Miss Mary

There were no diamonds. No back-laced dresses. No satin ribbons for her hair.

Mary had grown accustomed to ambling through life without wishing or wanting for things she didn't earn and couldn't afford.

Often, she dreamed of a day when chickens weren't as scrawny as she, and where she could sleep in the meadows without a care like the girls did in Miss Collette's paintings. But Mary had never embodied the kind of grace those girls did. Their little pinkies looked like they coaxed the very wildflowers to dance - pirouettes and glissades through the air.

Mary, however hard she tried, always felt that her fingers were too stiff and calloused to coerce anything to change its nature. The daisies at the corner of Mr. Lewitt's yard refused to venture further down the lane to her own, and Mrs. Bea's roses still choked themselves to death, vying to be deemed the prettiest of the bush.

Every day as Mary walked by, she would practice her graces. An unsteady curtsy, far too low and awkward to pass among leisurely folk, followed promptly and without any transition to a stance she had seen one of Miss Collette's muses hold. She leaned her shoulders back, pointing her toe out from beneath the hem of her skirt and opened the full length of her arms.

She held that pose, only breaking it to bring her hands before her, straining against their stiffness to warp her little fingers into any new shapes she thought might be classified as graceful.

She stood there, eyes squeezed shut, willing the flowers to notice and finally deem her worthy of their effort.

Mary never minded that the neighbors smiled and whispered as they passed. "Practicin' her airs" they'd mumble, "Who she reckon she is?"

'Practice', she told herself, 'makes progress'. And it was true she thought, in the way she'd practiced her letters, and learned to count her coins. Graces could be learned too.

***

If this scene stayed with you, I beg you to think for a moment.

What does "grace" mean to you? Is it something you're born with, or something you learn?

What do you keep practicing, even when nothing seems to change?

For me grace is both. It's a way of carrying ourselves with confidence as we move through a world designed to overlook. It's being unique to a fault, and holding firm even when others question you. And of course, there's an aspect of effortlessness - the kind only achieved through the connection of body and soul.

I practice my writing. But I also practice liberty work and riding with my horses. Am I amazing, utterly delicate, and riding at an Olympic level? No, but the way my horse and I understand each other and connect our souls certainly feels graceful.

Please feel free to share your thoughts below.

Yours,

S. E. Barry