12The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach - waiting for a gift from the sea.
-Anne Morrow Lindbergh
The young girl brushed the cloud of unruly, chestnut hair framing her face, clinging to it like a helmet. She swept it into an elegant, rich, full bun, sighing as a stubborn curl escaped it. Try as she might, she could not curb her hair completely. After adjusting her headdress, she gazed at herself in the mirror and gasped in astonishment. Ocean-blue eyes looked out from long but very pale eyelashes. Her face was pale, as if made of marble, with just a few freckles showing round her Grecian nose. Her skin was something quite exceptional in its white purity, not the purity of milk but the purity of rich white velvet or the petal of a gardenia. She had blossomed into a stunning, gorgeous swan by the use of skilful, clever make-up, which transformed her lovely face into one of even greater beauty.
She suddenly thought of one of her favourite lines, 'She walks in beauty.' She clasped her hands in sheer bliss and curtseyed to her reflection in the mirror. She giggled at her vanity before doing her warm-ups. Plie, battements, rond de jambe, pique. Everything went according to the fixed order and the carriage of her head suggested the proud dignity of a future great ballerina.
The girl's face practically glowed as she whirled and twirled on the smooth, wooden floor. Her tight fitting crimson leotard accentuated her petite, willowy body. Placing delicate hands already shaped by constant practice on the barre, she bent her supple, lithe body backwards. Her tutu of stiff tulle fluttered as the gentle, cool breeze sailed through the open windows, caressing her rosy cheeks. Just then, a little bird with feathers of radiant hues soared in, perching itself on the barre. It tilted its head to one side as it watched the wonderful performance, then glided into the air serenading merrily, as if applauding the girl.
They were so engrossed in their little dance that they did not notice an ancient lady peering at them through her pince-nez, stooping in the shadows outside the studio. She watched as the youthful teenager flung her slender leg into the air, dancing to the upbeat music. Her movements were flowering, full of poetry and expression and she gave the impression of an exquisite vision from some other unreal world, gliding over the ground. She marveled at the way the girl sophisticatedly carried herself. She was the perfect essence of grace, of poise.
The lady was old indeed. Her few hairs were already as white as pure snow falling from the sky. Her shortsighted eyes were now blurred with tears as she watched the girl. The tears rolled down her hollow cheeks, falling to the ground like pearls. Her hands had long since been sunburned and were now wrinkled with age. However, they proudly displayed numerous calluses earned from weary days of labouring in vast cotton fields. She clutched an wooden cane in her gnarled hands as she listened attentively to the music, an Oriental shawl wrapped around her bony frame.
The girl was now performing a Spanish dance. Castanets purring in her hands, her proud demeanor truly executed the passionate dance. Suddenly, she carried out an incorrect step. Flinging her castanets to the ground, she shrieked in fury and stomped her foot as the music continued playing. The old one shook her head as she watched the girl turn into an evil witch. All of a sudden, she seemed like a gloomy, enraged thunderstorm, even like an infuriated volcano that had erupted, spilling its lava everywhere. Erect and haughty, she crossed the room to the radio and slapped it, turning it off. Fiery arrows darted from her eyes at the little bird, which now fled in absolute terror, screaming at the top of his lungs.
The young girl's dark, cold eyes froze the old lady, chilling her to the bone as she stalked past her and spat, "What are you looking at, old woman? Get lost!" She stomped down the corridor, quite unlike the way any ballerina should walk. Her face was twisted into an ugly scowl that was enough to frighten even the bravest of us all. Her hunched shoulders were just as unsightly too.
The old lady sighed as she reminisced, thinking of those days she spent toiling laboriously and diligently under the scorching sun to pick cotton, its rays burning her back. Drops of perspiration had poured down her cheeks and her back, drenching her cotton blouse. Yet, she had never once complained. She had tolerated the unbearable heat even though she had sometimes felt faint, and never grumbled about how her fingers were getting coarser. She stared at the young one's retreating back and sighed, muttering something that sounded like, "Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Nowadays, kids just don't have the patience to persevere."
Then, she left, her wooden cane tapping the ground