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...

Normal to Me

In my room sits an empty cardboard box that my middle son gave me for Mother’s Day. “I don’t understand why you have pillows on your bed that you don’t use for sleeping,” he said. “But I thought I would make you a place to keep them at night.” This box is, in so many...