She stands center stage, alone in the spotlight waiting for the music to begin. I see her slightly exhale, and know she is picturing her dance in her mind, picturing herself doing her very best. Leaping higher than ever before. Turning with discipline and perfection.

The emcee announces her by name, my baby. My girl. The name I chose for her when she was still inside me.

She was annoyed with me when she went on stage, because I was fussing with her hair, applying another coat of lipstick, making sure her costume is perfect. It is. She is. She is beautiful, inside and out. But when she dances she is heavenly. She is grace.

The music begins. The first note hits the air, and she still stands motionless, counting, waiting. Holding the pose that shows her beautiful lines, her perfectly styled hair, and the makeup applied with a heavy hand for stage lighting. With an almost imperceptible change, she shifts her focus from high out into the room, to directly at the judges she and begins to move.

Not juse moving, dancing.

She is dancing.

She dances as she breathes, seemingly without effort.

Turn.

Leap.

Float.

Land.

Pointed toes. Tight muscles. But still, appearing effortless. Years of training, hours of dedication, and countless days spent working to perfect each and every move and technique. Always, always striving to improve.

I hold my breath. I can’t take my eyes off of her. If I look away she may fall. Maybe she can feel my eyes on her from the stage. Maybe she knows I am mentally supporting her, willing her to do her best. I pray she lands safely. I pray she feels the joy she gets from dancing and lets it show through her motions. I pray she does her best. I pray she comes off stage filled with energy and adrenaline and that feeling of knowing she did her very best.

I pray the judges see her passion, her talent, and her joy.

As she moves, I move, but only in my mind. My body will not perform the movements that hers will.  Probably would not have been able to move the way she does even when I was young, as she is now, instead of old, like I am now. In my mind I know how to do the perfect pirouette, how to execute the beautiful leap turn that she just executed as she traveled across the stage, perfectly in time with the music. I’ve heard the instruction, I know why she points her toes, why her knees are tight, and her legs are straight. In my mind I can move like she does. Effortlessly. Floating across the stage as though I have wings.

Her dance makes you feel the lyrics the songwriter intended you to feel when they wrote the song.  She’s the happiest of girls, but the song is about strife, and regret, and so she makes you feel those emotions as she dances. You are pulled into her world, feeling every regret she’s ever had in her short life, but more importantly reflecting on every regret you’ve ever had in your much longer life.

Albert Einstein said, “Dancers are the athletes of God”, and only a dancer, or someone who loves a dancer will truly understand. Beneath those long, lean lines and graceful a la seconde turns, but only those close to the dancer will know the hours spent strengthening core muscles that are required to stand on one leg, while turning, in time to the music. One count, two, three, four, five and six, directly into the perfect triple pirouette. That is athleticism. That is strength, and discipline.

Dancers are the athletes of God. She is the movement in my soul. Her grace, her beauty, her dance, fill me to overflowing with joy and pride.

In those two and a half minutes all the hours spent waiting for her to come out of the studio, all those miles driven to class, and technique, and workshops is worthwhile. All the extra sacrifice and saving to pay for the lessons is abundantly worth it. I know I will do it again.

Now the music ends, hitting that last bittersweet note, lingering in the auditorium as everyone watching is as breathless as I am. I now sit silently, still not breathing, with tears on my lashes. Tears of joy. Tears of happiness. Tears of pride.

A swift nod to the judges, a slight curtsy to the crowd and she exits the stage. I can’t get out of my seat fast enough. I try not to run over other spectators as they mingle around the auditorium, but I need to get to her. I cannot wait to hug her, to tell her I’m so proud! To see her beaming with pride in herself as she greets her teacher to hear the words “great job” from the woman she most idolizes in dance.

Glistening slightly with sweat, and also from glitter (it is dance, after all) she is still moving. The adrenaline has kicked in. She can’t stop moving, smiling, laughing.

But now the hard part comes, now we sit and wait for the judges’ scores to be tallied, for the trophies to be passed out and the comments to be received.  Did they see what I saw? Were they moved? Will she receive a high score?

Will she be rewarded?

Either way she has moved me, yet again, with her talent, and her passion and I can’t wait until she does it again.