - anyone - can understand. It's comforting. At the same time, it leaves me vulnerable. It's exciting. While being so mundane - everyone writes, every day. But for me, it's a way to begin filling in those blank canvases.
But sometimes the words run out.
Sometimes I don't want to feel that vulnerability.
Sometimes I want to do something just for me.
And that's when I dance.
In a way, I've always been a dancer. Though most of my life it was a worship from afar: the most meaningful scenes in my long-time favorite movie Fiddler on the Roof include dancing (think "To Life" and "Chavala"...); the first topic I ever researched included the lives, careers, and partners of famous ballerinas, muscle structure of dancers, and different types of dancing; the first person my younger self ever disliked was the one person I knew who took dance lessons; I don't remember a day when I didn't cut some kind of caper, whether through the dark storage area on the way to my bedroom, across the kitchen from the stove to the fridge, or my last few steps from the light switch into bed.
I am not highly trained in any kind of dancing, though I've tried and "naturally excelled" in countless.
But dancing to me is where I find my soul. Dancing is how I fill up that canvas. Dancing is my word when the words run out. Dancing is how I cry when there are no tears. Dancing is how I smile when my heart is broken. Dancing is how I laugh when no one else will. Dancing is how I express everything and nothingness all at once. Dancing is where I stop thinking and just live. Dancing is what I do for myself. And it is where I am most myself.
So yes, I am an artist. I can sing, I am good at it, and I love it. I can make wonderful-tasting and looking food, I can take breathtaking photos with a low-grade camera, I can sketch astounding portraits and fill canvases with mystical or whimsical scenes.
But when I write is when I am creating a work for the world. I write to be heard, I write to be noticed, I write to reach out and connect with others. Writing is what I do as a tribute to the lives of the countless individuals who have gone through life without a voice. Writing is what I do as a tribute to every individual who is touched by my writing.
But dancing.
Dancing is me. Dancing is what I do to express my soul.
I'm not one to harbor regrets, nor one to live in a fantasy world. But I often wonder how my life would be different if I'd been given the chance to pursue this passion. This, however, always leads to another question: Is it too late?
At least, that's how my Dad liked to introduce me.
To this day I am grateful for the approval and satisfaction with which he said it. Somewhere inside of those words I found a sort of identity. Not only was a I THE artist out of his 10 children, he was proud to describe me as such!
But I wonder if he ever knew what else was going on behind those happy, but moody and petulant, eyes.
Yes, I love drawing and painting. I always have. I've also always loved photography. Singing. Cooking. And writing.
But we had no fancy cameras. Joanna was "the musician." Food was a necessity, not an outlet for creativity. And until recently, I didn't even know I had anything about which I could write. So I was the artist. I drew, I colored, I painted, and I drew some more.
Only I had a secret.
All of my life - at least as far back as I can remember - I've longed to dance. Dancing, dancers, dance music, dance shoes, dance floors - it was like a forbidden world. A world which I knew I would never enter.
Why?
Well, first of all, when you have 9 siblings, it's unrealistic both financially and practically, to expect any kind of extra-curricular activity. And second, my parents disapproved of many traditional "dance costumes" along with the physical contact involved in many kinds of dancing.
So I was the artist.
Yes, I took some art lessons at one point in my life. My teacher liked me. I liked painting. I felt it was something I could excel in, and something I enjoyed. But when I would look at other so-called artists, I'd see them pouring their souls out through their paintbrushes. As I went through high school, I attempted a few times to do the same, but as my inability to express myself became more apparent to me, my frustration grew. Unfinished drawings and half-filled canvases only exacerbated the pain I felt as the bottled up emotions refused to flow through my arms and hands, pencils, paints, and brushes.
I started writing in college. It's only taken me a few years to realize that writing is good for my soul. In writing, not only can I express my emotions, but I I can express them in such a way that others - anyone - can understand. It's comforting. At the same time, it leaves me vulnerable. It's exciting. While being so mundane - everyone writes, every day. But for me, it's a way to begin filling in those blank canvases.
But sometimes the words run out.
Sometimes I don't want to feel that vulnerability.
Sometimes I want to do something just for me.
And that's when I dance.
In a way, I've always been a dancer. Though most of my life it was a worship from afar: the most meaningful scenes in my long-time favorite movie Fiddler on the Roof include dancing (think "To Life" and "Chavala"...); the first topic I ever researched included the lives, careers, and partners of famous ballerinas, muscle structure of dancers, and different types of dancing; the first person my younger self ever disliked was the one person I knew who took dance lessons; I don't remember a day when I didn't cut some kind of caper, whether through the dark storage area on the way to my bedroom, across the kitchen from the stove to the fridge, or my last few steps from the light switch into bed.
I am not highly trained in any kind of dancing, though I've tried and "naturally excelled" in countless.
But dancing to me is where I find my soul. Dancing is how I fill up that canvas. Dancing is my word when the words run out. Dancing is how I cry when there are no tears. Dancing is how I smile when my heart is broken. Dancing is how I laugh when no one else will. Dancing is how I express everything and nothingness all at once. Dancing is where I stop thinking and just live. Dancing is what I do for myself. And it is where I am most myself.
So yes, I am an artist. I can sing, I am good at it, and I love it. I can make wonderful-tasting and looking food, I can take breathtaking photos with a low-grade camera, I can sketch astounding portraits and fill canvases with mystical or whimsical scenes.
But when I write is when I am creating a work for the world. I write to be heard, I write to be noticed, I write to reach out and connect with others. Writing is what I do as a tribute to the lives of the countless individuals who have gone through life without a voice. Writing is what I do as a tribute to every individual who is touched by my writing.
But dancing.
Dancing is me. Dancing is what I do to express my soul.
I'm not one to harbor regrets, nor one to live in a fantasy world. But I often wonder how my life would be different if I'd been given the chance to pursue this passion. This, however, always leads to another question: Is it too late?
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