Discovering Center

                                     Discovering Center

                                                     By Valerie L. Egar

            

             When I turned thirty, I suddenly longed to learn ballet. Though I could hardly walk down a flight of stairs without stumbling, I imagined leaping like a gazelle. I usually avoided exercise, but now the idea of stretching until I ached appealed.

I tried to ignore the urge, but my desire persisted, acute as my need to smell apple blossoms in the spring.  In mid-December, I joined a class that had been dutifully stretching and leaping since September. To the instructor’s cheery, “Of course you’ve taken ballet before,” I murmured a quiet, “No.”

That evening I began a struggle that continued week after week. Like a kindergarten child, I confused my left foot with my right. My knees creaked when I attempted to plié, a sound as odious as belching at the Ritz.  When we moved away from the barre and combined steps, my memory and feet failed me. My classmates leapt and whirled. I stared at the floor.

One evening, the teacher demonstrated the pirouette, twirling gracefully across the room. “To move easily,” she said, catching her breath, “keep your balance by staying centered. Stay too closed up, you won’t move.  Extend too far off center and you’ll fall.”

 Her words flashed like lightning and struck home. “Stay too closed up and you won’t move.” For years I’d stood still, frozen to my possibilities, fearing I’d make the wrong choice. I yearned to write, but what if I failed?  I risked nothing.

“Extend too far off center and you’ll fall.” When I tried to move forward, I didn’t take small steps towards my goal, but invariably overextended myself, hit a bump and careened off course.

So this was the trick— to discover my center, the point of balance inside and to stay so exquisitely in touch with this soft spot that I could leap, turn, move constantly, without falling.

When I finished the class, I still couldn’t dance, but I knew I’d come a long way.

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Copyright 2019 by Valerie L. Egar. May not be reproduced, copied or distributed without permission from the author.

Published February 3, 2019 Maine Sunday Telegram.

The Owl and The Mouse

                              The Owl and The Mouse

                                               

By Valerie L. Egar

          The tiny mouse wandered through the meadow foraging for seeds to eat. Sunshine filtered through the tall grass and warmed his grey fur.  Hidden from hawks and eagles, he remained alert. He knew foxes frolicked in the meadow. Even the youngest ones were quick enough to pounce and catch him.

            His ears pricked up.  “Tu-who! Who! Tu-who!” The mouse knew the call of the horned owl well— owls were not friends to mice. But, the owl slept during the day.  To hear one calling in daylight was unusual. The mouse was curious. Instead of running away or hiding, he crept towards the sound.

            He’d heard children imitate crows and ducks. Maybe someone was imitating an owl?

            The mouse hid under a bush and listened. “Who! Tu-who!” 

            “Don’t stand there! Run!” a chipmunk chattered as he scrambled by. “That’s an owl, dummy!”

            The mouse frowned. “I know that!” He looked at the chipmunk. “I even know what kind of owl and I’ll bet you don’t.”

            The chipmunk shrugged. “You’re right I don’t. I call him ‘Chipmunk Slayer’ and that’s enough for me. I’m outta here!”

        The mouse crept closer and climbed high into a bush so he could see what was going on. He peeked between the branches and saw a Great Horned Owl on the ground, flapping one wing. He noticed the owl’s other wing and both feet were tangled in twine.  The owl couldn’t fly and would be unable to hunt. Once again the owl screeched, frantically.

            A red squirrel skittered by.  “Come on, get out of here!” he shouted to the mouse.

            The mouse shrugged.  “The owl can’t do anything,” he replied. “Do you know what happened?”

            “Kite string,” whispered the squirrel. “The kite was caught in a tree and he got tangled in the string.”

            For a long time, the mouse watched the owl from his hideaway in the bush. The owl tugged at the string to undo it, but the string only grew tighter as he pulled. The owl grew frantic at his inability to fly and exhausted himself flapping one wing.

That mice were a favorite menu choice for owls did not comfort the mouse, but he knew he could easily cut the string with his sharp teeth.  What a story that would be! How brave others would think him when they heard he approached the great owl, stood next to his mighty talons and survived!

The mouse approached the owl.  “I can help, if you will allow me,“ he whispered.

The owl was tired and had almost given up hope. “How can you help me?”

 “My teeth are sharp.” The mouse smiled, showing his teeth. “I can have the twine undone in a minute.”

