It’s at night when I see her. She’s there during the daylight hours, but its in the darkness that I see her true self. The emotions that are hidden beneath her cheerful surface come alive when she thinks she is alone. The cloak of night can’t hide her feelings. The nights of learning began a month ago. I was having trouble finding sleep in my room and decided to journey to the empty performance hall. My walk across campus, its sidewalks and grassy knowl completely empty, was accompanied by a chilly breeze. On any other occasion, when I find myself seeking solace in the antiquity of the auditorium, I am greeted with a musty heat when I open the wooden door. On this night the comforting warmth was an afterthought. There was a dim light glowing above the stage. The rays seemed to cascade and pool over the figure moving across the stage. My instinct was to turn and leave, but something inside urged me to stay. I crept slowly down the aisle, praying the moonlight streaming through the windows wouldn’t illuminate my presence. I selected a seat only a few rows from the back and made myself comfortable and invisible. She moved gracefully and with purpose. Her legs carried her from one movement to the next. The light pink shoes seemed to fit her small feet like a second skin. They moved with her, as if an extension of not only her body, but her mind. A mute thundering of taps echoed in my direction as her feet carried her across the stage. All her weight resting solely on her toes. Then there was no noise. Silence. Her legs leaped high above the stage. The delicate carriage of her arms seemed to pull her towards the heavens. Rise and fall. The movements were agile and quick. She seemed to be dancing across a cloud, carefully, as if not disturb a single water crystal in its shape. The only sounds in the room were of her feet. The pitter-pats and swishes as they came in contact with the stage. A single hiss of air when an incorrect movement caused the hard shoes to pinched feet. The movement, however, never ceased. Sometime later she ended her dance and sat at the edge of the stage. The ribbons of her shoes were carefully unwrapped from around her ankles. The delicate slippers were gently put away as if they were precious gems. And to her, they were. With a quick motion she zipped her bag, then her eyes drifted to her feet. In the shoes they had seemed delicate and graceful. But even from where I sat I could tell they were not. She could see that her toes were covered in bandages and blisters. The years of harsh use turning her once beautiful feet into the scars of her passion. Her gaze drifted out the window, to the first rays of sunlight on the horizon. The bag was lifted off the stage, and she was out of the auditorium before I could even comprehend her actions. Her dance still clung to the dust in the air. I found myself returning night after night to watch her. The movements were never the same. Some nights her actions seemed tired and slow others youthful and light, but the passion behind the movements never died. Each night she would dance, and at the end she would look at her feet critically. As if to guess how much more pain they could endure. Then one night there was music. The soft piano chords filled the hall and seemed to envelope her. Each leg lift and each turn seemed to be helped along by a note. Sometimes she would stop and look down at the stage. Then she would begin again, the music would play on. This was not a rehearsal, this was dancing for the sake of dance itself. For the freedom, the expression, the sorrow, the pain, and the joy. There were no judges, no audience to impress. The dance was for her and her alone. Her movements were not remarkable in any way, they might not even be called mediocre. But her passion for the dance far exceeded what she lacked in technique. Each lift and sway was from the heart. After one particularly difficult night of missed moves, and foot follies, she sat on the edge of the stage. The shoes were removed and placed in the bag. She inspected the damage to her feet and frowned. Her gaze drifted to the window the moonlight glinting off the tears in her eyes. A sigh escaped her lips as she went to turn off the music. She placed the CD in its case and threw it angrily in her bag. This move would usually signal the end of the night, but tonight something was holding her back. Her legs slowly carried her to the center of the stage. Her bare feet tapping against the floor. She walked in circles, head bowed, eyes shut, tears begging to be let out. Her movements were slow and deliberate, she seemed to be gaining power from the stage itself. With each passing second her moves became quicker. Her feet carried her across the floors and into the air. The feet which were covered in bandages and bruises. There was no music to help her movements, just her own determination. Each time she touched the stage she seemed to gain a new strength. The pain was gone, and was replaced by love. The calculated movements gave way to those that were graceful and in the moment. Before this day it was she was dancing, tonight it was her heart. I learned a lot in those few weeks. The most unremarkable of people can teach you life’s greatest lessons. The words are not always clearly evident, but the lesson is there. In each one of us is a dancer. Sometimes things complete themselves, other times extra strength may be needed, but behind every movement should be passion and love from the heart.