Mice into Footmen 

 I want to talk about what it feels like to let ourselves believe in magic. And I'm not talking about the kind of magic that requires genies, fairies, witches, or voodoo.

I'm talking about the magic we create in our own lives. How we can open the door to what is possible for us, what we want, what calls to us with a luminescent glow.

Recently I went to The Edwardian Ball. I had heard my dance teacher talking about it last year (after she went) and I was completely enthralled. I had seen photos online and it looked other-worldly, like somehow people had found a porthole into the past and stepped right in, complete with corsets and silk stockings and top hats. They had lush red fabrics and sexy elbow-length gloves and glittering bejeweled pendants. I wanted in.

I joined the Ball's facebook fan page. When tickets went on sale, I watched the action on the fan page and, like Cinderella, longed to be a part of the excitement and planning. My own evil stepmother (monkey mind) squawked that it was too expensive, that I didn't have the right clothes to wear, and that I didn't know how to ballroom dance. "You won't fit in. You will be unsightly. You'll trip over your own two feet."

I saw that the voices in my head wanted to keep me small. Keep me in the cinders. Make me feel undeserving. So, despite them (or to spite them!),  I asked my beau if he would like to go to the ball in celebration of his birthday. He was so excited. And you know what?  In the moment I invited him to the ball, I beckoned in the kind of experience I'd always wanted. I took the first step into that porthole.

Fortuitously, just when we decided to go to the ball, I was invited to participate in a focus group that paid a big chunck of money. I used those funds to budget for tickets, clothing, and dance lessons. The ball was still weeks away and I could already see the buds of magic appearing everywhere. When I went to the boutique, Dark Garden, where they were selling tickets, I saw a gorgeous red skirt I loved. I always buy my clothes at thrift stores, but I tried on the skirt and immediately felt transformed. It was swooshy and red and I could pair it with a petticoat.  I absolutely love shopping at thrift stores and finding great bargains. But I saw that there is also a part of myself who feels undeserving of new clothes. Looking at the vibrant color of the skirt in the dressing room mirror,  I heard a small "yes"— an invitation to rise, to the part of me who is on her knees, scrubbing, no amount of work ever enough.  I bought her the skirt.

My dance teacher was able to squeeze us in for a lesson so she could teach us how to waltz. We always have our lessons at my beau's apartment — he's got hardwood floors and a lovely light that streams in through the west-facing windows. We dress up for the lessons to make them feel like a party. And our teacher is vivacious and upbeat. She taught us to waltz, using Comptine d'un autre ete: L'apres midi, a piece from the movie, Amelie. When we learned the old-fashioned, "little windows,"I felt tears well up in my eyes.

There was a flurry of thrift store and costume shop visits, looking for top hats and scarves and jewels and a sundry of old-fashioned looking pieces. It was like a marvelous scavenger hunt — and each piece we found felt, indeed, as if it had been left for us by a fairy godmother. Just $1 for this black velvet scarf?! Ooh, those floral thigh-highs could be used on your arms, like gloves! Can you make cuffs out of this lace? I couldn't wait to be gliding across the ballroom together, feeling enchanted.

And finally, it was the night of the ball. In the whirlwind of shining shoes and making the tophat and tying this and stictching that, we arrived late. Not bothering to look at the program, we walked around the ballroom, in awe of the spectacular array of creative attire and decor. Sipping an absinthe drink, we we listened to the ballroom music and decided we would dance in a short while, after we got a lay of the land. Downstairs, there were crowds of people playing croquet, holding parasols, trying on hats, posing by the steam-powered motorcycle, and selling the most magical handmade clothing.

We lazily wandered and chatted and took it all in. Then we headed back upstairs to the ballroom. The mood had changed slightly. There was a band onstage, with aerial artists performing above. The music was dark and fast and fun. We looked at the program to see who this fabulous musical group was. (Rosin Coven!) And that's when we realized the ballroom dancing was completely over. What?! Yep, there were two sets of ballroom dancing — and we missed them both. The latter part of the evening was full of incredible performances and other styles of music — raucous, club, swing— but the last waltz was long over. 

The performances were great. The people-watching was great. Swing-dancing was great. But I saw myself start to slip into a dark place of disappointment about not having the chance to waltz with my beau. That had been the picture in my mind about the ball. Gliding across the floor in his arms, my skirt making a lovely swoosh, with every twirl. It was like the midnight chimes sounding just when Cinderella was about to kiss the prince. This wasn't what it was supposed to be like.

But then I remembered something. This was MY story, not some children's fairytale. Of course it was disappointing to miss the ballroom dancing. And I could allow myself to feel that. However, my evil Monkey Mind wanted to make me believe that everything was ruined because of it. I wasn't going to let it happen. The footmen weren't turning back into mice. My gown wasn't changing to rags. Those were just stories I was being told, hoping I'd return to feeling small and unworthy and cinder-covered.

When I realized that, I saw that the ball wasn't just about these few hours when everyone was gathered at the Regency Ballroom in their elegant, steampunky, luscious finery. The ball was a party that started the minute I said "yes" to going. The ball was the joy of planning and thrifting and imagining and learning to waltz. That moment during our lessons when I had teared up while waltzing with my beau? THAT was the ball. I didn't miss a thing.

And just for fun, the day after the ball, we decided to wear our costumes when we went to the galleries at SFMOMA. People chatted to us all along our walk there. It was so great. And just for fun, when we got to a clearing at Yerba Buena Park, we paused for a waltz.

What a magic ball.

Sending you encouragement to invite in your own form of magic,

xo Sherry

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