“Why would you help me?” the owl asked. “You know I eat mice.”

“Yes,” the mouse said. “But not me I hope.” The mouse did not tell the owl that he imagined lady mice swooning at his bravery. That he might write a book about saving the owl. That he expected all eyes would turn his way wherever he went after his owl adventure.

“It’s a lot to expect,” said the owl.  “I promise not to hurt you, but I suggest you run and hide as soon as you’ve chewed through the last piece of twine. I’m hungry and I don’t know how well I can control my owl nature.”
            In a few bites, the twine was in pieces and fell from the owl’s wing and from his legs. The mouse scrambled into the high weeds as the owl advised.

“Thank you mouse,” the owl called as he flew away. “Your kindness has saved me, but killed a thousand of your brothers.”

After that, the mouse told his story about the owl under the summer stars and on moonlit winter nights to all who would listen. Mice from far and near marveled at his daring— speaking to a great owl! What bravery! Who among them would walk so near those sharp talons? Who would dare chew twine from an owl’s wing? And of course, in the mouse’s story, the owl flew away dipping his wings in praise, saying nothing.

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Copyright 2019 by Valerie L. Egar. May not be copied, reproduced or distributed without permission from the author. 

Published January 26, 2019 Biddeford Journal Tribune (Biddeford, ME).

The Fortuneteller's Prediction

                        The Fortuneteller’s Prediction

                                                            By Valerie L. Egar

            One upon a time, a very long time ago, a handsome son was born to loving parents. They named the child Ansel, and because they wanted to know what was in store for him, they consulted a famous fortuneteller.  

            “He will be more famous than the King and richer, too,” the fortuneteller predicted. “Everyone will know his name.”

Ansel’s parents were familiar with every fairy tale in which children were fated to riches and fame. They took the prediction seriously. From that day forward, they began preparing Ansel for his destiny.

Though Ansel liked to paint pictures and draw, his tutors insisted he learn fencing and swordsmanship. “You may be called upon to slay a dragon,” Professor Elkhorn advised.  Poor Ansel had to practice lunges and parrys, neither of which he did very well.

“You must learn the minuet,” Madam Lafou insisted. “Dancing is expected of the rich.” Ansel hated dancing  and no matter what Madam Lafou did, he still stepped on her toes.

 When Ansel lost interest in his studies and looked sadly at his paints and brushes, his teachers said, “Ansel!  Pay attention!  Painting pictures is silly. You are destined for greatness.”

 Most days, Ansel felt lonely. He slipped outside at night with his dog, Elba and looked at the stars. “This is all your fault,” he exclaimed, pointing to them. “I just wanted to be a regular little boy.” 

            When Ansel turned 16, his parents gave him a small bag of gold, a horse and a map of the world so he could go and find his fortune. This is exactly what parents in fairy tales did and they did the same, expecting Ansel to return in a year or two with wagons brimming with gold and exciting adventure stories.      

Starting out, Ansel expected that sooner or later, a tree or animal would speak and tell him what to do. Maybe a cat or a donkey would give him a magic charm to help him, were he to meet a dragon or ogre. That’s what happened in fairy tales and that’s what Ansel expected would happen to him.

Did it? No.  He rode for miles without any guidance at all except from the map, which wasn’t accurate. No monsters in the lake, no trolls in the meadow! The pictures on the map were mere decorations, no help at all.

            At last, Ansel came to a city.  “I’ve come to find my fortune!” he announced at the inn where he stopped. He expected the people gathered there might tell him

about a princess who needed to be rescued or a  beast that needed taming.  Instead, the men and women sitting near the fire laughed.

            “He must think he’s in a storybook!” jeered one.

            After that, Ansel became less talkative about his plans. He wandered aimlessly, expecting that sooner or later, he would come upon a great treasure he could proudly bring home to his parents.  Or, maybe he would fall into a wonderful adventure and a King or Prince would reward him.

            Ansel travelled for months and months, but nothing noteworthy happened. He rode his horse, he spent his money and neither fame nor riches came. Finally, far from home, he spent his last few pieces of gold on paints and brushes. “At least I’ll be able to make a little money for food,” he thought. “I don’t want to starve.”

            When he stopped in the evening, he set up his easel at the hostel and painted a few quick portraits.  “That’s lovely!” “Will you paint a picture of my daughter?”  “Stay here another few days,” people begged.

