Tiny Dancer

9 10 2011
Russian States 5. Talisman Children Fest, Alan...
Muir Wood11

I sat on a log, which was once a tree, and now was becoming a part of the forest floor.  It is quiet, except for the occasional rustle of branches, high above, bowing out from trees not yet ready to surrender to the earth.  Nothing moves.  It is still, except for the rising and falling of my breath.  I stare, thoughtless, into an open clearing, covered with fallen needles and moss and browning, curling leaves.

I turned, startled, as a tornado-like whirl of colors burst through the trees in a spinning rush of energy.  The whirlwind reeled to an abrupt stop.  In its place stood a young girl, elfin yet statuesque.  She stood motionless for a moment, then knelt, winding herself into a smooth, round ball.

As suddenly as the little dancer had ceased her movement, she began again.  She sprang into the air like a kitten, leaping and reaching, dashing and darting, after some invisible playmate whom only she could see.   Silver-blonde ringlets chased after her as she twirled, they played leap-frog across her nose, and bounced from ear to ear when she ran.  At the edge of the circle clearing, she paused, then plunged into a graceful cascade of backward flips, rounding, as though in a single sweeping movement,  the open forest floor.  Her feet and hands scarcely brushed the ground and nearly skimmed the tree limbs above.  The field was like a buoyant trampoline beneath her, propelling her weightlessly toward the sky before she even touched the earth.  She looped so rapidly through the air that her arms and legs seemed to criss-cross and blur into one.  The little dancer’s clothing swirled into ribbons of purple and red and pink and orange.

At the other edge of the forest, she pivoted and planted her feet firmly upon the ground.  She held her chin high.  Her shoulders were narrow, but square.  The dancer’s slight stature belied the powerfully trained muscles, hidden beneath her oversized sweater and trousers.  She stood, still as a statue, slightly turning her ear as though listening for a soundless upbeat to reanimate her, to cue her back onto her private, forested dance floor. 

In the next instant, the dancer’s body relaxed.  She turned and walked soundlessly into the forest, then reappeared seconds later, holding something in her hands.  She dropped to the grassy floor and pulled her feet, crossed, beneath her.  I watched as she slipped a pair of thick glasses onto her face, then pulled a book open in her lap.  For the first time since her performance began, I was able to see clearly the little dancer’s soft features.

Her face was round as a pumpkin, and a row of dainty, pink freckles bridged a path from cheek to cheek, across her slender nose.  Even the thickness of her glasses could not hide her enormous, golden-brown eyes.  As she tipped her head down to read, her glasses slid to the end of her nose.  She scrunched her nose into folds, coaxing her glasses back into place.  Her chin seemed to blend into the fullness of her cheeks, which pouched like those of a chipmunk with a jawful of nuts.

The little dancer had been transformed into stillness and serenity.  I hardly recognized her as the same, lively figure which had flown and spun through the air, just moments before.  I wondered who she was and what she was like.  Disrupting her peace seemed wrong, so I quietly slid from my hidden perch on the mossy log and stole, invisibly, into the forest, leaving the stillness for the little dancer to know.

©Janet Mitchell, October 2011

Picture within the Picture

26 09 2011

Close your eyes

and listen to the quiet.

Do you hear all that noise?

If you’re patient enough with yourself

and let the noise be okay,

there’ll be a moment of quiet,

gone as soon as you notice it.

But that’s okay, too.

That’s the beginning

of just Being.


Think of nothing but how the in-breath feels

and how the out-breath feels.

and~~ there it is again ~~ and gone.

But the just Being was there.

Keep practicing being patient with yourself.

Soon you’ll find that space between thinking and

not thinking, just Being.

It’s like seeing a picture within a picture:

at first you can’t see it, but once you do,

you will always see it.

Just being.

© Janet Mitchell, September 2011

Pictured Rocks Sunset

Image by James Marvin Phelps via Flickr

Being Still

30 08 2011
Stillness n' Peace (View in full size)

There was a hush, a stilling blanket that cloaked my Self.  And as it settled in around the curves of my soul, I blended into it; or did it blend into me?  We rested there.  We left behind us all the thoughts of the days that had come before: we felt peace.

I ran my hand over the ridges of my quieted mind.  I caressed my Self, ever so gently.  I put my arms around me and held me.  I rocked my Self in this cradle of Being, and knew for a while only what it meant to Be.  At that moment, even the room’s angles and colors seemed to fade from my vision.  I knew only the Oneness of my Self with All.

And, I knew it was as it should Be.  I knew for a moment the transcending awareness that is total, unconditional acceptance of Self, of everything that is: of simply Being.  I felt no rights and no wrongs, and knew no shoulds or coulds.  There exists no “perhaps” within the realm of Being.  It simply is to Be.

And, at the moment in the Now, at that place in the Here, I simply sat there Being.  And when I left that place, I felt renewed, refreshed and restored.

© Janet Mitchell, 2011

%d bloggers like this: