This. Is. It. I am waiting backstage with the other girls in my group for our cue to begin the performance. For a three minute dance, we have spent months and months of vigorous work and exhaustion preparing. The other dancers and I finally receive the signal and we step out onto the stage.
I began dancing when I was two-years-old. I always had the sudden urge to dance the moment music flowed into my ears. I would leap around in the backyard on mellow summer days and twirl through the aisles of the grocery store. In fact, my parents always told me that I learned to dance before I could walk. Finally, they enrolled me into dance classes. I practically became instilled with the constant, "…5,6,7,8" and the demanding words of my dance teachers, "Chin up, thumbs tucked, straight legs, elbows lifted, shoulders down, pointed feet." But for me, dancing was not just about attending classes and applying corrections. During my first recital when I was three, I discovered that dancing was something more. I remember thinking it had all happened too fast - the choreography, the costume fittings, the rehearsals, and finally the performance. I even asked my parents if I could do the dance again. After the recital, ecstatic feelings poured out of me. I had realized that the stage was the only place in the world where I truly belonged.
Now we stand on the hardwood floor stage surrounded by the red velvet curtains on either side. I am thankful that the lights are dimmed when we are taking our positions. They would otherwise illuminate the anxiety that I always feel before beginning a performance, as if it isn't already apparent in my futile attempts to remain calm. I feel the familiar feeling of my nerves being tickled as I think to myself again, This. Is. It. The music begins; tunes of blissful piano melodies permeate the room. With my every movement, the light above competes with me as it too dances exuberantly and bounces off the jewels embedded within our fluttering skirts.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of my fellow dancers. As they move around the stage, they emanate an entrancing whirlwind of color like a carousel does when its hues slowly blend. My body and those of the other dancers are bent ever so gracefully; our movements mirror each other's perfectly. It is then that I become one with the music. It feels as if it is coming from me, originating from the thumping beat of my heart. I almost haven't even noticed the audience of 700 people until their thundering applause reverberates through the walls.
I often wonder if dancing is worth all the physical discipline, the self-doubt, and the mental focus. But then I am reminded that dancing is my passion, my escape when words cannot express my emotions. I am reminded of the euphoria I experience on stage where I have no limits, the sole place that I feel alive.
I am reminded that this is my home.