Kicks

I have that novelty now, and it’s fresh and giddy, like when babies discover their feet. I have rediscovered my feet, now that I can bring my big toe right up to my eye.

Of late, I started “going” to this “yoga class” online because the teacher was someone I understood to be one of those people who are honestly working things out and trying to be kinder and more creative all the time. Though I didn’t really know her, this was clear from her online presence.

She pushed us.

She didn’t push us to be something we were not, but she pushed us to try just a little more.

So I leaned, and pulled myself up, and occasionally cursed her, which is fine because I am muted.

Now, when I dance around my apartment, or goof off, physically, I can balance on one leg and kick, or turn, or bow. And it feels good. I’ve always enjoyed moving my body to express myself, dancing, and it’s like I have a new instrument. I’ve always felt, inside, that my kicks were very high and dramatic and gorgeous, and in the mirror, they were always more like leg shrugs.

The kick I had inside me now can be expressed.

Within class, I still totter and fall from balance poses, but under my own power, in the kitchen, when I want to lean over, way over, and unfurl my leg, I can. And I do.

This is the kick I thought I had, when my sister and I danced around our living room, using couches as barres, to “Down at the Sunset Grill.” When we danced to the “Nutcracker.”

Inside, I was a Rockette. I was always a Rockette.

Image: “He wakes up kicking,” Goya, 1819-23.

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