There are certain joys that choices or circumstance takes
out of your life. They can occur during
any point in your life for any myriad of reasons. Sometimes they lie happily in the past as a
memory of times gone by, while at other times they nag at you as you move
through life, the what-ifs that flash through your dreams or line the pages of
a journal. When the nagging thoughts
become loud enough, or your life becomes quiet enough, to heed them you should.
For me, this joy was dancing. Which, if you know me at all now, might seem comical.
But look at those ladies…those are some happy hippos. And
despite advanced years, permanently torn ligaments in both ankles, far too much
weight, and a bone chip floating around in my left knee I want to dance.
When I was a young girl I danced ballet, and danced
well. I was always the youngest in my
class, put on pointe when I was 8. My,
at the time, father loved the arts and encouraged me in my love of all things
classical. He would play the soundtracks of Swan Lake, Cinderella and
Nutcracker as I twirled about the house in my costumes on any given school
night. I was allowed, and even encouraged,
to be that rare combination of iron and air that a female dancer must
have. All the familiar rituals of the
dancer made me happy, the hair being pulled into a bun, the muted pink tights
followed by a leotard…the official uniform of Dance. I can still remember the fresh leather smell
of new shoes as I sewed on my elastic straps…and later the smooth pink satin
ribbons onto the stiff pointe shoes, bending and whacking them against the
floor until the box fit my ever growing toes.
But as seems to be the nature of “growing up” all things and
hobbies must have a purpose. It was quickly
evident that while I loved dancing I was not a performer. My routines would be perfect in the studio,
but put me on a stage and I froze. I was
not going to be a dancer because I was not a performer. For me this was completely acceptable, but
for my mother this officially dropped me in the, “no longer worthwhile for your
future” bucket. However, my father was still very much on my side and so I
danced on. Until they divorced. And just like that the arts were gone from my
life. The season theater tickets were
gone. The classical music was gone. The
tutus were gone. Without him the
practicality of my mother’s side won over.
All of the sudden I was too tall, there was no career in this, there was
no scholastic advancement in prancing about.
It was to be given up. Replaced with something more relatable…sports. And so the soft pink shoes were replaced with
Nikes, the leotard with t-shirts and the brightly lit studios with the glare of
gym lights. I was a kid, it was fine. Go
along to get along…and sports provided the same positive affirmation as dance,
with the additional bonus of looking good on transcripts if I excelled through
junior high and high school varsity (which, of course, I did).
Looking back it was a smart move on my mother’s part. My mother is good like that. Keeping the long
term game plan in mind for how to be a success.
Dancing would not have lead anywhere. And with distinctly non ballerina
breasts sprouting and ruining my triple pirouettes who knows if I would have
continued to dance for much longer anyway.
But what-if….what-if the folks hadn’t divorced and the arts
had stayed up-front and center in my family’s list of priorities. Would I still
have developed into the pragmatic, logical, task oriented person I am
today? Or would I have become more
artsy? That I really have no clue
about. What I do know is that here I am
20 years later, having jumped through the hoops of life and at a point where I
want to do something simply for the joy of it. Not for where it will get me or
it’s applicability to future avenues of success. But simply for the feeling it brings me.
I thought the answer to reaching that feeling was yoga. I was doing my sun salutation and realized
that I loved the movement…but that the mat was far too confining, the music far
to sedated, and the joy far too muted. And
so I folded it up, changed the music, and dragged a chair to the middle of the
room. Lightly placing my hand on the “bar”
I closed my eyes and it all came flooding back to me. The gentle warm-up
routine in the five positions (well actually just four, my thighs and out-turn
have fifth position out of my reach at the moment). The forward and backward bends that stretch
all the way to your fingertips. And I smiled.
There is no stage other than the 12 feet of my living room.
My audience of one, a bored canine, is really all I can manage, and even then I
feel she is a bit judgmental with her yawns and up cast eyes. There are no pink tights or slippers (nor
should there be). And there is definitely no social benefit to this activity. But there is the simple feeling of joy for its
own sake. And that bit is wonderful.
Cheers
__________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment