Happiness is this odd feeling in my stomach.
Some call it butterflies. I don't.
It's more than butterflies. It's less.
It's neither light nor heavy. It doesn't move yet is not stable.
Warm and cold cannot describe it's temperature.
It's more than a feeling. It's
A piercing feeling. I know that eyes can see. Will see. See me.
The gaze is there. I can reach out and grab it with my two hands and make a snowball.
But I'm not here for a snowball fight. I'm here for something else. Something better.
The beat. On beat. Up beat. Down beat.
I can almost feel the beat with my heart.
Getting faster and faster.
A slight wisp of warmth shines on me now.
Coming from spotlights. Mounted high.
This whim in my stomach grows.Tickles the inside.
Expanding like a balloon.
Up and down I bounce. I bounce on the balls of my feet.
Back and forth. Up and down.
Trying to shake this balloon. This growing tickle out of my stomach.
It helps.
Something scratches against my skin. A costume.
Usually cotton or wool costumes. Costumes meant to depict villagers from Russia
From Ukraine, Scotland or Columbia. From Romania, Switzerland or America.
The costume infuses the air with a starch-sweat smell.
The kind of sweat smell you smell after playing football or soccer.
The scent of victory. Of pride. Of effort.
The costume also infuses me with a sense of dignity and respect. A higher calling than just being a normal kid.
The beats speed up. My heart sings along.
My stomach jumps to one side.
The music crashes. My fingers twitch the song.
Now the tickling melts down. Down to the bottom.
The intro comes. Five, six, seven, eight.
I step into view. On beat. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot.
I smile, though my stomach now weighs heavily.
Heavy enough to ache my legs to shake. To wobble.
Yet I still smile.
Leaping now. The breeze under my arms and legs.
Jump right. Spin left. Pause.
Leap run run. Leap through the brisk air.
On beat. Up beat. Down beat.
I smile.
I present. Throwing my arms open for the world to see. For the gaze to feel me.
I notice the audience for the first time now. Hundreds of them.
Thousands maybe. But maybe my mind is playing tricks.
My stomach suddenly lurches upward. Playfully. Frighteningly. Joyfully.
The feeling in my stomach is my stomach. My stomach is the feeling.
The feeling is green. No blue. Blue with a tint of yellow.
Right foot. Left foot. Left foot. Right foot.
My mind oblivious to my body. My body following its choreography perfectly.
Just like we practiced. Rehearsed. Rehearsed hundreds of times earlier.
My focus swings away from my stomach. My odd feeling.
On beat. Up beat. Down beat.
And to my presentation. To the audience. To the kids in the left side of the third row.
They're smiling. I'm smiling.
My heart takes courage as I bound higher than before. Dance smoother. Walk brighter.
I can feel it now. The appreciation. The adoration. The admiration. Of the crowd.
The joy I help them feel is tangible. It fuels my blood. My muscles. My soul.
It is the product of this feeling I get in my stomach.
These "butterflies," if you will, are a precursor to the more wonderful product.
Applause.
The music is finished. The beating has stopped. My heart has stopped.
The warmth slowly fades away. The sweaty starch smell surrounds me.
I am swimming now in not only the gaze of hundreds,
But the thunder of clapping hands. The more wonderful product.
Applause.
The audible sign of other's enjoyment. Other's enjoyment by my dance.
Other's smiles from my actions. From my practice.
From me.
Happiness is that odd feeling in my stomach.
