“Push down to go up into your arabesque,” Sylvia says.
Instantly, I am hit with the universal truth that I’ve been denying.
You need strong roots to stand against the elements of nature,
it’s obvious, always in my face, yet
my eyes have been avoiding this.
I listen to her words and translate it to my body,
press the ball of my foot into the wooden floor,
raise my heel and float my other leg into the air,
pointed foot, arms in an L-shape–also floating.
I am light as a feather, strong as a rock.
I am solid, it lasts for a brief instant, but i am solid.
My roots are strong and I stand against wind.
“You just want to change everything, don’t you,” L says.
“Yes,” I vomit without thinking, but it lingers.
why do I want to change everything before even pushing down to grow high?
why can’t I let my roots fit into the soil before pulling them free to replant,
dive into the next flashy idea?
I shift my weight to the balls of my feet and rise.
firm on my feet, shaky at the top,
I let it settle: I’m growing roots and the branches and flowers and leaves
they’ll come, they’ll come, they’ll come.
I push down to go up and my arabesque feels right.
