Whenever I hear “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies,” I am six years old again, lying on a nap rug in my first grade classroom—warm and safe.
Kindergarten wasn’t required back then, so first grade was my first real taste of school—and I loved it.
After lunch, my teacher — Mrs. Quanstrom — told us to get out our nap rugs and lie down. She turned off the lights, but the room never got completely dark. The tall classroom windows still let in the afternoon light, filtered through the oak trees that lined that side of the school.
After turning off the lights, she put a record on the classroom player. I don’t remember all of the songs she played, but “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies” was my favorite.
The room was very quiet except for the music. We could take a nap if we wanted to, but I was always too interested in listening.
The rug beneath me was soft. Mom knew why the teacher asked us to bring one, so she chose a rug she knew would be comfortable to lie on.
I don’t remember ever falling asleep. I was too busy listening—to the music, to the quiet, to the feeling of being exactly where I belonged.
I didn’t always keep my eyes closed, but I did most of the time. And when “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies” played, I could see them in my imagination.
The fairies were small and light, and they danced and twirled in the air above me.
Even now, when I hear that music, I am six years old again, lying on that soft rug in a classroom washed in afternoon light.
I am still lying on that rug.
And I can still see the fairies.
No, I never did fall asleep during nap time.
I was already dreaming.
Through My Eyes, Gently 