Rhapsody: Butterfly in A Box (Volume One) Chapter 3/15 By Tara Nicole Miller Copyright © 2025 Tara Nicole Miller All Rights Reserved. Word Count 5,000

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First Position

"A dancer's art is not just a performance, but a kind of magic, a way to make the impossible possible."
Noel Streatfeild, Ballet Shoes.

So, back to me. It’s all about me, after all! Giggle. Anyways, school has been astonishingly uneventful, thank goodness. That’s not to say I haven’t been having fun with my friends and enjoying learning new things. I have, very much so. Just, it’s all so normal. Except now I get to wear pigtails and earrings and nail polish and dresses and tights and pretty shoes and…! Brooke was right. I’ll never tire of the delights of being a girl. Ooh! And lipgloss!

It didn’t take long for mom to get me into a ballet class. And you won’t believe this, Olivia is in it, too! I know, right? The studio is just a couple miles away, so it’s not too much of a strain on mom and dad. Since I’m at school for several hours a day and out of mom’s hair, she’s gone back to work at the huge bookstore she owns. It’s in an old Victorian-like house and all three storeys have books! Old books, new books, rare books, but all about Metaphysics and the Occult. New Age, I guess you’d say. You wouldn’t think there’d be so many, but there must be miles of shelving in that house! I love going there and exploring!

Anyway, since she owns the store, she can take off whenever she wants and can be at my beck and call. Just kidding! I only do ballet so far, so I’m not too much of a liability just yet. I joined just in time to get in on the practice for The Nutcracker, to be performed around Christmastime, of course. Since I’m just a newbie, I’ll probably be like a tree or a fire hydrant or something. A ‘dancing ability is optional’ sort of thing. But I am learning all the pretty moves all while learning about muscles I never knew existed on my body.

The teacher (Madame Garnier - Pronounced Garn-yay!) keeps it fun, though. We are only little after all, from about five to eight years of age I would guess. There’s two boys in the class out of fifteen aspirants. One seems like he’s been doing this for a little while, but the other - I shouldn’t like to say!

The studio is a room made of glass and wood. It smells like grandma’s house on cleaning day, all shiny and new and old at the same time. My mom had just dropped me off, her hand on my shoulder for an extra second before she let me go. "Go get 'em, sweet pea," she'd whispered, and for a second I felt like a football player about to run out on the field. Nah!

I was wearing a borrowed black leotard that felt tight and funny, and my new shiny black Mary Janes. I felt like a little beetle. I couldn’t wait to get my new outfit with proper ballet shoes! I saw Olivia smiling at me from the line of other girls. She was wearing a pink leotard, jealous!, and her hair was in a perfect, neat bun. I felt a little out of sorts, but then Madame Garnier (Garn-yay!) clapped her hands.

"First position, children!" she said. Her voice was like a musical instrument, and she moved like a floating swan. "Heels together, toes out. Feel the floor."

I did what she said. I put my heels together and pointed my toes out, and it felt so strange. I felt a stretch in muscles I didn't even know I had. But when I looked at myself in the big mirror, I saw something new. I wasn't just Sage anymore. I was a dancer.

Madame Garnier put on some music, a slow, gentle tune that felt like a whispered secret. She told us to do a plié—a word that felt as soft and round as the move itself. We bent our knees and went down, down, down, and then up, up, up. My body felt like a puppet on a string, but a happy one.

Next to me was a boy named Leo. He was a new boy, too, but not like me. He didn’t have to wear a dancer’s belt to hide his boy bits. He was wearing a shirt and shorts, and he was all angles and elbows. When he tried to plié, his knees went in different directions, and he wobbled like a spinning top that was about to fall over. He looked so mad at the music, like it was its fault he couldn't do what it wanted.

I looked at my own reflection. My arms went up like they knew what to do, and my knees moved together like they were best friends. It felt like I was humming inside, a happy little secret that only I could feel. I wasn't just doing what Madame Garnier said; I was listening to the music, and the music was listening to me. It wasn't about being strong or fast. It was about being... graceful. Graceful - moi? Giggle.

