Love for dancing captured again

My hair slicked back and coiled in the once familiar bun at the crown of my head, I smoothed one leg of my pink tights and then the other over my calves, and adjusted the neckline of my leotard. Standing in front of the small mirror in the bathroom of the Koresh dance studios on 20th and Chestnut, I took a deep breath and opened the door.

I had been promising myself for far too long that I would take a ballet class. Just five years ago this scene would have been commonplace, if not almost innate. But after a long absence from what had once been five days and a total of over 20 hours per week of intensive classes I was so much more aware of each added pound that had crept onto my small body after high school, or how the leotard felt foreign hugging curves that were not there before and how twisting my hair -- once requiring only a graceful flip of my wrist -- was an awkward endeavor.

Though I am not sure what finally convinced me to work up the nerve to go to Koresh to take the beginner ballet class, I am sure it had something to do with running into my old ballet teacher, Miss Maxine (whom I adored and admired), at the supermarket over break, and of admiring just one more Pennsylvania Ballet billboard on the side of a bus stop as I commuted to work. And perhaps, just of missing what had once been a huge part of my identity, of my life.

So, there I stood, at the barre, not quite sure of what to expect. One side of me wondered if perhaps I had lost "it" altogether. Though I was no prima ballerina, no Gelsey Kirkland even during my hey day, I had a pretty decent level of proficiency, and ability to execute the steps with poise and grace.

But even more frightening was the louder voice inside of me -- my perfectionist side -- which in a most improbable way expected I would stand at the barre that Monday afternoon and return to the very level of proficiency at which I had abandoned ballet . On this latter expectation -- the one in my heart of hearts I was hoping would win out over the other decidely more realistic one -- I was sorely mistaken.

I was correct in thinking I would recall the names of the movements, the sequence of the exercises executed at the barre and in the center of the room. Like the alphabet or a music scale, one does not quickly forget a veritable dictionary of terms, especially when they become ingrained through physical reinforcement. However, though my mind knew the steps and knew intellectually how to execute them, my body refused to comply.

Looking in the mirror at my reflection I was angry that my body was defying me. My tendu did not look like the picture of a tendu that was etched in my mind from 13 years of strict training, my legs would not rotate from the hip sockets away from the pelvis as I had been taught to do since I was five and that my develope dared not to elevate above a 45 degree angle though I knew nothing less than 90 degrees was considered acceptable. I was never one for mediocrity.

I found some solace though in looking around the room. As incorrect as I felt I was in executing the steps and as out of shape as I was, I still felt that I was holding my own in the class. A hearty and almost comical mix of pubescent high schoolers, college co-eds, middle-aged professional women, and yes, four men well into their middle years, I was doing ok. Clothed in everything from t-shirts and shorts, sweatpants and tank tops to traditional leotards and tights, I found comfort in the fact that my gear looked the part.

Though that first class itself was not mentally challenging -- the combinations were much more simplistic than I had been used to, and the teacher went over the execution of each step with a snail-like pace -- I was physically exhausted. My body had forgotten what it felt like to move that way. And yes, my ego was pretty badly bruised.

But I forced myself to go back and have gone at least three times per week since. Each time I put on a leotard it feels a little more normal, and now my hair practically twists itself into a perfect ballerina bun. I stand at the front of the room for floor exercises by choice, and allow myself once again to enjoy th beauty of what is at its essence an art form. To the lilting strains of the live pianist, I can look in the mirror and once again admire the curve of my arm in first position as I prepare for a combination.

I remember the last few months of my serious ballet training in high school as not being the most pleasant. Angry at having to make the decision to give up ballet to pursue my academics, coming to the realization that I would never be able to fulfill my childhood fantasy of going professional because my body was never right and never would be right -- I had lost the joy of just dancing.

This past Monday after rushing out early from work and practically jogging the six blocks to make it on time to the studio, class was almost over and the teacher instructed us to do a series of big jumps across the floor to conclude the lesson. I was winded, more out of breath than I had been in a long while, with sweat dripping down my back, into my eyes. But as I moved across the floor overwhelmed by a new found sense of lightness, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, my chiffon skirt caught the air, my legs outstretched in arabesque position -- and I found the joy once more.

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