Ode to Pointe Shoes

They hang on a hook in my small closet, which ordinarily has no space for sentimentality. Dancers often refer to old pointe shoes as “dead,” a quirk that has transcended every city, every state, every country where I’ve danced: “My shoes are dead.” And my pointe...
Giving Like a Child

Giving Like a Child

“How was the concert?” I asked my two eldest children as they trooped through the door in the wee hours of the morning. “I loved it!” my 14-year-old enthused. “And now I need to make $40 a month, because I signed up to sponsor a little boy in Bangladesh for $40 a...

Stages of Anxiety

The day I was to dance at an open-air concert in Times Square I woke before the alarm, as is my custom, and slid out of bed into the quiet dark. Instantly, I knew something was wrong: The room was spinning. Or was I? Putting out my hand to steady myself, I couldn’t...

The Weight of Silence

The ordinary sounds of Sunday morning help mask some of my son’s repetitive outbursts, but the quiet of the sermon is a struggle. Admittedly, even typically developing 8-year-old boys struggle with the sermon. It’s just more of an issue for my child. When...

Living With Terror

My instinct is to stay in bed, smother fear with a pillow, cultivate the illusion of safety beneath the warmth of my duvet. Waking to the news of yet another shooting, stabbing, natural disaster, I find myself echoing Francis Schaeffer: How should we then live? I...