I looked over to the side and saw dad! When did he come in? He was watching from the corner. He had a look on his face I’d never seen before. It wasn’t the intense, "Broncos are winning!" look. It was a soft, quiet look. It was the look of a person seeing a beautiful, unfolding truth. And for the first time in my life, I wasn't scared of what he saw. I felt like for the very first time, he was seeing me. I couldn’t help but smile.
Dad’s POV, gleaned from his journal and stories:

I arrived only a few minutes after Stephanie had dropped Sage off for her first Ballet class. Problem at one of the job sites - what else is new? I immediately saw her across the room - a black swan, entranced, floating. I sat down to watch what I thought would be a stumbling embarrassment for her. But, I knew I’d be proud anyway.

The music swelled, a delicate waltz that filled the studio along with the scent of pine and polished wood. Sage, a small figure in borrowed tights and a leotard, now stood poised at the barre. She’d been hesitant at first, her hands gripping the smooth wood as if it were a lifeline. But then the teacher, a woman with a kind face and impossibly straight posture, had called out, “First position, children. Feel the floor.”

And Sage had felt it. I know she did, even I could feel it like there was an invisible thread connecting our two hearts. She, we, felt not just the floor, but the hum of the music, the subtle pull of her own muscles. My muscles twitched in unison. As she moved through the pliés and the tendus, it wasn't a performance; it was a discovery. I could feel her body, which had always felt like a foreign country she told me, a place she was just visiting, now felt like home. She watched her reflection in the vast mirror, a reflection that was no longer a boy trying to be a boy or a girl, but something more fluid and graceful. It was no longer trying, just being.

Across the room, a boy stumbled. His arms flailed like a windmill in a storm, his face a mask of frustration. He seemed like a good kid, earnest and trying his best, but the music seemed to defy him. He was all angles and effort, while Sage, it felt like she was a curve, a whisper. I watched in awe the ease with which Sage moved, the way she seemed to intuit the rhythm, and I’m quite sure my face held a fathomless expression. I’d come expecting to feel awkward and out of place, the father of an ersatz boy, in a room full of girls in tutus. But what I saw was my child, lit from within, a joy so pure it brought a lump to my throat. For the first time, I didn't see a future filled with fear; I saw a present filled with a beautiful, unfolding truth. At that moment, I saw the most beautiful girl in the world.

Isn’t Daddy just the greatest? He actually wrote most of that, verbatim, in bed that night. I didn’t know he had those kind of feelings or words. I guess we were all evolving together.

By the next Ballet class, I had my new outfit. Of course I had to have my first dance dress be pink! What else?

Madame Garnier said my skirt was too big, but I thought it was just right!

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Gosh, that was a happy moment for me! I was so excited. I thought I looked like a princess. I felt like a princess and the world was my oyster, or at least a clam. Oh, that card in my hand? That was the notice of the recital for the Nutcracker. I was about to give it to my Daddy, as soon as he put his phone down!

Across the room, I noticed Leo. He still hadn’t gotten control of his arms and elbows and his face was again a mask of frustration. He seemed so confused by the music, like it was a fill-in-the-blanks test instead of multiple choice. I remember watching him and feeling a little ache in my chest. He looked so alone.

And then I had this thought, a little thought, but it was so big it filled up my whole head. I know what that feels like. To be a riddle. To be a blank, or a question mark. To feel like you’re not in the right place, like you can’t get your body to do what you want it to. My own frustration from the car ride with Daddy, from the teasing at the game, from a whole lifetime of feeling a little off-center—it all came rushing back. I can help him. I know I can. Because I know what he's feeling.

