My children (most of them) were off the entire week of school last week. Monday was Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Tuesday was a teacher work day (for two of them, the other two went to school). Then, snow.
It was lovely at first; snow falling on the mountains, wrapping us in like a warm quilted blanket. Everything in nature seemed bowed to its presence. Only the wintertime songbirds at my feeder were a frenzy of constant eating—like nothing I’ve ever seen. But other than the birds, all laid quiet.
The snow day turned into days. By day three, all contemplative, wanderlust left me. By Friday morning it was all I could do to not mutter curses at the sight of my children and slam every blessed door I walked through. Actually, it was more than I could do. To claim otherwise would be a lie from the pit of hell. Fortunately, before I managed to fall too far down the pit, I decided to blast the soundtrack to The Greatest Showman through my house and dance like Zendaya (minus the trapeze part) while doing morning chores.
It helped my soul—dancing like Zendaya room to room—if only for the moment. I couldn’t spend my entire day dancing my brains out; forget about the deli meats needing to be picked up from one place and groceries from another, the basketball game in the afternoon, the writing conference I needed to look decent for that night (at least not look like I just spent all day dancing my brains out).
But at least I had that moment. A crazy, play-filled, uninhibited moment where I didn’t care how I looked, what I accomplished, or how I am continually sabotaged by the county school district. For an hour in my day, I was eight years old again, dancing to my mother’s musicals playing on the record player (only better, because I didn’t have to worry about my soaring through the air—and subsequent landing—making the record player skip). In my mind, I looked like Zendaya, skimming across the stage in powerful, glorious beauty. All of my senses in perfect, rhythmic harmony with all they were sensing.
No, wait. That’s not true. I didn’t look like Zendaya. I looked like me. And for the first time in a long time, looking like me felt pretty darn good. Incredible, even. There were no conundrums, shame scripts, woe-is-me worries about being good enough, smart enough, talented enough, faithful enough, fill-in-the-blank enough. There was only me, the music, and this strange, transcendent beauty dancing through my bones. It filled my entire being, then spilled itself into everything around me. A glorious Hallelujah, gospel choir style.
If that’s not a holy moment, I don’t know what is.