It is competition weekend! I am here with Myrtle, and very excited to be here. We arrived at the site of the competition—a university in Albany—early this morning, where she and her fellow dancers were given a studio in which to practice. Everywhere we looked, there were dancers, tall and short, dark and fair, but all with a loose, easy kind of movement that showed an innate confidence in their own strength and control of their bodies.
We have had the privilege to watch the performances of many of the other competitors. I was delighted—to see so many different shapes and forms of dance, to see the way so many different minds interpret music and movement, has been a blessing. Myrtle, too, was glad about this chance—at first.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she said to Jaquinn over dinner.
He glanced up from his place on the grass beside her. Myrtle’s group is not scheduled to perform until tomorrow morning, and since the performances were done for the day, there was nothing more to do but wait. The others had gone out together, but Myrtle had not felt up to company, so she and Jaquinn found a food truck[1] and a stretch of grass.
“Bit late to back out now,” he pointed out.
There is a certain wistfulness in his aura, and has been for a few weeks now. Myrtle has never brought up the subject of their living together again, and he has inferred an answer from this lack of response. This led to a few days’ worth of soul-searching, in which he decided, at least for now, to take what Myrtle will give him. He is like me in that he does not want to press Myrtle while she is so focused on her work.
And she is, indeed, focused. She did not even look up from the sketches she has drawn to help visualize the choreography. “Seriously, Jack,” she said. “Have you seen the people here? They’re professionals.”
“So are you.”
Myrtle scoffed. “Those who can’t do, teach.”
I infer that this is a common saying that dismisses the great worth of those who pass their knowledge on to the younger generation. I protested, just as Jaquinn did.
“I bet you anything that you’ve learned about a quarter of what you need for this performance from your kids,” Jaquinn pointed out. “And this competition might give you the chance to do this that you’ve been waiting for.” He slid closer to her and rubbed her shoulders. “Anyway, you’re not here to win, Myrtle. You’re here to show what you can do, and you can do it.”
She closed her eyes and leaned back against him. I could see that she was not convinced, but she did not wish to argue anymore.
I was just bending to give her my own encouragement when I sensed another presence behind me. I spun around.
The angel behind me curved her wings apologetically, smiling. “I apologize for startling you. I was simply intrigued to see a brother here, and not one whom I know. My name is Sabasa.”
“Sister, I apologize,” I said, lowering my own wings. “It is so rare that I meet a sister in the Garden that I did not know what to expect.”
Her smile widened, and she gestured with the same easy grace that inhabited so many of the people around us. “With so many artists in this place, you should have expected to find one of us.”
In speaking with her, I realized that she was correct. Sabasa is a Muse, and so it is not surprising at all that she should be present. She is at the competition with her charge Blake, a young and very promising dancer here with a solo performance to show. I caught a glimpse of Blake, sitting under a tree not far from Myrtle and Jaquinn, writing in his journal. His aura is filled with that echoing quality that all truly creative people seem to have, but deeper and richer than any I have ever seen. I inferred that this was Sabasa’s handiwork.
“I only assist with what is already there,” she said, but she bowed her head at the compliment. She, rather like Blake, is sleek and dark and graceful, and she is a Principality like me, though older than I am.
“It is interesting to me to find a Cupid here,” she told me. “I hope you will not take offense in my curiosity, but what reward could there be to your purposes to be present?”
I was surprised by the question. I looked down at Myrtle and Jaquinn, who, while they are not yet ready to stand on their own, yet are one of my more stable couples now.
“It is true that I may not truly be needed here,” I said slowly. “Still, have you never found that your purposes bleed into other areas of your charges’ lives? Love brings inspiration, and inspiration feeds success, and success sustains love.” I looked down at Myrtle fondly, letting one of my wings brush over her and Jaquinn. “This is so significant to her, there is no way that Jaquinn would not be with her. And so I must be here, too, to hold them together come victory or defeat.”
Sabasa angled her head. “I can see now, Asa’el, why your name is spoken beyond your own discipline. Though young, you have a wisdom that all angels should heed.”
I protested this praise, and then, because I could not help myself, I asked Sabasa if she would be willing to bless Myrtle. She demurred, but not for the reason I expected.
“She does not need assistance from me,” she said. Her calm, expert eye ran over Myrtle, and she shook her head. “Whatever inspiration she may have needed came to her naturally, and now all that she could want is confidence. I think that you can give that to her more easily than I could.”
She then wished Myrtle luck, as I did for Blake, and returned to her charge.
I will do what I can to persuade Myrtle to go and see Blake’s performance. I would like very much to see it myself, and I hope that it may help Myrtle, too. Truly great art has a way of enriching the soul of whoever sees it, and I have a feeling that Blake is an artist. I think that Myrtle is, too, though I am certainly biased. But I suppose we shall see tomorrow.
[1] This is a strange and fascinating way of serving food: a restaurant purchases a truck and fills it with the equipment needed to make food. Then they drive their portable restaurant around to find customers.