An Audience of One

      Nestled on the sofa with her mother, Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake awakened the imagination of a young girl.  Mesmerized by the 45 rpm record box, the child studied each beautiful ballerina.  She was captivated by the eloquence of the lithe young dancers whose fluid arms stretched toward heaven.  She was enchanted by the dancers gliding and spinning tiptoed.  The child, enthralled by the beauty of dance, fell asleep. She dreamed of becoming a great ballerina. Her heroines were the Russian ballerinas.  The unborn dream lived in the child’s heart.  Many cold winter days were spent with the would-be ballerina dancing for an audience of one – her mother.  She cherished her dream in her heart knowing it was merely an alluring fantasy.  

     Those innocent childhood years gave birth to the reality of adulthood.  As the young girl matured, her dreaming spirit soared to new heights.  Her mom would often sigh and ask, “When are you going to quit being such a dreamer?”  Delighted she would exclaim, “Not until I catch my dreams!”   Her mom warned the young women many of her dreams were impossible. In midlife, the young woman surprised her mother. She confessed her intention to travel to Russia.  The young woman was afire with greater dreams. Dangers (nor a horrified mother) quenched her passion.  The excitement of the unforeseen intensified the intrigue of the unexplored.  

     One bleak snowy morning in St. Petersburg she stumbled upon a barren room dressed only by ballet barres.  Bright clear mirrors illuminated the room dimmed by emptiness.  The voice behind her explained the room was once a practice arena for Russian ballerinas.  Her heart, pounding with excitement, was shrouded with unbelief.  Her childhood dream stirred beneath the covers where it had hibernated for forty years.  Deep breaths of her admiration for ballerinas escaped as her dream awakened from hibernation.  Perceiving her yearning to be alone, the man quietly closed the door assuring her solitude.  

     ‘Are dreams things we wake from, but or also things we wake to,’ she guardedly contemplated.  Were her circumstances auspiciously orchestrated long ago and destined for the moment? Her decision was to either bound fearfully from the room or courageously grasp the moment.  Deciding to wake to her dream, she fluidly leapt center stage.  With graceful humility, she bowed before her audience of One.  Her mind was impregnated with Tchaikovsky’s beautiful composition.  

     As she danced before her audience of One, she heard the applause of her proud Father.  His applause blushed her countenance with a child-like radiance. The delight of her Father’s applause spawned her unrivaled performance of praise and glory to her Father, Almighty God.  She had buried her childhood dream under a dark quilt in her heart. Her beloved Father kept her dream wrapped warmly and securely in His protective comforter until such a moment as this.