I would love to be a dancer. That is if there is no actual perspiration or strained ligaments involved. But resembling a fairy princess, swishing in filmy costumes and performing for adoring crowds sounds appealing. Knowing the steps and being able to perform them would be difficult, I suppose, if I skipped rehearsals. Strong calves and an arched back are earned, not bestowed.

 

I would love to be a sublime wife. I am admittedly tempted to leap over the sweaty part leading up to it.

 

There is a woman I have always admired, who has been a source of inspiration for me since before I was married. She unabashedly loves her husband, and their seven children. They have built a house together, and been deeply involved in their church. She taught me about home birth, breastfeeding and creating rich spaces for children with colorful silks and wooden toys. She has shared stories of her ripened perception, and her signature love of innocence.

 

Yet she has had occasion to sweat. They went through bankruptcy, meningitis and twins. I remember camping with them a mere month after my wedding. Her third son was in meltdown, and I watched her handle his flailing screams as she carried him through the woods. I did not know I would use the image years later as I faced my own son's tantrums. I listened to her stories of strained relationships when her husband's business teetered on the edge of financial ruin. Those conversations sustained me when John and I lived on government subsidy. I recall the autumn day in Florida when I walked back from the post office reading her letter announcing that she was expecting twins. I laughed out loud... and laughed again eighteen years later when I told her I was too. I cried as she told me about the ordeal with meningitis and what the doctor said after her son recovered.

 

"God has smiled on you."

 

 

Photo by Jenny Stein

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