Dancing

She glided to the window, as if her feet were led by the slow, gentle rhythm of a waltz. Grace pulled the blinds shut, careful not to leave a crack. A hint of light struggled to filter through, but its efforts were useless. Giving a sideways glance to her brother, who was carrying a fan in from the next room, Grace looked expectantly at the door.
"John, is Bill coming today?"
She went over to the record player, attempting to look engrossed in setting the record in place. John gave her a mischievous grin as he shrugged. He flipped the switch of the fan on, then went over to where his sister stood. The steady hum of the whirling blades began to fill the room, singing along to "This Nearly Was Mine". He took a slow, sweeping bow before raising his hand to meet hers.
"Shall we dance?"

Their feet rarely missed a step, the steady 1, 2, 3 - 1, 2, 3 rhythm leading the way. As they waltzed around the tiny room, the fan still droning in the background, John's looming military service was almost forgotten, and only an occasional glance at the door reminded Grace of her own woes. Suddenly, the sound of a key turning in the lock interrupted Frank Sinatra's crooning voice, and as if doing an intricate routine, John ran to unplug the fan and return it to the next room as Grace removed the record and set the player in its original place. Just as the door opened, Grace quickly smoothed her dress and tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, hoping that she didn't look too flushed.
"Grace, John! Come help me with the groceries," their mom ordered, as she made her way through the room and into the kitchen.
Grace breathed a sigh of relief as John gave her a quick wink.

That night, before she went to bed, Grace closed her eyes as she danced with an imaginary partner--preferably a tall, dashing young man--her feet gently keeping in rhythm.
How clear and deep are my fancies, of things I wish were true...


****

When my grandmother asked me to drive her and her friend to their first cha-cha lesson this afternoon, I had no idea what I would be in for. Needless to say I had a terrific time learning to cha-cha with a bunch of senior citizens. Sexy.
I love getting to hangout with my grandmother. Not only is she my hero (I could go on and on about why she is), but she spoils me rotten. Yep, definitely nothing to complain about. In between my broken Mandarin and her mixture of Mandarin, Taiwanese, and occasional (for my sake) English, we manage to communicate. I love her.
The story that I wrote above is based on my grandmother's own experience with dancing, which she told me on our way to the cha-cha lesson. In her time and culture, dancing was not exactly what upstanding and refined young people would do. So her younger brother found someone to teach them both to dance, and they would do so in secret--shutting all the blinds and turning on the fan so as to drown out the sound of the record player. I don't think their mother ever found out.

The Challenge

I like to challenge myself. You know, break free from my comfort zone. To think outside the Evangeline-box.

That said, I decided that this coming semester I will be filming a love story. Yeah, I know. Terrifying.

Now it isn't that I am super cynical of the whole "love story thing"... okay, so maybe I am. But you have to understand that my cynicism is quite founded. Thankyouverymuch.

So let me ask you this: What makes a love story?
The sad thing is that I am now going to have to clarify and refine my question: What makes a true love story? (Yes, "love" and "true love" appear to be different in this day and age.)

Stud meets Gorgeous. They're perfect for each other. They go for a stroll on the beach (and I'll leave it at that--let's keep it rated G). They're in love. The end.

Sure, I'm being terribly sarcastic and lame (I'm a pro, really)... but do you see my problem? What is a true love story?

I found a quote from an author that I, admittedly, never heard of... 'til I googled "true love stories"... yes, I am officially pathetic (but hey, google has the answer to everything!). Anyways, here's the quote from Richard Bach:

True love stories never end.

So what about those fairy tales? When "the prince and princess lived happily ever after. The End"? What if Cinderella realized that her night of dancing at the ball with Prince Charming was not enough to base their relationship upon? What if Sleeping Beauty began to wish that a different Prince Charming had kissed her and woken her from her slumber? Maybe "The End" doesn't belong in a true love story...

This might be a sign of my old age, but I am going to tell another story from when Hil and I were younger. We had this storybook called, "I'll Always Love You," and it was about a little boy and his puppy. The story is a bit foggy in my head, but what I remember is that at the end of it, the boy and puppy have grown up, and now the dog is about to die. At the very end of the story, the boy whispers to his faithful friend, "I'll always love you."

I hope the true love story that I film will have characters that will be able to say, "I'll always love you."

And truly mean it and live it.

(On a side note, I might not be filming a true love story until I can find a story that nails the "true love" part. I'll keep you updated.)

Worth a million words...

If I just breathe...

There’s something deliciously sappy about my bright pink nail polish (courtesy of Edy, age nine and already the nail polish extraordinaire) and the cheery rays of sun filtering through the window. Michelle Branch’s blast from the not-so-long-ago-past, “Breathe,” is blaring in my head, and I’m feeling on top of the world. Hello summer!

Did you know that summertime is worse than New Year’s when it comes to resolutions? At least for me it is. Three months of freedom (okay, so it’s a rather sketchy definition) and endless opportunities stare me straight in the face… and I can hardly catch my breath before I want to dive in and “do life,”—whatever that means. But then I kick myself and try to turn off that little voice inside my head that incessantly whispers, “Go, go, go!” I started a list during finals week, something along the lines of “Summer To-Dos.” It’s sitting in a recycle bin somewhere.

If I just breathe…

Why do I feel like I’m in control when I hold my breath? I remember playing a game when Hil and I were younger. We’d see how long we could hold our breath… I think I passed the two-minute mark once or twice. Sometimes I feel like I’m still playing that game. Reminds me of my Don-Rags question: Compare the supernatural fall (Satan’s fall) to the natural fall (Adam’s fall). Believe me, there is a connection to the game and the question.

If I just breathe…

I won’t be going home this summer. Just thinking about it still causes a queasy feeling in my stomach. So much for the whole “Miss Independent” thing—I just can’t quite pull it off. Can I say how excited I am that Hil is coming to visit? I’m smiling just thinking about it.

I am excited about this summer. I am growing up—regardless of if I want to or not. I am learning… if I just breathe…

I almost forgot how wonderful it is to just sit down, think, and write. I’m not psycho-analyzing myself. I’m not laying out the next bajillion years of my life.

If I just breathe…

Hello summer!