Glass jars, filled with bouquets of colored pens and pencils, are rushed to the windowsill. Against the walls, chairs are stacked on top of one another. Tables are lifted by children on both ends and shifted to the edges of the room.
Eager fingers tug at the corners of a shower curtain, spreading it across the carpet. I focus the children’s eyes on the steps to the BrainDance, re-folding the top half of the curtain, re-concealing dance concepts to be discovered on another day.
Gliding my fingers across the surface of my iPod Touch, I select a danceable tune.
“Breathe,” I instruct the children. Lifting my hands above her head, I loudly inhale. “Breath out,” I command, and lower my hands. Six smiling faces purse their lips, dramatically releasing carbon dioxide. Someone looks at their watch. Another boy’s eyes are focused on his shoes. I only see 12 hands raised in the air. Not everyone thinks this is cool.
We are on our bellies. Stretching our arms and legs into the surrounding space; we are starfish on the shore of a bright green carpet. Wiggling their legs above their heads, every third grader is on the floor.
“Move only your right side,” I shout above the music and giggles. I rotate my right arm and leg in broad circles and glimpse over my shoulder. Someone is looking at their watch.
Back on the floor, we are reaching across our bodies, connecting the left hand with the right foot. The music continues. Back and forth, the eight-year-olds switch hands and feet. From behind me someone hollers, “best unit ever!”
Watching our breath push against our stomachs, we lie on the bright green carpet. A leg bounces up and down next to my head. “Our bodies are still,” I gently remind everyone, and all I hear is the end of the song.
Tables are lifted by children on both ends and shifted to the center of the room. Chairs are unstacked. Glass jars, filled with bouquets of colored pens and pencils, are fetched from the windowsill.