The Dancer

I’d like to share the story of an encounter I had some time ago at a nearby homeless shelter where I do some volunteer work. In my role there, I counsel residents to help get them back on their feet and have the good fortune to meet many remarkable people whose stories, though often tragic, are sometimes uplifting. Michael’s story is one of those.

A man in his mid-thirties, Michael was both physically and mentally handicapped as the result of an automobile accident he caused while driving under the influence of alcohol. I’ll add that he suffers from AIDS and at the time was also fighting an addiction to narcotics. Despite his slurred speech and the hard use written on his face, he gave the impression of someone that must have been vibrant and handsome in his younger days.

At one of our many meetings, Michael seemed unusually introspective so I invited him to tell me what was on his mind. With a little coaxing, he confided that he’d been thinking a lot about how different he and life were before the accident.

“That was a long time ago, Michael.” I reminded him that he was only twenty years old at the time.

He sighed, then mournfully told me that before the accident he existed in a state of “perfection.” I didn’t know that Michael was an aspiring ballet dancer just beginning his career when the accident occurred. He glowed when he described how attractive he’d been and how wonderful life seemed. His conversation sank, however, as he returned to his present state of affairs.

I let him follow this sullen track for a bit, then interrupted.

“Tell me Michael, isn’t there anything good in your life right now?”

He brightened. “Yes!” he replied emphatically.

I have to admit I was surprised. “What is it?” I asked.

“My job! I love my job.”

I knew that Michael had been working for a discount furniture store but couldn’t imagine what warranted such enthusiasm. Michael’s job was simply this – to stand day after day at an intersection wearing a sign advertising the store’s low prices. That’s it, or so it seemed.

“Why do you love that job, Michael?” I asked somewhat bemused.

“I love it because when I’m on the street with my sign I dance for the people that pass by.”

He beamed.

“They watch and they wave…and they love me.”

Michael thought for a moment, then added, “I may not be able to dance for an audience of a thousand, but I can still dance for a thousand one person at a time.”

His words struck me deeply. It seemed that Michael had found his way back onstage in the least likely of places. As he spoke I envisioned him dancing on the corner and the places he must have traveled in his mind - and I thought about how he’d found joy where he could, working with what he had.

Most of all, he made me think about perfection. It occurred to me that most of us don’t understand perfection at all; at least we don’t know where to look for it. Michael certainly didn’t. If he did, I think he would have realized how much closer to perfection he’d come since the accident. And, perhaps he wouldn’t have mired in recollections of what he was, but would have taken heart in what he had become.

The following Sunday I spent the morning with Michael. I picked him up and took him to a church service. Then we had breakfast and scouted the area for an apartment he might afford with his disability income. People we encountered along the way probably noticed Michael’s handicaps and little more. But when I looked at Michael I saw something more. I saw the dancer on the street corner, smiling and waving at his audience, one person at a time - each performance absolutely perfect.