Coming Home

Sunday night after church I was slightly distraught after a small confrontation with my best friend. Nothing permanent, just something we need to work on. I found myself not wanting to return home and, instead, drove across the road to my old dance school. The lights were on and the door open so I ventured inside.

The studio is in the sanctuary of an old episcopal church. Enormous cathedral ceilings, stained glass windows, and ancient wood floors which gave me blisters in my feet hundreds of times. Everything was exactly the same as I had left it. The floor was still splintery, Dance Teacher had hauled out the enormous old Christmas tree and set it up right in front of the mirrors, the far light was still slightly dim, even the posters advertising Avon make-up, used Irish dance wigs, out grown shoes, and dog grooming were still on the bulletin board. In a circle on the middle of the floor was my friends, some of their mothers, and Dance Teacher. I felt like I had come home. I tried to quietly sneak toward the office to say hello to Dance Teacher's Mother but one girl had already stood and shouted my name.

"Kite." Everyone shouted it after her and ran over to greet me.

I had never been the best dancer. I had never really been a good dancer, but I was missed for my sheer presence. I was a favorite of girls and mums alike and I remain unsure why. I was the eldest in the class and possibly the most passionate. I loved dance. I miss dancing every week and spending hours in that ancient church pulling splinters out of my callouses. I miss that time I spent in a place that still feels so much more like home, even than my own house.

How is that possible?

Life is defined by coming home.