Flora and the Flamingo/Molly Idle: Reflections

Flora and the Flamingo, a 2013 Caldecott Honor Book by Molly Idle (Chronicle Books), arrived at my home yesterday—and how happy was I to see it. Like all truly outstanding picture books, this story about a flouncy girl and an elegant bird needs no words. On bright expanses of white, these two mostly pinkish creatures posture and pose, pursue and retreat, provoke and mimic—which is to say, they forge a friendship.

The flamingo stands on a single webbed foot. Flora does too. The flamingo rearranges its skinny leg. Flora flexes her own rather less skinny one. The flamingo stretches its wings, and look, Flora has wings as well. But soon things get complicated—the flamingo so happy to be looked at, so unto itself, that Flora (trying too hard to emulate the bird's strutting configurations) takes a tumble. Feelings get hurt. The flamingo turns, Flora turns. The you-do-as-I-do changes to a let-us-do-together. The two dance now, face to face.

What is remarkable about this book is how emotional it all becomes. How everything is said without the expenditure of a single letter. But also: how much like dance this really does become—graceful, exuberant, joyous, each character bigger by far within the wingspan of the other.

A better Beth would take this book to the nearest child as a gift. But I'm just going to have to buy a copy for the next little one in my life (and I know precisely who that is). I'm keeping this copy for me, for when I want to be reminded of the power of friendship and the necessary glory of dance.

For those who wonder, that is Scott Lazarov and Magdalena Piekarz, as I photographed them back in 2009 at DanceSport Academy in Ardmore.

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Sam Strike of Main Line Media News Catches Up with Me at Chanticleer

Sam Strike, one of my very favorite local reporters, caught up with me and Magdalena Piekarz during our walk through Chanticleer last Thursday. Here's what I had to say.

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As the sun rises on this day...

... I am grateful to Amy Robinson, for an email exchange she had with Ramon Renteria of El Paso Times, and I am grateful to Ramon himself, for last evening's conversation. I am grateful to Janet and her work with children with special needs in Anapra. I am grateful to Anna, for the crystal amethyst, the Amazonia, and words of calm; to my brother and his beautiful family, for the begonias I will on this day plant; to Mario, for something very special from Paris; to my sister and her kids (my nieces and nephew!) for their crazy card; to Sherry, for her amazingly loving email; to my dad, with whom I spent time yesterday; to my beloved Aunt Carol and Bill's dear Aunt Adela; to Soup for the 100th birthday card (seriously); to Amy Rennert, for always remembering; to Reiko, for so much; to Kate, for her note; to Ivy for being Ivy, to Jean, who yesterday led me around the dance floor even though I can still barely breathe; to Amy Riley for everything she does; to Magdalena Piekarz, who will spend this morning with me at Chanticleer garden; to my son for his midnight text message; and to my husband, who has promised to learn to cook and to share what he has learned with me, in a once-each week extravaganza.

I am grateful for sun—its rising and its setting.

I am grateful for all of you.

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Kim Yu-na, Mao Asada, and Joannie Rochette: What they taught us

Last night, so many of us waited for the final flight of Olympic skaters to perform, and when they entered the ice, I held my breath. So much is at stake, always, for these athletes—for anyone who has named a dream and held to it.

I don't need to report the scores; they're known. Kim Ya-na's record-breaking, cobalt blue performance. Mao Asada's steely, silver triple axels. The sweeping extensions of bronze-medalist Joannie Rochette over elastic knees. And let's not forget the American, 16-year-old Mirai Nagasu, who skated last and flawlessly in the wake of some of the most emotional performances the Olympics has ever seen. We were taught, by these young women, that it is possible to be exquisitely brave or simply exquisite, when the entire world is watching. We were reminded that sometimes power and grace are a single thing.

An arm uplifted is a hand extended. A sideways glance is a dream.

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House of Dance: A Paperback Contest

In a few short weeks, House of Dance, my second novel for young adults, will be out as a paperback with a slightly revamped cover.

Those of you who know me a little know this: I love the freedom that dance affords me—the freedom to be my somewhat zany self, the freedom from the mind-bend of at-the-desk problem solving, the freedom of movement. House of Dance, which received a number of starred reviews and has begun to show up on state lists, takes place in a version of Dancesport Academy of Ardmore, PA, where I continue to learn to dance with the likes of Scott Lazarov, Jean Paulovich, John Larson, Aideen O'Malley, Magda Piekarz, Tim Jones, Cristina Rodrighes, and Tirsa Rivas, and among so many friends. I made this "trailer" for the the book with footage that I shot at the studio and around town.

