Last week I dreamed I could dance. I mean, really dance. I can’t remember exactly where I was in the dream, what I was wearing, or who was watching, only that I was throwing down some bad-ass extended bulerĺas with the kind of ease, skill and style of which I can only … well … dream.
I’m hoping it’s a premonition, rather than a dream …
Even if it turns out I’m a little psychic, I’m certain I don’t have any magical powers. There’s no spell or potion that will transform me into the dream dancer I hope to become. No, that requires good, old-fashioned, foot-stomping, joint-pounding, muscle-straining hard work. The kind of work I should be putting in before our next show in March.
Over the next five months, I’ll be conquering a whole new list of challenges — bata choreography, a new solo piece, as well as a few other methods and goals that I can’t (or won’t) verbalize. Hey, I’ve gotta have some secrets! Kidding. It’s not so much about keeping secrets as it is about keeping bits of one’s mind and heart private. Anyway, I don’t even know how explain some of the things that go on in my head. Trust me, it’s better this way.
But fear not: The wordy flamenca you know and love will still be sharing silly anecdotes, embarrassing practice videos, random poetry and the like. I do love that you’re part of my adventure, part of my dream.
Married to the Dance 