White Palms

        It has been my experience that when asking any number  of people to describe the place they grew up, few ever respond with words such as “mesmerizing“, “awe-inspiring”, or “filled with unfathomable vigor and passion“.  For myself, those words are inadequate still to describe the place responsible for molding and shaping me.  I was raised not in a house, not a place to dwell; and yet, it is the only place I call home. Skyline Gymnastics Center Ltd.; tucked deep inside the Industrial Park of York, PA; is far more than just a gymnasium. Any passerby, with minimal interest in or knowledge of the sport, upon crossing the threshold is guaranteed to leave amazed on some level.  However, its allure doesn’t just stop at fascination.  The sights and sounds, all of the smells and emotions packed within Skyline’s walls -- they float in pillows of chalky air that breathes of dedication, focus, grace, fearlessness, and unity.  Skyline Gymnastics is the only place I can step into after years of absence and be instantly overtaken by a full-body rapture of all my senses.  The surge that surrounds me whispers, “This is where you’ve always belonged.  You’re home now.”
        I can recall so vividly traipsing through the tall glass double-doors, just shy of 8 a.m., every Saturday morning for seven consecutive years.  The cold, hollow warehouse walls matched the dimly lit bulbs as the slowly awakened from their night of slumber.  A surprising deep roar from the generators kicked a blast of crisp air against the ceiling; the sound bellowed against the rafters and left a lingering metallic echo. As the puff of air began to circulate, the familiar scent of chalk filled me with a warmth more refreshing than the rush of a new spring breeze.  Tired eyes and tiny bodies layered in unmatched attire gradually roamed the mats; loosening up hardened, stiff muscles and bringing fresh blood to creaky joints.  The tearing sound of ripping athletic tape, scratching Velcro patches, and gymnasts bracing their injuries prompted accent to the music we were making.  A potent whiff of IcyHot and medicated ointments took to our noses as overused  limbs, calluses, scrapes, and bruises were all being nourished and bandaged in preparation for our hours of training ahead.
        As we became more alive with energy mounting, the magnitude of sensory experience was about to explode.  Chatter amongst little voices began to spring like faerie dust. Someone would fire up the radio; its music pulsed through the walls like rhythmic liquid energy breaking any remaining stillness.  We would scatter to our different assigned events and above all the other clamor, the high-pitched bark and shrill orders from the petite Romanian across the gym were heard loudest.  Our coach, Gabby, stood barely five feet tall and had the vocal volume of a giant.  Her words were often brutal and harsh -- not to mention occasionally undecipherable through her thick accent -- yet what she was demanding of us had value.  Her voice embodied the sound of tough training, Olympic experience, and firm direction to better perfect our skills as athletes.  The electric blue crashmats slapping and sliding against each other caught my awareness as they were dragged into place for an event.  All the auditory became rhythmic and soothing to my eardrums.  The eyes, however, had only yet to be opened to the surrounding blur.  My teammates and I were adorned in varying leotards of every size, color, style; velvets, sparkles, straps, sheens -- each marked with random streaks of white chalk and dust -- the warpaint of our homage.  From every direction there was a whirlwind of twirling bodies perched high above 4-foot high balance beams; feet turning over heads with rapid twists and rotations in tumbling passes on the floor; a sea of splits, leaps, jumps; an arena of girls taking flight in aerie whim with unmistakable force, power, and strength.
        As a casual spectator standing on the balcony overlooking our refuge, absorbing all of this activity is undoubtedly a sight to behold. There is so much stimulation as seemingly inhuman feats of the physical body are being performed and executed with unnatural ease considering their obvious difficulty.  However, as the gymnast inside that experience, every corner of the gymnasium and each apparatus possesses an individual beauty and sensation all its own.  Looking down the ominous vault runway taunted nearly every gymnast as they stood 70 feet away from the stationary object over which they were about to hurl themselves.  The reality of barreling twelve colossal strides at full-speed had a way of making that vaulting horse stare into you -- half inviting and challenging, the other half daunting and intimidating.  The vaulting runway was lined by the many sets of uneven bars that each held their own story.  This was the only event in which a gymnast didn’t depend upon her feet, and instead had an illusory sense of defying the laws of gravity and physics.  Reaching into the chalk bucket between turns, burning palms were greeted with a light, fluffy powder that was so smooth and calming to the touch.  The same chalk was also a reminder to the greater security it gave to the grip against the wooden rail that hosted  multiple rotations, catches and releases.  Brutal to the hands and fingers, the quarter-sized calluses ripped from my palms were made worth it by the gift of flight the uneven bars offered.  At the centerpiece of the arena, the floor exercise was a combination of all facets of the sport -- energy, dance, pizzazz, powerhouse tumbling, stamina, grace, elegance, polish.  The music pouring from the stereo for each routine had a way of invigorating the soul and taking you over.  There was a rush of adrenaline that brought forth a vivacity I often didn’t know I possessed.  Finally, from atop the smooth leather surfaces of a balance beam, a platform not even four inches wide, all the world was still -- the noise and bustle fell into complete silence.  I called the event my personal Echo Place.  The rest of the world is shut off, entirely still; there is no movement or sound, just you and the beam beneath you.  Precision, balance, mind control, and coordination were all peaked full-scale, for one hairline movement maligned would spell disaster.  Still, nothing felt more empowering than to turn upside-down in quick succession and nailing both feet and hands dead-center to a perfectly stuck landing.  The greatest glory in this event, was demonstrating the grace of a ballet dancer: tall, outstretched and poised, traveling all the way through the tips of toes and fingers like a flowing silk ribbon.
        Skyline Gymnastics Center was not just any other after-school activity.  I trained nearly half of my life there, more than twenty hours a week since I was six years old.  This was the place that I could escape to after classes, away from my house, and into my real home.  Teammates and coaches were my one constant and the relationships were built in likeness of the same physical strength our bodies were made of.  Gymnastics raised me with the fundamentals of responsibility, discipline, tough skin, and a mind driven on goals.  It gave me an outlet for the passion I had to dance and express the very core of my being.  Skyline Gymnastics Center is, and will always be, the only place I can return to, take a single inhalation of that chalk-scented air, and know in my soul that I’m home again.  My body may not operate like the one that trained there; but, I can now be a proud spectator and soak in all those mesmerizing sights and observe the demonstrations of extreme endurance and dedication within the ones who train there today.  I know there’s always a place for me there -- as a choreographer, future coach, competitive judge, or simply as someone never forgotten.  I’ll never forget my home at Skyline; it’s indescribable to know that it won’t forget me.