In any case, the point is: I'm having a paperback contest. Those of you interested in receiving a signed copy of the paperback should leave, in the comment box, your definition of what dance is. Two winners will be selected from among the participants, and the two winning definitions will be featured on my blog.

Please leave your comments by March 5th.

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In the end, what does it mean?

The thing about making yourself vulnerable in a discipline you'll never own is that you don't go out and do it alone. When you dance, for example, before a few hundred people on a Sunday afternoon on a stage, it's not the steps that matter in the end, not really. It's Annika and Monika, who arrive early, with all their enthusiasms, and love. It's those who stand on the margins of the stage, calling your name as you whisk by. It's your Broadway partner, Jean, who looks you in the eyes as you dance and laughs off a mistake and texts you later, "I enjoyed our show a lot. It was very alive." It's your husband, Bill, who worked so hard to make the tango right and who, at the end of the journey, said, "You did great." It's your father, who comes in his best suit; it's your friends, John and Andra, with whom you later share dinner; it's Mike, Aideen's Mike, who says, "I had no idea you had that jive thing in you;" it's Magda and her sweet Polish-flavored encouragements; it's Tim, who says, "Yes, you danced it well, and you danced it together;" it's Jim, the quiet choreographer of the very few words, who says, "Your dances were good."

I have no illusions. I don't pretend. I am not headed toward world championship titles, I am not the show-closing star, I am still (and will always be) fussing with the way I stand and move, I will never be "the one." I dance because I love to and I dance in shows like these because my friends are there. Because in the end what does it mean, save that we cheer each other on.

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Posturing for Beauty

Magda, the champion dancer, talks about posture. She says, "Imagine that you have a coat, a heavy coat, and that you have filled its every pocket with stones. Now imagine that you are wearing that coat, that your shoulders bear its weight. There is no tension in your neck, no hunch around your ears, because the coat that you are wearing keeps your shoulders in their place and your arms proper in their sockets. You reach high, but always from an anchored place. Your neck is strong. Your head sits right."

She talks and I watch her move, I watch her glide across the room—this gorgeous creature. I think how easy it seems—standing straight, shoulders back, life in repose. I think of how, from the earliest days on frozen ponds and ice skating rinks, I had all the inner joy and all the speed and all the height, but I lacked posture. I lacked the courage to present myself to the world, to come out from behind myself and say, Here, at last, am I. That has carried forward. Writing, for example, is myself once removed. It is me, behind words, inside them.

Is it too late, at my age, to finally stand tall?

No. Because I want this. I want beauty.

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What Will the Tango Mean?

We danced the tango for Magda today. She helped us to see it through her eyes—shifted the balance in things, taught us the momentum that builds from a rightly strengthened spine, helped us close the piece in, so that we danced it, mostly, for each other.

But maybe that's not why she's entered our lives at this time—all this making right of a single dance, to be performed in a month, for a few hundred people. Three minutes—less—and it will be over, done—the steps worked out or not, the final leap syncing with the music or not, the rondes arcing wide or not—and what, she wondered, what (she asked us) will we have when it is over? What happens after that? What will this tango mean, this thing that we have built from Scott's choreography, and from (now) Magda's perfecting touch?

What will we have, and will we know how to dance—finally and rightly with each other?

Magda is supposed to be teaching us how to move. She is teaching us something richer, altogether.

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Where Beauty Runs Deep

Probably in this case the title says it all, for this is Magda, a world champion ballroom dancer who comes to Dancesport a few days a week and gives to others what she knows. She does it without temper or stomp, without conceit. She dances for you and with you, so that you might align, however briefly, with the slip light of her grace. She raises her arm and her hands are liquid, and for a fraction of an instant you are liquid, too—seeing possibility, hearing song, finding new religion in the uninterrupted, the continuous. Choreography is made up of parts; Magda weaves the parts into a whole. Dance is made alive by the slow abbreviated by the fast; she shows you how.

And when she says, Put your hands on the small of my back so that you can see what I am saying about the spine, you are reminded of how weightless beauty is.

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