Watching my friends dance is like watching someone carve a woman out of a block of wood. The intricate shapes emerge one by one and I see them practice from a crude sketch to a polished lady but I cannot fathom how they do it. I watch their bodies contort themselves into beauty and I see joy in their flying feet, but as much as I try I cannot copy them. I am not lacking in flexibility, or strength, I am toned and skinny from stretches and my night runs, so the only explanation I can figure is that I am missing the love. Julian's cut movements and toned arms and abs shape him as a dancer wherever he goes, and Maddy's air-like walk and flowing fingers paint ballet colors in the wind behind her. I stain acrylic on my fingers trying to capture the emotions they conjure with dance-love. It frustrates me that I can feel joy in my fingertips but not in my toes. I tried once to be taught how to dance, and failed miserably to pin the alternatively sharp and smooth motions set to the quick-silver beat. I call it quick-silver because, to my consternation, it eludes me. In return, this friend asked me to teach her how to draw, how to create patchwork quilts of paper imagination. As hard as I tried to show her to make black ink hand prints of her emotions, I could not. So I have decided to let her paint pictures with her body, and I will except my art-love soul.