I take an adult dance class on Tuesday evenings. We follow a ballet class of five and six year olds all in pink leotards, white tights, high buns with straggly pieces. They leap and prance out of the class and rush into the waiting arms of the Mom or Dad who has come to get them. There are probably six of them. Add their ages together and you would not even reach forty years combined. Take two and a bit of us adults and you would hit one hundred easy. We are old. And not all that talented. But we make up for it with our earnest effort, our absolute enthusiasm and our ability to cheerlead for each other.

We attend these classes for a variety of reasons. Many of us have children who belong to the studio and we adore the instructor almost as deeply as our children love her. We wanted in on the fun! It’s also exercise. And a mental workout. Inexpensive therapy. Risk taking. A source of entertainment.

Each week our teacher demonstrates a few steps and then turns around to look at us. She takes in our confusion and slows it all down to take us through it count by count. Often, she starts with the feet and then adds the arms in later. Sometimes, we kind of get the arms or she sees enough potential that she believes that we might. Other times, she just tells us “freedom arms!” Let the music and the steps inform you. Let your arms move and swing in your own way.

She counts us though.

1 and 2. 3, 4. 5, 6 and 7 and 8.

She makes up hilarious sounds to match the movement.

5, 6, boom, boom cha.

We giggle. We shake our heads. We muddle through. She occasionally cheers, “Yes! You’re getting it!” Sometimes she pushes, “Give me something. Let me see it in your faces. Look up!”

I love Tuesday nights.

Last week, I taught some of my students some dance steps I had learned the night before. We had gone outside for a walk in the afternoon. The sun was shining. We weren’t going to go back in anytime soon. I demonstrated and a few girls were captivated. I instantly saw in them why I go to dance every week. The reckless. The happy. The joy of movement.

They drew dance paths with sidewalk chalk. The practiced again and again. They taught other kids. A few repeated steps with some bounces and jumps was a gift they could keep on giving.

The air filled up around us like a happiness bubble one of us drew on the pavement.

These girls taught me with their giggly leaps down the fluorescent pink chalk lines that it’s not about what you look like, it’s about how you feel.

When the dancing takes over, when you are moving and smiling and sailing through space. When you dance with your friends. When there is no judgement.

Freedom arms!

I walk by my everyday people each morning. I know their stories well. Not really. Really, I have completely made them up. Yet, I mostly believe them. When I tell them to myself so often, my truth is stronger than the actual one I do not know.

There is the older man all in brown. Brown pants. Brown coat. Brown hat. He is gentle and smiley. He moves quietly and sure footed. If he walked in the forest, his footsteps wouldn’t make a sound. He always says good morning and returns my smile. I am sure he is a man of routine. His shoes have an exact spot on a rack. He never kicks them off. He walks at the same time, shops at the same time, rests at the same time. His wife is tired. She rarely joins him but they share morning coffee every day, each sipping and looking elsewhere. When he walks, he thinks of what must be done. Sometimes, he surprises himself and remembers things he thought he had forgotten. His route is long. His morning walk takes time. He never misses a day.

There is the gangly boy. A teenager actually. He has two siblings. An older brother, a more serious and wiry version of him. A younger sister, energetic and bouncy, clearly a girl in a boy’s house. Most concerned about being seen, being heard, not missing anything. Sometimes these siblings walk together. There is easy banter and comfortable silence. Usually, though, my boy is alone. He gives me sideways smiles, acknowledgement that he sees me often. I wonder about his school day. I am sure his mind is often elsewhere – happy daydreams, not teenage melancholy. I think about his parents. I am convinced that their mornings are full of bustle and busy. My boy looks happy to be walking in his own space, in the big world, with no rush around him that he needs to acknowledge. He looks like he knows the freedom a simple walk alone affords him. I imagine his Mom and Dad, lugging overstuffed bags, spilling full travel mugs of coffee, arguing over who remembered and who forgot the daily things that must be attended to. Their son, meanwhile, lopes along, quite carefree, open to a new day.

There is the lady in the pink raincoat. It’s Vancouver. She wears it often. Her boots are practical. She always has an umbrella even if it just hints of rain. I don’t really think about where she is going or what she might do there. Her pace is determined but she carries with her an aura of where she has been. She lives in an apartment she has had for years. It is plain and dull on the outside. Inside it is tiny and hers. There are windows of succulents. Shelves full of books. A kitchen full of tea and spices and bowls of oranges. She has favourite chairs at different times of day. She sits in the kitchen in the morning, drinking hot tea and making lists. Her evenings are spent curled up on her couch reading, thinking, studying. If she is home in the day, she sits in her window and watches people walk by, noticing their movements more than their faces. This is not her forever city. She is here to get something done. Soon, she will return to a place full of sisters and neighbours and friends. When she walks down the street there, she will always say hello.

These are my everyday people. I know who they might be.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

I write in threes and repeats, choosing rhythm over rules.

I overuse fragments. Throw dashes where I pause.

Certain words weave their way in often: celebrate, honour, joy, quiet. These are the truths I want to capture.

I write like I am puddle jumping down a steep hill.

Leap. Leap. Step, step, step. Pause. Consider. Leap.

I write to hint at what I can’t always say. Not publicly. Not really. Not with full abandon.

I write to process the things that follow me around like an irritating pixie. Poking me. Waking me up. Nibbling at my toes saying, “Pay attention to me.”

I write to remember what I might try to forget.

I write to bring tears that will not come.

I write to be here.

I write in threes and repeats.

I write.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.