I couldn't just stand there. My body seemed to move on its own. I went over to him, my feet moving in a plié I'd just learned, and I stood beside him. I didn't say anything. I just gently lifted his arm and showed him how to hold it. He looked at me, his eyes wide and surprised. He didn't say anything either. He just let me, and together, in the silence, we did another plié. It wasn't perfect, not for him, but this time, it was a little less wobbly.

After class, Leo finally spoke and said my dress was really pretty. Or did he say I was pretty? Well, they meant the same thing to me anyhow. I thanked him and smiled. “You’re getting it Leo, you just need to feel the music.” I did a pirouette and giggled my way into my dad’s arms.

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A Tremendous Thing Dies

"You have been my friend," replied Charlotte. "That in itself is a tremendous thing."
~E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web

I was doing a plié in the kitchen, still humming the ballet music, when the phone rang. It was Chloe, and her voice sounded tight and different, like a balloon losing its air. My heart did a little flip in my chest. Something was wrong.

"Hey, Sage," she said, so quietly I almost couldn't hear her.

"Hey! Are you ready for our sleepover?" My excitement was a bright, happy thing, and it bounced off of her quietness. "I'm going to bring my new pajamas with the butterflies on them!"

There was a long pause, and then a shaky little breath. "Sage, I... I can't," Chloe said. "My mom says you can't come over."
My smile slid right off my face. "Why? Did I do something wrong?"

"No! It's not you," Chloe said, her voice a rush of words. "I told my parents about you. I told them you used to be a caterpillar but now you're a butterfly. And... they said they don't believe in that. They said it's... it's a phase. And that my dad says you're a boy and you're sick. He said you're a 'confused little boy'."

The words hit me like a bag of rocks. "Confused little boy." The phrase, so familiar, so old, was like a ghost I thought I had buried. I felt my skin get cold and my stomach turn over. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that her parents were wrong, but all the words got stuck in my throat.
"I'm sorry," Chloe whispered. "I'm really, really sorry. They said I'm not allowed to be friends with you anymore." And then, there was a click, and the line went dead.

I stood there for a long time, the silence stretching and humming in my ears. The kitchen felt cold and big, and the feeling that had just started to feel right—the feeling of being a butterfly—was gone. I was a caterpillar again, and I was all alone. A single tear fell, but it held all the pain in the universe.

I don't remember much of the few hours after that. But, when mom got home, I was just put together enough to tell her what Chloe said. My voice was small as a pinprick. Well, caterpillar voices are, aren’t they? My mom's face went from soft to hard in an instant, and she put her arms around me. She didn't say anything, but I could feel her shaking with a quiet rage. Not just that, I could hear her howling inside from the pain we both shared.

The next day at school, the silence around me was louder than the boys at recess. Chloe wouldn't look at me. When I tried to say hello, she just stared at her shoes and walked away. I felt a stinging in my eyes, but I didn't cry. My mom had taught me that warrior princesses don't cry; they take the pain and transmute it into positive action. I didn’t know what that action could possibly be at the moment, though. I really, really just wanted to cry. I’m a girl for real now, aren’t I allowed to cry?

At lunch, Olivia and Lily saw me sitting alone. Olivia's face was a mirror of my sadness. She came over and slid into the seat next to me.
"Chloe's mom is a jerk," she said, not as a question but as a fact.

"Her dad says my parents are making me sick," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "He says I'm a confused little boy."
Olivia's eyes, so kind and steady, filled with fire. "No, you're not," she said fiercely. "You're Sage. You're a butterfly. And my mom says you're the bravest person she's ever met."

Lily, who had been listening, pulled her chair closer. "My mom said the same thing," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "And she said that if Chloe's mom wants to be mean, we'll just have our sleepovers at my house. And you'll come to every single one, and twice on Sunday!" We couldn’t help but giggle at that.

