ethoughts weekly- Issue 164

June 3, 2007

Dancing in the River of Love

As my daughter twirled, jumped, and swirled her way through her short number of her first ballet recital, I got to experience bursts of pure joy. I didn’t joy in her perfect job. She didn’t do that, and I really don’t’ care about that at all. I didn’t have thrills that she was perfectly groomed, or had the perfect hair. She actually needed a bath, her dress straps didn’t crisscross properly, and I pulled her hair up at the last second. It was a sheer miracle I remembered a hairbrush, which I forgot at dress rehearsal completely. This is apparently a cardinal sin. I’m the furthest thing from a “stage mom” that you can get. I’m lucky if she doesn’t have remnants of super in her curls, let alone whether her make up is on properly. I never even dreamed of applying cosmetics to her little face, until I received our recital instruction sheet, where I saw it mentioned, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. She’s four, for goodness sake.

No, my joy was simply seeing my girl trying her best at something she had practiced for a long time. It was important to her. She felt special. She also felt very fancy in her pink puffy dress. And she was! And as she bounced up there with the other girls, and was easily the smallest by about 3 or 4 inches, she seemed to be the most beautiful one. She seemed to be the only one there. The others faded to the background, and her pretty, perfect, little face, with that look of mixed concentration, timidity, and guarded enthusiasm, was all I could see. That's my Ellie! I thought.

The program was filled with a great many dance numbers. Many young, older girls, and even adult women were included in the acts. There were many girls dancing who had very little dance education or natural talent. There were girls who danced were underweight, and a good number seemed overweight. The young ones could get by on cuteness alone. They could do no wrong. After about age eight or nine, it seems things change. As you get older, it seems natural to start to make judgments. You need to have something besides cuteness, besides that goes away. True good looks, talent, poise, and charm at that point are sort of expected, in this unspoken kind of way, no one likes to really admit. It seems so nasty, but it's the truth. I found myself making subtle, or not so subtle, judgments, even though I didn’t want to do it, or I felt bad about it. When one is fifteen years old and weighs 200 lbs, twirling in a small glittery gold dance outfit, in front of 600 people when you appear to be suffering from a middle ear infection, may not be the wisest choice in extra-curricular activities. Perhaps a parent should shepherd a child toward painting, or piano. I couldn't help it when this though crossed my mind, for instance.

I thought about the quandary of wanting to be encouraging to a child, but also wanting to spare them embarrassment and ridicule. You can’t be a dream crusher, but you want to protect your child. How do you do it? And then I thought, it’s very possible each one of those girls is the apple of their parents’ eye too, just like my girl is for me. Maybe those parents don’t notice what is out of place, they just know their daughter is really enjoying herself, and they are truly happy for her. Maybe they are simply really proud of her. I think sometimes we make loving people about us, about our image, and what loving someone might mean for us. What does loving this person reflect about me? Some part of our brain thinks. Of course, that not very pure loving, but sometimes we do it.

I’m finding how amazing it is to see people recreated when they know they are truly loved. I’ve been able to personally witness transformation right before my eyes. Walls come down, chains fall off, people open up like they never have, friendships bud, and it reminds me evermore that the power of love is far more potent than we understand or utilize.

I got this picture in my head today about love, and I'll let it settle on you. Love is like a stream in the hot summer. You can, if you choose, jump into the lively stream, and splash it onto others who are on the banks. Some people get wet and angry. They stomp away because they don’t understand, and they don’t like to be wet. Some enjoy the splash and feel refreshed. Some are so soothed, or changed, they jump in the water too, and splash you back-- and it’s a wonderful party at the river of Love and Life.

I think I was splashed by my daughter, at her ballet recital. I was enveloped in the wonderfulness of enjoying my daughter on her special night, for no other reason than that she is mine. It was quite a blessing. It happened by accident, but I can splash someone with love on purpose. Maybe this week you and I can both splash someone with love. (You can send this to someone for starters, and tell them you love them.) What ever you do, have a splishy-splashy week.

Lisa DeLay

©2007