Ballet on a bad day

I'm a ballerina, at least on Tuesday evenings. When I slip on my pink ballet slippers and twist my hair into a bun, I stand up a bit straighter, walk with a bit more purpose. I see grace when I observe myself in the mirror that runs the length of the room, but not the kind that demands a delicate ferocity to pirouette without wobbling. Instead, I see a grace that allows me to make mistakes and to try again. The grace of joy that shines when heart and soul accompany the movements of my body and my mind is quiet. 

Today, I almost skipped ballet class. My to-do list was long and I wasn't just tired- I was weary, disappointed that I hadn't yet crossed off tasks that I was supposed to complete over the weekend. I didn't want to focus on finding my balance when I couldn't find my balance outside of the studio, my car still unpacked from my weekend travels and my papers yet unwritten for school. Dinner was microwaved, not quite the labor of love crafted from farm-fresh ingredients prepared with patience if only I had the time.

Still, I went to class. I didn't allow myself to storm off with frustration when overwhelmed with the combinations across the floor. I finished the steps. And tonight, that was enough. I breathed in grace.