A little piece of my heart that had been broken came back to me. They didn't just tell me it was okay; they chose me. They chose the butterfly with the broken wing - the fallen warrior princess. And in that moment, in the middle of a noisy cafeteria, I realized that, although I knew my path was fraught and that I would probably get hurt way too often, I didn't have to fight my battles alone. I also decided that I would allow myself to cry. Mother Earth likes a bit of rain. It’s actually nourishing, isn’t it? So, if it’s good enough for her…

“Mommy? I decided it’s okay to cry.” I said at dinner.

“Oh, did you?” She replied with a little grin, lifting a fork of spaghetti to her mouth.

“Yes!” I nodded emphatically. “I mean, come on, I’m just a little girl!” Mom and dad laughed so hard I thought noodles would start coming out of their noses.

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The Princess in the Costume Box

"I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics. Even if they dress in rags, even if they aren't pretty, or smart, or young. They're still princesses."

~ Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess

That incident with Chloe reminded me of a time when I wasn’t even five yet. My mother, Stephanie, is a California girl through and through, the epitome of the pretty, bouncy blonde with a spiritual side. Her parents, my Hollywood grandparents, are producers who promote a long line of liberal causes, a whole different world from my father's Kansas farming family. She could find the sacred in a sunset and the story in a paperback. And it was my mother who had the idea for the costume box.

It was a big, heavy trunk in the middle of our playroom, filled with the castoffs from my mother's various productions: a satin cape from a Shakespeare play, a floppy hat from some old musical, a pair of cowboy boots that clomped and squeaked when I wore them. I loved that box. It was a place where I could be anyone I wanted to be. A princess, a pirate, a lady astronaut. I could be a whole new person with just a piece of fabric.

One day, I pulled out a long, velvet dress, a beautiful thing the color of a winter sky. It had little pearls stitched around the neck. I pulled it over my head, and it felt right. My body, which had always felt like a question mark, was suddenly an exclamation point, or at least an asterisk. I twirled around in front of the full-length mirror, the velvet swishing around my knees, and I felt as beautiful as a princess.
My kinda friend Max, who was over for a playdate, walked in. "Hey," he said, and then his smile slid right off his face. "Why are you wearing a dress?"

His voice wasn't mean. It was just... confused. It was the same tone my father's parents used when they called me "him." The same tone the teacher used when she told me to go play with the boys. It was the sound of a question I couldn’t answer because the answer felt so obvious.
"Because," I said, a little defensively. "I like it."

Max just shrugged. "Boys don't wear dresses."

The words hit me like a splash of cold water. It wasn't confusion in me. It was confusion in the world. I knew who I was. Why didn't they? I wasn’t a boy playing a girl; I was a girl playing a girl. Being a girl. I looked at my reflection in the mirror again, and the beautiful princess was gone. In her place was a tiny boy in a dress, and it felt all wrong. I wanted to tell him that people can be more than one thing at once, that a person can be a boy and a girl, a pirate and a princess, but I didn't have the words yet. I just felt the world trying to put me in a box that didn't fit.

Later, my mom found me sitting in the corner with the velvet dress crumpled in my hands. She didn't say anything. She just sat down beside me, and she took my hand. And in that quiet moment, I knew that my own body was a book, and that the world was still learning how to read it. I knew that I was like Jo March, a girl who didn't fit in the box the world made for her, but a girl who was all the more powerful for it. I was just a little girl, but my life, I knew then, was going to be a story, and I was going to be the one to tell it.

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The Secret Garden

To those who love it, a secret garden can be the beginning of all sorts of things.

~ Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

A couple days later, mom picked me up from school so we could go see Dr. Evans. Dad couldn’t come this time for some reason, so it was just us girls singing to Unstoppable on the radio. That song is so cool! It’s funny how songs have all taken on a different meaning for me lately. Hmmm. As we were coming up to Chloe’s house, I stopped singing. “What?” Mom asked.

“That’s Chloe’s house.” I said, my voice flat and sad.

“It’s not very nice, is it? Could do with a makeover. I think I’m glad you weren’t able to stay there.” She said, sounding like an angry cat.
“Why? I’m not.” I pouted.

