Last night I had a dream that my daughter and I were removing mirrors and a ballet bar from the basement of the big white house, the house the bank foreclosed on, the house my husband and I can no longer afford. Moving mirrors and a ballet bar would now require breaking and entering, significant risk, theft. Yet my heart took this journey.
Was my dream prompted by the recent discussion of new ballet shoes? Celebrating the joy of dance, our daughter pursuing self-care in the midst of her adult life as a therapist?
Or, was the dream manifested by my own desperation?
As a young girl, perhaps 4 or 5, my parents enrolled me in dance. Practice time, lessons and rehearsals unrecalled give way to a vivid memory: being on stage as a tiny white-clad bunny behind a tall wooden daisy. The unfinished plywood that makes up the back of the flower and the raw lumber braces secretly supporting the brightly painted facade feel familiar, safe, solid. I am standing on my tip toes, cheeks and chin touching the wood, my face peeking through a hole framed by petals. I can hear my breath, feel my heartbeat. I delight in the anticipation, the promise of performing well.
Music invites movement and as the choreography takes me out from behind my daisy panic arrives, disconnecting my brain from my feet. Failure and shame wash over me. The tiny bunny me freezes for a moment before finding a classmate and attempting to follow her lead. Beyond the bright lights, in the darkness of the auditorium, my heart senses the thing I most fear: the tension of my parents. The promise of doing well is pushed aside by a retching and wretched sense of failure. My eyes find comfort in the floorboards of the stage.
The car ride home is dreadful silence cut by post-performance critique, an already familiar pattern. No voice comes to my defense, not even my own.
Today, nearly five decades later, I am in the midst of dancing with tomorrow, the complexities of seeking a new job while making notes in the margin for how to end well the old one.
In my post-foreclosure exhaustion I struggle to resist resigning prematurely or in anger.
I find myself attempting to find resources for self-care in the event the new job never comes.
Yet, somehow, staying at my current under-resourced, part-time job feels safe. Much of me wants to stay hidden here, behind the daisy, in the familiar comfort of the unfinished lumber.
The opportunity of a full-time job feels brightly-painted and dangerous. Daring to hope feels risky and uncertain.
God is asking me to dance.
Founder of Whispered Hopes Ministry, Renee Wurzer describes herself as a flawed, human and fragile encourager, a speaker and writer of words, a woman seeking to inspire others with courage and hope in Christ. Her joy here on earth is her husband, daughter, son, daughter-in-law and two grandchildren; walking with her faith community Fellowship; writing in her journal and her blog; and editing for friends who want to self-publish. Learn more about Whispered Hopes here.