            His reputation grew. Soon, the King requested that he paint the walls of the castle with scenes of the Kingdom. Another request came for him to paint angels on the ceiling of the Cathedral.  He was paid for each commission and soon, he was rich and famous throughout the land, doing what he loved most. “And I never had to dance the minuet,” he said, “or use my sword. Not even once!”
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Copyright 2019 by Valerie L. Egar. May not be reproduced, copied or distributed without permission from the author.
Published January 19, 2019 Biddeford Journal Tribune (Biddeford, ME).

             

Skating in Moonlight

                                    Skating in Moonlight

                                                            By Valerie L. Egar

           

Ingrid stood on the cold floor and peeked from her bedroom window at the moon shining on the frozen pond at the far edge of the Maine farm. Newly fallen snow glittered in the moonlight. Stars sparkled through bare tree branches.

            Ingrid shivered. Her loft bedroom was always colder than the rest of the house except in the summer, when it was the hottest. The woodstove fire that warmed the house had died. Momma and Papa were sleeping, her baby sister Gretchen in her crib beside them.

Moonlight shining through her window into her eyes wakened her. She loved looking at the silvery light, but her feet were cold, even though she was wearing wool socks. She turned to jump back into bed, but glimpsed something moving on the pond. Deer?

She squinted to see better.  Not deer.

A lone figure glided across the ice, twirled, leapt high and landed. Someone was skating!

Ingrid pulled the wool blanket from her bed and wrapped it around herself.  From her distance, she couldn’t see who the skater might be. She couldn’t even tell

 whether it was a man or woman. Ingrid watched until she fell asleep.

At breakfast, Ingrid announced, “Papa, I saw someone skating on the pond last night.”

Her father frowned. “That doesn’t seem likely. No one lives near. Too late for skating.”

Mama served Ingrid scrambled eggs and a big slice of homemade bread. “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“I was awake!” insisted Ingrid.

At supper Papa announced he’d walked to the pond to see if anything was amiss. “No foot steps in the snow except the ones I made walking there. The snow on top of the ice isn’t disturbed. No one was skating last night.”

“But I saw them!”

“Sometimes dreams seem real.”
          Late that night, Ingrid woke herself up. She looked out the window. The moon shone bright upon the pond and the glittering snow. Back and forth, a  person skated, twirling and leaping.

Ingrid ran to her parent’s room and shook her father. “The skater’s back!”

Groggy from sleep, her father and mother rose and looked. Nothing.

“She was there! I saw her!”

Her father shook his head. “So now it’s a ‘she’? No one could tell from this distance.”

 Ingrid was embarrassed. She couldn’t really tell, but something inside told her it was a woman.

“Go back to bed, Ingrid,” Papa said. “It’s a dream.”

The next night, Ingrid hid her hat, boots and coat under her bed, determined to prove she wasn’t dreaming.  When she awoke and saw the skater, she put on her clothes and snuck out the door, running to the pond.

She watched the skater from behind a tree. Tall and thin, the woman glowed in moonlight. Ingrid was surprised she wasn’t dressed for the cold. Instead of a heavy winter coat and mittens, her hands were ungloved. She was clothed in white, in a dress one might wear to a summer picnic.

Fascinated, Ingrid stepped out from behind the tree. The woman stopped and stared, the way a startled deer might. Wordlessly, she pointed to a pair of skates at the edge of the pond and motioned for Ingrid to join her.

Ingrid laced up the skates, which fit perfectly. Though she wobbled the first few steps, she found her skating legs quickly. The woman took her by the hand and together, they glided across the ice. When the woman leaped, Ingrid leaped. When the woman twirled, so did Ingrid. Faster and faster they went, until the stars overhead spun. Ingrid felt more alive than she ever had.

Clouds covered the moon and snow began falling. Without a word, the woman disappeared.  Ingrid found herself at the edge of the pond back in her boots, the skates she’d worn disappearing  with the woman.

 “Where are you?” Ingrid called. “Come back! Tell me your name.”

The next night, Ingrid looked for the woman, but she wasn’t there and Ingrid never saw her again. For the rest of her long life, she remembered flying over the ice in moonlight with a mysterious woman whose name she never knew.

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Copyright 2019 by Valerie L. Egar. May not be copied, reproduced or distributed without permission from the author.

Published January 12, 2019 Biddeford Journal Tribune (Biddeford, ME).