“Oh why do I have to learn this stuff?” T asks, her small face screwed up with frustration and incomprehension.
It’s Tuesday morning. We’re working on the properties of three-dimensional shapes. “I mean, I’m going to be a ballerina!”
One of her dramatic sighs follows and I grin sympathetically.
With some kids, I’d branch off into sacred geometry at this point, but not this time. With others I’d talk about the uses of shape and space in construction, engineering, architecture and the like, but T isn’t going to be an engineer or an architect. She’s going to be a ballerina.
Another dramatic sigh, accompanied by such wild flexing of limbs that I have to duck to avoid the flailing arms.
Whenever I’m teaching T, I have the uneasy sensation that I’m caging a butterfly. She does her best to learn and we get along just fine, but sitting still for two hours at a stretch is far from easy for her. She just isn’t wired that way.
“Go on,” I say. “Have a few twirls around the room, then let’s get back to work.”
T has just turned eleven. She’s not just a small girl with a romantic dream. She’s a magical, exceptional, brilliant dancer. She’s been accepted for a place a one of the UK’s most prestigious dance academies in September. They have only 8 places a year and the admission standard is ridiculously high. Her mum and dad were stunned and overflowing with pride when she got her place.
The effort she has put into her dancing is incredible. The effort her parents have put into supporting her is similarly so. Her mother travels all over Somerset and beyond with her on buses and car shares to get her to dance classes, auditions and performances. Her self-employed dad has worked all hours to earn the money to fund the lessons, costumes, travel costs and so forth. They’ve been determined that nothing will get between T and her dream. Now she has her place at the academy, of course, the costs will rocket. It will involve moving from Somerset to London and paying huge tuition fees.
All that was fine. Everything was set. Dad was confident that he could earn enough, if he put everything else aside. The trouble is, one of those things he put aside was the dodgy mole. He kept meaning to get it checked at the doctors…
When he did, the diagnosis wasn’t good. The cancer has spread to his limbs and his lungs. The doctors are calling it incurable.
They don’t look for problems, T’s family, they look for solutions.
Her mum, with characteristic zeal, has researched alternative treatments and come up with one that claims a 40% success rate – the Gerson diet. It involves juicing huge amounts of fruit and vegetables for him – about 8kg a day – and more-or-less ties her to the kitchen.
Her dad – well, we can only guess at his feelings. Having always been the provider, he has been trying to carry on working, to make sure the fees for her first term can be paid by September. When he does that, he is stressing his body and not allowing it to heal.
That was the point at which T’s mum had called me. Did I know any fundraisers – someone who could take the pressure off the family and raise enough to get T through her first year at the academy?
“Why me? And why NOW?” the small reptilian part of my brain asked – the part that’s hell-bent on self-preservation. “This will take massive amounts of time and effort and energy… I’ve done this life experience before – several times. I’ve supported children I teach through the illness, sometimes even the death of a parent. I’ve helped them with fundraising. Couldn’t the Universe share things out a bit? I have so much else to deal with right now…”
And here was T, sitting in my study on this Tuesday morning, telling me she’s going to be a ballerina.
What was I supposed to say? ‘Actually no, sweetheart, you’re not. You’ll be going to the local comprehensive, there won’t be any money left for dance classes and on top of that, your dad’s cancer is terminal.’
No. I would not be saying that.
Miracle Machine (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
“Walk your talk,” the other end of my consciousness from the reptile was telling me. “Think about it. You believe in creating miracles. You’ve been blogging on about it for months.
” Why have you been given this life experience again? Why do you think?? Because this time, you have something new to bring to it. You have the knowledge that – if they are expected, lightly yet with conviction – miracles happen. And a few miracles are needed here and now, are they not?”
“Yes,” I said, humbly.
So this is where LIME (Life Is Miracles Expected) magic becomes interactive.
Click away NOW if you don’t want to get involved.
Or is it too late? Are you already caught up in T’s story?
Ideally, I’d like… every person who reads this blog to put some energy into helping T’s miracles arrive.
Your energy may be in the form of money – however much you’d feel comfortable transforming into energy to help pay for her academy fees.
It may be in the form of reblogging this post, or linking to it on social media, so that it reaches more people, who can also join our creation.
It may be that you will send healing and positive energy to Christian – T’s dad.
Or you may have other wonderful ideas for ways of creating these miracles.
Any money that reaches my PayPal account from the ‘make a donation’ button below will, you have my word, go into the fund a family friend is setting up for T. I promise I’ll keep you informed of progress, because you now have a part in this story.
Thank you for sharing your energy and helping to make this happen.