to whom it may concern

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looking for advice?

please, let me advise.

might I suggest

you prioritize?

or better yet,

just reorganize

your values

your thoughts

your should

and should not’s

your stomach

“in knots”

your “can you please stop?” ‘s

now I’m changing the locks

and cutting mine, too

and all that was once so precious to you

it’s no longer yours

so when your heart pours

do not open my doors

do not beg on my floors

don’t show your heart’s halves

cleaved to have-not’s from have’s

you know, some scars surface

and some stay inside

but next time yours itches

remember, I tried

now leave me my pride

I’m changing the tide

not one tear left to cry

so hear this now:

goodbye.

duck walk

Swan Lake week is here! Swan Lake week is here. Swan Lake week is here.

Exhale.

My legs are doing quite a bit of traveling this spring. From one doctor’s office to the next they hobble, tight and bruised and sore. But alive. So much more capable than they were before.

Last night I slept for 9 hours straight. What used to be a regular respite, a daily practice with the rotating sun, feels foreign now. Still dark bags hang under my eyes, but their load has lightened. Rain clouds crowd my bedroom windows, but their darkness does not feel daunting. I am awake now, and hanging on to this feeling in the hopes that I might be conscious enough to actually make memories this week.

This weekend we had our first 2 run throughs in under 24 hours. And we survived. And I walked home on air. Dreams are coming true.

For tickets to Swan Lake.

puddles of petals

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dripping red bikes so “JUMP”
so I do
into puddles of petals
blasting off nature’s confetti
and reigniting the celebration

I May march through a thin veil of rain
coat open it’s coating me
a darker shade of green
with every step

bloom, branch, blossom
exploding trees, creaky knees
reintroducing the birds to the bees
the green to the leaves
the warmth to the breeze
the you’s to the me’s…

swan dive

Podiatrist, massage therapist, physical therapist, psychotherapist, acupuncturist. It wouldn’t be Swan Lake without a team of -ist‘s piecing me back together each week.

This week I’m making an effort to tap into the senses of Swan Lake. Odette’s fluttering heartbeat echoing in my toes, Odile’s conniving smile spreading across my face. Hour to hour, I’m transforming from light to dark to light, stretching through suspending adagios and whipping into tricky pirouettes, all with that signature flick of the wing. Between bloody toes and bruised feet I’m savoring moments of endorpin-fueled bliss. Those moments where my body gives into the music and my shoulders twist my neck down to see my reflection in that glassy lake, exposing my hyperextended elbows and skewing my line in a way that is finally not only allowed but encouraged. I’m settling into those little releases, finding the “me” in all of this classicism. Letting the score of my favorite ballet ring loudly in my ears and push me to fly higher. I’m treasuring each bead of sweat as it carves lines down my cheeks like swan tears, trophies of the hardest work I have ever done.

Life has this way of lining things up…of putting you on a precipice and letting you lean over the edge. I’m dangling my feet, dipping a toe in. Afraid of darkness, now I’m surprised by this light. The water is warm, my heart is happy, and I think I’m ready to swan dive…so watch me.

for tickets to Swan Lake.

odette’s leitmotif

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I’m laid out on a portable table with physical therapists on either end of my body. Feeling like the Scarecrow in Emerald City as J & J pull, twist, squeeze, and bend my limbs, I let my muscles go limp and my mind wander…

…but my brain can’t help its connection to my bones. My left big toe twitches- or maybe one of the J’s tugs it- and the twinge of pain pulls me into Act II. Odette’s suspension and sadness seems so sweetly suited to me today. Her fragility and strength juxtaposing into a whirl of delicately feathered fortitude. The pinnacle of feeling most beautiful in sadness, now Odette is really singing my swan song.

A feather, like the shadow of a crushed flower, reveals its gentle spine only when it has fallen. With grace matched only by the spring petal, a feather floats on air. Buoyant elegance. Powerful subtlety. Tender sovereignty. This is my thesis. This is Odette’s leitmotif. This is the fine mingling of swan and queen.

heart like a canvas

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“leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are paper mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.”

-Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell

spring wind

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Ah, a sunny Sunday spent spring cleaning before an evening show. Is there any better way to refresh and reset?

Life, man. It seems to wrack me with obstacles while I’m trudging through challenges and just when I think I might break, comforting words from an old favorite sing out, green air bursts through the windows, and I exhale.

I lived awhile without you,
Darn near half my life.
I no longer see our unborn children,
Born to you my unwed wife.
But yesterday I had a vision,
Beneath the tree where we once talked,
Of an old couple burning
Their love letters so their children
Won’t be shocked.

Love calls like the wild birds-
It’s another day.
A Spring wind blew my list of
Things to do…away.

My friends are gettin older,
So I guess I must be too.
Without their loving kindness,
I don’t know what I’d do.
Oh the wine bottle’s half empty-
The money’s all spent.
And we’re a cross between our parents
And hippies in a tent.

In a mucked up lovely river,
I cast my little fly.
I look at that river and smell it
And it makes me wanna cry.
Oh to clean our dirty planet,
Now there’s a noble wish,
And I’m puttin my shoulder to the wheel
’cause I wanna catch some fish.

-Jack Johnson, Spring Wind