Isadora Duncan

Me. A reflection of the wind, blowing smooth or swift, ravaging or caressing, sweeping and slapping. Twisting to the words that warmed the music. Rolling as the tide, skipping as the stone.

My body. A reflection. Not of an uninspired instructor, but of my world in all its beauty and grace. She, the only dancer I wished to replicate. Languet Isadora, Languet-these are the words I heard bellowing from the bowing branch.

Float, shimmer and convulse. A message to my soul from the sea that swirled and a wind that whimpered or wailed.

Hear the Grecian song. It called to me like an amorous lover, beckoning me to know it well, and to love it well, and to devour it wholly so that indeed it would become me.

So I did.

I consumed it heartily and with the vengeance of a Trojan warrior. My heart and my vision transformed. So did my dance.

I took the dance and the fashion to Paris and shared, with all who would see and hear, the bounty of the journey that changed me so.

When the swift current swept from me my treasures, I summoned the courage to see the treasures that still surrounded me. Upon them I bestowed my love and as much of my gift as they could receive.

My losses were mounting, yet I knew that my dance, my art could only develop. I knew because I had long ago rejected the dance of the mass and embraced the movement of my liquid soul.

For each thought and each feeling there is a corresponding movement. When

my thoughts seized more power, the movement was more dynamic. When my feelings were a magnified version of any other, the movement was as well.

Inevitably, without need for "motivation" or "drive," the dance was destined to exceed what any might expect. Except me, I knew. Life left no other way.