Freedom

I throw myself backwards and my breath catches in my throat with the possibility I may have misjudged the moment.  And then the current hits, lifting me from my hips and trailing my legs out behind me.  The sensation is freedom, gorgeous weightless drifting freedom.

Ever since I was a child I have dreamt of flying this way, by simply flinging myself backwards into an air current and moving my limbs in lazy fluid star jumps to keep the momentum going.  Sadly this dream doesn’t visit me as often these days, more often I dream of running or walking effortlessly without concentration. 

And netball, I dream of playing.  There is this beautiful moment when a team of good players syncs.  There is no thought required to move around and anticipate each other before breaking and passing.  It is all instinct and trust.  I dream of that moment and when I take a pass and turn and throw in a graceful and easy movement it seems predestined and choreographed and yet each sequence and play is spontaneous.

One day, I hope that I will not have to be so conscious and aware of the mechanisms of my body and that walking will be effortless.  But for now my brain seems to send jumbled messages to my muscles, and like a game of Chinese whispers they respond in increasingly diluted ways.  So I need to focus with all of my grey matter to try and manipulate every tendon and ligament into behaving in a manner that will at least keep me mostly upright.

Sometimes I am successful and yet I have to always be in the moment, I cannot take a step without be completely switched on.  Perhaps I missed my calling as a project manager, because I have become startlingly efficient at developing a strategic plan for simply moving from one room to the next without injuring myself gravely.

So these days I dream of a different type of freedom.  Freedom from the need to be so aware of my body in every second of the day, freedom to walk for more than a few metres without having to concentrate on my foot falls and freedom to simply run an errand or catch up with a friend without having to develop a twelve page, two hundred point strategic plan to cover all possible outcomes.

I dream of freedom.

Dance

When I was a tiny little girl I learnt that sounds combined into song, were for dance.  I learnt to feel the beat and move to it in simple sequences of motion.  Now that I am older and am too weak to dance I realise something else.  When I was a little girl I learnt what sounds meant.  I became so attune to foot falls as they neared and passed my room that I could tell you simply by the way someone threw their weight, whom it was.  The high pitched tinny false laugh, the forced insincere merriment before a blink changed it into something more sinister. The vibration of a door in its frame as it was forcefully closed the thump of a glass or plate on a bench.    I saw each sound as though it were a colour working its way progressively through warning signals towards a screaming alarm.

When I was a little girl I used to watch my ballet teacher and her words would float past me uselessly, but her movements spoke to me.  I understood each graceful move and how to move my body in mimicry.  There was a freedom in motion, a beauty in how the collection of moves created a moment.  Now that I am older and am too weak to dance I realise something else.  When I was a little girl I learnt what movement meant.  So attune was I to the facial expressions and body language of those around me that I could easily take the temperature of the room simply by observing for one moment.  I could no more ignore pain in someone than I could ignore it in myself. 

When I was a little girl and I heard the uneven heavy footfalls approach and retreat past my door, the slam of a cabinet door, the bang of a plate on the bench, the tight angry voice, I knew what that composition of noises meant.  My heart rate would escalate and all of my senses would heighten, my muscles would tighten, coiled and ready.  I would step quietly into the kitchen and listen for a moment.  Once I understood what the newest accusation or complaint, I would wade in.  I would cause a distraction and pull focus.  It was a different sort of dance.  One I’d unconsciously learnt the steps to.  Every night needed a different combination of steps and flourishes.  I ducked and weaved, spun left then right.  It was exhausting trying to remember the correct order and sometimes I had to repeat part of the routine just to get it right.

When I was a little girl, my heart got broken every day.  The soundtrack of my life was a cacophony of violent noises coupled with jerky stumbling movements.  At night when I retreated to my bed, tears would stream down my face and I would hug my pillow hoping tomorrow would be different.  That the harsh words that rained upon me, untrue and unkind, would stop their battering of my self esteem.  That someone would change the record, put on a different song. 

When I was a little girl, I lost something.  I lost the chance to be a little girl.  Now I look back and realise I was never really a little girl.  I was always a warrior in training.  And in some ways I am thankful, because had I not learnt how to steel myself against the unfairness of life, I might not be able to keep fighting.

When I was a little girl, the universe gave me what I needed.  I learnt the steps to every dance I might ever need to know.  I know the choreography of life.