After last week, I felt that there was more to be said on this topic. But first, a brief history:
Before she married my father, my mother was a dancer. (She still dances. She is still taking ballet classes today.) When I was young, she shared with me an observation she had made about dancers. She said that some of the great dancers were born that way. They just arrived equipped to dazzle with the beauty of their dance. They were limber and graceful from the very start.
But the best dancers of all, the ones who outshone all the rest, most often were not the ones to whom dance came naturally. They were the ones who had slaved, who had suffered, to get where they were. Because they had both grace and control, while the first group, who had so much natural talent, often never bothered to do the extra work necessary for them to gain the same level of perfect control.
This has always given me hope, because I did not arrive as a natural storyteller. I only arrived loving stories.
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