Poetry in Motion

“Your daughter is a poet,” a new acquaintance told me yesterday.  I wasn’t sure how to respond.  My thirty-six-year-old daughter was creative and precise, a student and teacher of the fine and deep and reverent, and an agile dancer.  But I didn’t necessarily think of her as a poet.  “She writes poetry for me,” the woman added knowingly. 

I stood in a corner with this woman and two others who, with my daughter, collectively shaped an intimate book club.  Their favorite project to date has been reading Milton’s Paradise Lost aloud and discussing it.  I could trust that they knew each other very well – that these three had experienced the poet in my grown-up child.

We chatted in a unique context, jointly nibbling refreshments following my daughter’s inspiring ballet performance.  This was the first time for her to dance on stage since her teen years, a memorial event honoring an adult co-dancer who passed away some months ago in the dance studio during class. 

“That was your best dancing, Suzy!” the teacher said at the end of the tango that fateful day.

“Roses to everyone!” Suzy responded exuberantly, gesturing into the air as if to throw a bouquet.  Then she collapsed on the floor with a massive heart attack.  Those were her final words.

Swarming emotions had held me captive during the memorial ballet featuring movements of adagio, waltz, and allegro, some of Suzy’s favorites.  My daughter’s grace and poise bubbled over from her own deep wells with a touch of signature coquettishness: ethereal rejoicing couched in grounded reality. I wept inwardly with gratitude and awe as she drew me into the ebb and flow of her swanlike alignment and carriage, and yes, the poised poetry of her body motivated by something delicate yet strong, light and quick but powerful.

It was a compelling celebration of life.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from her, the supple one who seemed to float amidst the other dancers on wings. Her pastel pink gown with shirred bodice alternately clung to her body and took flight in response to her deft movements. I was transformed by her charm.  Each fleeting second left a lasting mark.

Sitting near other family members,  I sensed completeness, as if my passion for ballet had come full circle.  This is what has always drawn me to classical dance, I thought: tactful elegance and graceful fluidity that speak as loud as words, or even louder. 

And so today I review yesterday’s experience with gratitude for my daughter's maturity – for her seasoned poetry in motion that celebrated the gift of life in a way that crept beneath my skin. 

She is my dancer.  My poet.  My daughter.