Twelve years ago, a 13 year old girl had a piece of her innocent view of the world torn apart as she watched the towers fall live. She was a freshman in high school, and believing in all things idealistic and optimistic, she broke down when her world ceased to turn. She watched in the fine arts wing of her highschool with her band, choir, and orchestra mates, as concrete turned to rubble, as computers, printers, millions of sheets of paper, and humans....turned to ash. Our major symphony turned minor....eerie...dissonant.
That night, the girl went to her safe place, the studio. The language was the French vocabulary of ballet, but the metaphor was a powerful one--the real and human connection of movement.
Twelve years ago, some other children, not more than five years old, toddled around their living rooms, confused why their parents were glued to the television, ashen-faced, or picking up the telephone with tense, hushed voices.
Twelve years later--today--the worlds of the girl and these children collided. In the no-long-children's eyes, she sees a bit of same teenage innocence she possessed. They inspire her and remind her why it's okay to still believe in the goodness in the world, to live every second. The beauty is there, in our steps and in our voices. "I want to walk into the sun and be unapologetic," they say. I believe we will.
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