“Well, sweetie, it’s a mess! Look! It might not be safe, and the condition of a home is often indicative of the condition of the people living there.” She stated.

“That’s silly! Chloe’s perfectly fine. Lovely, in fact. I’ve never met her parents, but… Hey. Mommy? Do you think Daddy would help me fix their yard? I bet that would make Chloe’s parents happy. Maybe they’re mean because their house is icky and that makes them sad?” I tried to rationalize with my little girl logic.

“Or maybe they’re just mean, ignorant, ornery people!” Mom spat.

“Don’t get mad, Mommy. I mean it. I’m gonna do it whether dad helps me or not.” Mom just looked at me with a puzzled look on her face. I lost my edge for a moment and in a tiny voice I asked, “Um, can you show me where the garden tools are and maybe what they look like?” She just laughed and shook her head as we pulled into Dr. Evans’ driveway. “Now her yard is pretty, isn’t it mommy?”

“It sure is. Wow, it’s like an English garden!” She said with awe. And there, the seeds of a plan were germinated. Oh no, I guess they would have to be planted first. Okay, the seeds of a plan were waiting on a store shelf at Home Depot!

The day we went to Home Depot was like going to a magical armory. Daddy, with his big toolbelt and an even bigger smile, was my knight in shining denim and leather. I’d asked him, in my most solemn voice, if he would help me with a secret mission. He looked at me with those serious, thoughtful eyes of his, the ones that could read a spreadsheet or delve into my heart. "A mission?" he'd said. "What kind of mission?"
"A sort of, I don’t know, a mission of beauty," I'd whispered. "For Chloe, and her parents. Maybe brighten their day? Make them happy? Maybe?" I looked from under my lashes.

He didn't hesitate. He now showed me the difference between a rake and a hoe, the perfect gloves for a little girl's hands, and the right kind of seeds to make a patch of dirt happy again. He even bought me a whole set of small pink and black garden tools! (Ooh! Blackpink! Yeah, so I love K-pop. Shut up!) He never once laughed at my little girl logic, even when I explained that if we made Chloe’s parents' house pretty, they would maybe stop being so mean.

The day of the mission was a Saturday. Daddy wore his old work clothes, and I had my new gardening gloves and a pretty new sun hat. We drove to Chloe’s house, and I felt my stomach flip-flop like an Aspen leaf in a brisk wind. What if Chloe saw me? What if her parents came out? What if they were still mad?

The house looked even sadder up close. The lawn was a patchy, yellow disaster, and the flower beds were full of weeds that looked like angry chickens. Daddy got to work right away, pulling weeds with a quiet intensity. He taught me how to use the proper tool and put my whole body into it, how to feel the weed let go of the dirt, making sure the root came out whole.

Then he handed me a packet of seeds and let me go to work in a quiet corner. I poked my finger into the freshly tilled soil and could practically feel the earth talking to me. And in that quiet moment, with the seeds and the soil, I knew exactly what Mary Lennox meant when she said the magic was in the garden. This may not be Misselthwaite Manor, but it’ll do. I glanced over at Daddy. I bet he can feel it too. We didn't talk much. We didn’t have to. We were just two dirt-smudged ninjas on a mission, a father and his daughter, working side-by-side.

Then, Chloe’s mom came to the door. I froze. She was a tall, thin woman with a hard face. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice as sharp as a thorn.

My heart pounded against my ribs. I looked at Daddy. He straightened up, wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, and looked her right in the eye. "My daughter," he said, his voice quiet but firm, "had an idea that your yard could use some help. So we're helping. I hope you don’t mind?"

Chloe's mom just stared at him. “You’re not looking for money, are you? Cos I haven’t got it!”

