the dancing gene

It must be something I unknowingly handed down…a dancing gene that I’d suppressed starting in junior high when our little school ‘dances’ in the gymnasium left my usually athletically confident self, a little unsure…then more unsure. Then absolutely sure that I had no rhythm and could not dance to save my life. But before all that, I had danced. There was ritual to it, and tradition. Each year on the night our Christmas tree was lit and decorated and standing very tall in the living room (my mom was a fan of old-growth tree harvest), my sister and I would dress up in all the flowy, gauzy, poofyness we could find, and we would dance like the most graceful of ballerinas beneath the light of the tree. It became our tradition, something that welcomed in that Christmas-y feeling, that made us feel that the world was a slightly more magical place during the month of December, that feeling that is so strong when you’re a kid. Last night while I was making dinner and simultaneously rocking Aven on my hip, listening to NPR, and drinking a glass of wine (a bit in my own world, I will admit), Amelia dug into her dress-up trunk, decked herself out in purple velvet and a crown and began dancing all by herself in the living room beneath the light of the Christmas tree. My girl has the dancing gene! I put on some Mozart, grabbed a few long, flowy scarves, and the three of us danced back and forth across the living room with all the grace, wonder, and joy that I remember, that I thought I had lost as I left childhood.