Pulse of Purpose

Resolution

The dinner concludes and I walk back to my room. Today I successfully replicated the dance I have been practicing for the last days. However, I was chained to the performance. Each step felt awkward. Instead of connecting to the music, I was just doing the work. The hours of practice leading up to today, were grinding away at my passion. Is this the cost of living here, and if so, what will dancing become for me?

Beep Beep Beep

"Today you will have another performance" my trainer says, "Just repeat the choreography we have been practicing in the past days"

He joins me to the entrance hall, opens the steel door and leaves me to myself in the dark room. The stale song I have been listening to for the past week over and over again starts to play. I commence the choreography as programmed into my brain, following instruction after instruction.

The dance has become a suffocating routine leaving me uninspired and unfulfilled. The spark that dancing ignites within me was nowhere to be seen. In a moment of weakness – or perhaps a moment of strength, I decide to stop. I burst open the steel door and enter my favorite song into the keypad. Mr. Russo stares in shock at me, but I do not care. I do not even bother to close the door and get ready to dance.

What if I do not score well with my dance?

The song starts and I pour all my emotions into the dance. I break the chains that have been pulling me to the ground, and reignite the flame that has been sitting deep inside my heart almost extinguished. The music itself starts to curse through my veins pulsating the muscles to its beat.

The trainer enters the room: "What are you doing! Go back to your choreography!"

Ignoring him, I continue my dance, but he threatens: "I will stop the music!"

Trying me hardest to uphold my rhythm I answer: "Form and Order is important to improve, but what is it worth if you do not have fun doing so."

"You will lose everything. This house, the people in it and all your career chances. And for what; fun?"

I start to get breathless from the strain of talking and dancing, but I manage to pant: "Think about what you felt like when dancing before you got popular." I gasp for air "Please, do not stop the music."

I hear no response from him. On one of my spins, I catch a glimpse. He looks dismayed.

"Please," I plead.

"I just... I just want to help you," he sighs, "Ok, I will let you"

Exhilarated I continue my dance, but his words stuck with me, what if I lose everything. I cannot think about it. With each movement, I release a part of me into the dance – the pain, the joy, the fear, all intertwined in a graceful painting, with my body as the canvas. Every leap a leap of faith, every spin a whirlwind of emotions.

I get increasingly more exhausted barely able to uphold my pace. The air seems to deplete faster with every breath. I cannot continue. 

Suddenly my first lesson with Mr. Russo pops into my head "You should not hide your breathing during your performance" I incorporate the breathing into my moves. I show the entire audience my exhaustion and I was weightless again, carried by the sheer force of my emotions. I allow myself to slow down to regain stamina and air. Knowing the song will not last much longer fills me with even more energy.

I briefly halt facing the imposing red glowing score. 41.

In that moment the seed of doubt that has been planted deep inside me bursts open releasing tendrils piercing through my body. I will be losing everything I worked for. The mansion, the opportunities, the people. I was so focused on living my passion that I seized to see the cost. And for what; fun?

The air became thick, and an invisible weight presses against my chest. My heart races as if trying to escape my chest, its erratic beats echoing in my ears. My mind dashes with a cacophony of "what ifs" that amplify the panic. I must get the score up somehow. My hands tremble uncontrollably, and I clutch at my chest, in desperation. Time lost its coherence; seconds stretch into agonizing eternities. Amid the chaos, I struggle to find a semblance of control. I run to the screen to switch the music back to the original track, but my hand gets tangled in my scarf.

I hesitate.

The song reaches its climax in the background with the beats echoing through the hall.

The scarf reminds me of myself as a child dancing to the song. Back then I was not concerned about performing well. There was no score to judge my every move and even if there was, I would not have cared. Dancing was not a skill to master, it was a pure expression of joy, the sheer joy from twirling and swaying to the music even if it meant looking like a fool to everybody else.

I went back onto the stage, covered my eyes with the scarf and continued my dance. The movements flowed effortlessly. I am no longer dancing for an audience; I am dancing for myself, for the person I was, and the person I aspire to be. The room disappeared, and all that remains was the dance, an intimate conversation between my heart and the rhythm. I can feel tears welling up, but they are not tears of sorrow; they are tears of liberation, of letting go.

I release the shackles forced upon me and I can finally say with confidence "I am free"

With the final, lingering note, I stand there breathless.