“No ma’am, free of charge, I promise. Courtesy of the Pink Hats Garden Club.” Dad replied, looking at me with a smile. I giggled, hard.
Then her eyes went to me, and for the first time, her face wasn't hard. It was confused. A little flicker of something I hadn't seen before—maybe it was shame peeking through the remnants of anger, maybe it was something else—but it flickered across her face. She didn't say anything else. She just shook her head, went back inside and closed the door. At least she didn’t know who we were. That’s something to be grateful for. I would have been so embarrassed!

Daddy went back to weeding, but I couldn't stop looking at the house. Gosh, she was like the Tyger in that neat poem (We read Blake’s collection, Songs of Innocence and of Experience in your class, Mrs. Collins - thanks for that!) "Did he who made the Lamb make thee?" I couldn’t help but wonder, in different terms back then, how people could be so different, some mean and some nice.

I had expected a big fight, a shouting match, but instead, there was just this quietness. I looked at Daddy, and he smiled. (He had stared down the tyger, just when I thought it was going to devour this little lamb!) It wasn't his usual big, goofy smile. It was a small, knowing smile. A ninja smile maybe? I’m pretty sure there was more to that smile than the vision of one of his company trucks rounding the corner and hauling sod up to the curb.

That was quite the surprise for me. Also, dad had noticed the Chloe family didn’t have a sprinkler system, so he and his guys installed one as quiet and sneaky as they could. Then he programmed it. “We have one hour (it sounded like Ow-ah) Sage-kan, then we must make good our escape.” He said, his lips moving out of sync with his words. I giggled and got to rolling the sod into place. Gosh, I could barely move those huge rolls, but, nothing rolls like a roll, so I was able to get on with it. That was actually pretty fun, feeling the dirt and the cool grass under my fingertips. I Marveled at how it could keep growing even though most of its roots had been shaved off. We were all at it before long and finished way before the sprinklers went off. Wow, a whole yard in less than an hour! It was just beautiful. I wanted to just run and tumble through it. Gaah!

We didn’t just plant seeds, no, we also planted actual live greenery, what dad called annuals and perennials and the seeds I planted would come up at a different time of the year. It was all very scientific and botanical-like. And gorgeous, I might add. It wasn’t Dr. Evans’ English Garden gorgeous. Not yet. I’m hoping to watch the plants grow over time and see how the landscape changes and matures and hopefully blooms. It’s so exciting!

I doubt we made so much as a ripple in the ocean of distress that must consume Chloe's parents. But, dad said we did something just as important. We showed them that even in the face of unkindness, we would still choose to be kind. I thought that was cool. I hadn’t even thought about being kind, really, I just thought it would be nice. I kinda felt compelled to do it, like it needed to be done and I was the person to do it. I know that sounds pretty weird, but, what can I say? I’m a weird little girl.

To be continued...

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Check out Tara's newest songs and lyric videos! Links below.

In the world of Rhapsody, where the lines between art, memory, and political gravity blur, these two pieces stand as pivotal pillars. They represent the artful reclamation of a voice that refuses to be silenced by the cold white rooms of the past or the walls of ice in the present.

Here is a glimpse into the sound and soul of the journey:

Wrong (But I Was Right) A cinematic reclamation of truth. This track dives into the sterile, high-stakes atmosphere of the "cold white room," where identity is contested and sovereignty is won through the sheer power of the creative fire. It is a soaring, orchestral anthem for anyone who has ever had their reality questioned—and dared to be right.

Because I Dared (#Minneapolis) A gritty, high-octane homage to the streets of Minneapolis. Blending dark-chamber noir with the defiant, syncopated pulse of a drumline, this track is a march for the "sleeveless hearts." It captures the irony of a still-life tragedy and the explosive triumph of choosing to live and be free in the face of the storm. Don't forget to "Like" it, even if you only love it!

Explore the rest of the garden on her YouTube channel: Tara Nicole Miller on YouTube

If this song or Sage’s journey touched your heart today, please consider heading over to YouTube and giving the video a 'Like.' It’s a small click for you, but it’s a huge signal to the 'machine' that our voices matter and our stories deserve to be heard.