When The Dancer Becomes The Dance and Garth Brooks
Without Prejudice
My grand daughter, Georgia Lauren
The Dancer
She twirls into a room, all grace and style and movement she knows nothing but the dance, feels the music in her head and the smoothness of young limbs. She dances to her own beat, at one with the dance. Gone is pain, gone is stillness, just the dance matters.
No one could foresee Georgia being a ballet dancer when a tiny toddler. Her knees were turned in causing a sway back and what we called her ducks bottom. She had a chubby little bum that stuck out and made her waddle like a fat little duckling chick. She was called lamb chop by her adoring Dad. A funny cheeky bundle.
And in the photo she is 12. Long limbs stretched to the heavens. An impossible pose of leg in the air, a sideways split that she can do without effort.
When I first saw her on stage I was struck with her presence. At that time she was not number one soloist but there was something mesmerising about her. She stood out because of her delight at just being on the stage, conveying her love of what she was doing. She didn't need to be told to "smile up big" , her smile lit her up, a delight and confidence from within.
A male friend came up to my Son In Law and said,
"Your oldest daughter should be a model, but your youngest daughter has to dance, it would be a crime for her not to "
That year she was picked for solo attention and the hard work began. She never grew tired, she never complained about hours of rehearsal and classes.
Dance came as a talent and discipline became second nature. She changed her diet to lean and green, she spent hours practising at home. There was no just Georgia Lauren anymore, there was a principal dancer, jazz, contemporary, ballet, and "block shoes". Straps around the ankles of pink ribbon bound to her legs.
She danced everywhere, at any time, her long limbs elongated by the stretched muscles of years. She really should have been dancing as a young child the teachers said. Most ballet dancers begin very young so that forming muscles can become elongated. But she started late and gave it up for a year and started again and that time she took to it with a vengeance.
I see her now in my minds eye, endlessly reaching with arms outstretched to her master, the Dance. It's her muse, her passion, her love. Her life. I can hear the creak of dusted floorboard and leather shoes as she glides, her rapture unheard, it's only in her head. Every sinew stretched seamlessly, every nerve, vein, pumping her message to herself and the world.
I'm glad she has it, I am glad she has the talent and more importantly the drive, because without blood, sweat, pain and tears she would just be another little girl whose parents can afford to send her to dance class.
It's in her, in her bones, just the same as my writing is in me.
My Dad had the music. I swear if you cut his finger, music notes would have flown out. Music was his muse, lover, friend, whore, life. If you pricked my finger words would flow instead of blood.
I love that my Grand daughter has the dance.
And As Garth Brooks sings the song The Dance in the background as I write this, I revel in the words, my Dad would have loved.
" I could have missed the pain, but I'd had to miss The Dance"
Beautifully said.
Love Janette
My dad and his beloved guitar
The Writer
The Dancer
She twirls into a room, all grace and style and movement she knows nothing but the dance, feels the music in her head and the smoothness of young limbs. She dances to her own beat, at one with the dance. Gone is pain, gone is stillness, just the dance matters.
No one could foresee Georgia being a ballet dancer when a tiny toddler. Her knees were turned in causing a sway back and what we called her ducks bottom. She had a chubby little bum that stuck out and made her waddle like a fat little duckling chick. She was called lamb chop by her adoring Dad. A funny cheeky bundle.
And in the photo she is 12. Long limbs stretched to the heavens. An impossible pose of leg in the air, a sideways split that she can do without effort.
When I first saw her on stage I was struck with her presence. At that time she was not number one soloist but there was something mesmerising about her. She stood out because of her delight at just being on the stage, conveying her love of what she was doing. She didn't need to be told to "smile up big" , her smile lit her up, a delight and confidence from within.
A male friend came up to my Son In Law and said,
"Your oldest daughter should be a model, but your youngest daughter has to dance, it would be a crime for her not to "
That year she was picked for solo attention and the hard work began. She never grew tired, she never complained about hours of rehearsal and classes.
Dance came as a talent and discipline became second nature. She changed her diet to lean and green, she spent hours practising at home. There was no just Georgia Lauren anymore, there was a principal dancer, jazz, contemporary, ballet, and "block shoes". Straps around the ankles of pink ribbon bound to her legs.
She danced everywhere, at any time, her long limbs elongated by the stretched muscles of years. She really should have been dancing as a young child the teachers said. Most ballet dancers begin very young so that forming muscles can become elongated. But she started late and gave it up for a year and started again and that time she took to it with a vengeance.
I see her now in my minds eye, endlessly reaching with arms outstretched to her master, the Dance. It's her muse, her passion, her love. Her life. I can hear the creak of dusted floorboard and leather shoes as she glides, her rapture unheard, it's only in her head. Every sinew stretched seamlessly, every nerve, vein, pumping her message to herself and the world.
I'm glad she has it, I am glad she has the talent and more importantly the drive, because without blood, sweat, pain and tears she would just be another little girl whose parents can afford to send her to dance class.
It's in her, in her bones, just the same as my writing is in me.
My Dad had the music. I swear if you cut his finger, music notes would have flown out. Music was his muse, lover, friend, whore, life. If you pricked my finger words would flow instead of blood.
I love that my Grand daughter has the dance.
And As Garth Brooks sings the song The Dance in the background as I write this, I revel in the words, my Dad would have loved.
" I could have missed the pain, but I'd had to miss The Dance"
Beautifully said.
Love Janette
