reclaiming my waltz, or learning not to be my own worst enemy

sleeping beautyThis was not the post I meant to write.  Instead of my original idea which was merely a retelling of the days events bland and commonplace as they were,I am instead confronted with a comparison between two very different but equally unique people.  Namely myself and my younger sister.  I’m the older sibling by two years ,growing up most people were convinced otherwise because for the most part my sister was quite willing to step into the gap between what my disability allows me to do for myself and what things still need to be done despite the fact that I cannot physically do them myself from a very young age. Now that I’m older it is easier for me to admit that I was terribly jealous of her.  For one no one would believe that I was older than her until after our parents had confirmed it, for another everything seemed to come easily to her, or so I thought at the time.  She has always been good at almost anything she laid her hand on and somehow managed to make it look a lot easier than it actually was.  Seen in that light my small talent at writing seemed, (to me at least), to be meager and thin indeed.Years later she learned to belly dance which only made the green eyed monster bite me harder because dancing is the one thing I really miss about not being born able-bodied. When I was six our next-door neighbors youngest daughter (who was 12) taught me to waltz. it was not the most graceful thing the world, unlike any form of dance my sister has ever undertaken but it was definitely a waltz.  When I was six I didn’t care that it wasn’t graceful or what most people call pretty I knew that I had accomplished something even some adults don’t do and that was enough.  As I got older I began to pick apart my accomplishment because I have begun to watch very talented able-bodied people in movies and on TV, add to that I had a very talented individual in my own house.  It was self-inflicted torture, and I was my own worst critic.  Over the past year I’ve tried to remember the only person who can make me truly content with myself is me.  Believe it or not that of a hard thing to swallow.  So I can’t sing as well as some people I can and have taught people howto better express themselves and communicate in an unfamiliar language.I will never have flawless penmanship and I won’t ever even come close to managing calligraphy but my overcrowded stilted chicken scratch handwriting, despite its near unreadable state is apparently priceless to certain people.  The only painting I’ve never done is paint by number projects and I will never be able to draw pictures that almost breathe like my mom can, but given time and a lot of practice I will be able to paint pictures with words that seem to sparkle and characters that breathes and live on after the last page has been turned and the back cover closed the last time.You know may be my waltz wasn’t as bad as I thought because almost 10 years later somebody wants me to teach them.  It may not be graceful and pretty but I can guarantee you it will be recognizable for a waltz and just like when I was six it will be one of the best things I’ve ever done.


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