At first I think I’m seeing things that aren’t there. A tiny ballerina dressed in a white lace tutu and pink tights, lightly sails back and forth across the Sedona courtyard from where I sit with my glass of wine.
A series of archways line the patio, decked with climbing vines and brilliant blooms. The walks are laid with red saltillo tiles made in Mexico.
There she is again. She dances out from behind the wall and gracefully leaps into the air in a beautiful arabesque. This time the tutu and tights are replaced by pink and green shorts and a white tee shirt. But as she pirouettes on her toes, I actually see the great ballerina she imagines herself to be.
The archways are her stage, and she is so engrossed in the music she hears in her head, she doesn’t see me. Soaring and dipping and spinning gracefully, her tiny body reminds me of a delicate humming bird moving in and out of the opening in the wall, framed by yellow and purple flowers all around. I almost hear the music myself.
Then she finishes, just as the sun slips down below the wall. I’m so tempted to applaud, but instead sit quietly, hoping she won’t see me. After a moment she turns and bows to me, a graceful one with her head dipped very low. And as she straightens up, she looks directly at me.
Caught in the act of spying, I raise my wine glass, offering her a silent toast. A brilliant smile lights up her little face and grows into a soft glow that fills the entire patio. And then she is gone, and the stage is empty.
JHG Journal 10/15
