a history of bad decisions

i am not talented in dance. i am not being humble; i just don't have the effervescent something that belies talent. when i write, i know what talent looks and feels and slides like. how it tips. i've been dancing just as long as i've been writing. i'm just better at the writing bit.

but i dance anyway. i dance around my kitchen and i practice the arms for the choreo in my car and i google tips. i get up early on weekends to go to classes. even though i have proficient skill, i will never be a soloist or even particularly good at it.

there is this idea that to not be the best at a passion is tantamount to failing. you try out ice skating but cannot immediately land a turn; which means you aren't going to be a skater, which means you should stop skating altogether. you only knit scarves and don't know how to cast off; just give up. either you go to RISD and get a "real position" as an animator or you're not really an artist.

an ode to what you keep anyway. an ode to passion and drive just for the enjoyment of it. i know we say it's better to try and fail but what if failure was never really a part of it? what if there is no failure here, because love and effort are already successes?

there is no such thing as an effort of love wasted. if it ever brings you peace or joy or excitement - it was worth it.

every doodle in your margins, anime-eye-on-the-homework as a kid. the calligraphy pens while you were trying out new handwriting. the notebooks with short stories where everyone dies in the end. never being first chair in band as a kid, but as an adult still playing your instrument. trying literally because it feels good to try.

i just started adult classes in portrait drawing. i never got taught when i was younger, and, again, i have no natural talent. i am often frustrated, staring at what i made, wondering why i'm not excellent yet.