I am 38 years old, and I just took my first ballet class.
My two older sisters were talented dancers who continued their practice well into high school and college. By the time I was born, when they were 14 and 15 years old, their beloved dance teacher had passed away. Convinced that no other instructor could compete with Ms. Stein's blend of strict discipline and gentle nurturing, my parents decided that I would not take classes. I've always been drawn to dance and wanted to try, but the window for becoming a dancer seemed closed already by the time I was old enough to decide for myself. I channeled my creative energies elsewhere.
A few weeks ago, as I was dropping off my six-year-old daughter at her dance class, I noticed a flyer. "Adult Ballet. All levels. Saturday mornings." There was no hesitation. I registered on the spot.
I was a little nervous as I entered the studio yesterday. It was immediately clear that there were many unspoken rules and expectations that I was going to have to figure out on my own. My apprehension quickly became a sense of excitement, however; this was my very first class. I didn't have to be good at it, and frankly, no one expected me to be. I find I don't get the chance to be a beginner at very much these days, and the freedom to fail exuberantly made me downright giddy.
Our instructor was muscular and lithe. He wore a short black scarf, inexplicably entered the studio carrying only an egg carton, and spoke with a lush Polish accent without ever introducing himself. I was completely captivated and hanging on his every word. I danced without any grace, but I appreciated that Mr. Golek (as I would learn) took the time to explain what we were doing. Yes, he wanted us to do the exercises. But he also wanted to make sure we knew what they were called, how they translated in the French, why we were doing them, and how they should feel. At one point, he chuckled good-naturedly at the class. "Oh, you are all adults," he mused.
"When we become adults, something happens in our bodies," he continued. "We begin to fall backwards, we fear what is coming, we protect." He exaggerated his demonstration for effect - bent at the waist, staggering backwards - and I recognized myself in a visceral way. "But watch a child. They haven't learned yet to be afraid. When they fall, they fall forward." He now moved across the floor as though pulled by an invisible string from his heart, light and open. "A ballerina knows to fall forward. You can always take more steps, find your balance, keep going. But you fall backwards? Boom! You're on the floor. The dancing stops."
My two older sisters were talented dancers who continued their practice well into high school and college. By the time I was born, when they were 14 and 15 years old, their beloved dance teacher had passed away. Convinced that no other instructor could compete with Ms. Stein's blend of strict discipline and gentle nurturing, my parents decided that I would not take classes. I've always been drawn to dance and wanted to try, but the window for becoming a dancer seemed closed already by the time I was old enough to decide for myself. I channeled my creative energies elsewhere.
A few weeks ago, as I was dropping off my six-year-old daughter at her dance class, I noticed a flyer. "Adult Ballet. All levels. Saturday mornings." There was no hesitation. I registered on the spot.
I was a little nervous as I entered the studio yesterday. It was immediately clear that there were many unspoken rules and expectations that I was going to have to figure out on my own. My apprehension quickly became a sense of excitement, however; this was my very first class. I didn't have to be good at it, and frankly, no one expected me to be. I find I don't get the chance to be a beginner at very much these days, and the freedom to fail exuberantly made me downright giddy.
Our instructor was muscular and lithe. He wore a short black scarf, inexplicably entered the studio carrying only an egg carton, and spoke with a lush Polish accent without ever introducing himself. I was completely captivated and hanging on his every word. I danced without any grace, but I appreciated that Mr. Golek (as I would learn) took the time to explain what we were doing. Yes, he wanted us to do the exercises. But he also wanted to make sure we knew what they were called, how they translated in the French, why we were doing them, and how they should feel. At one point, he chuckled good-naturedly at the class. "Oh, you are all adults," he mused.
"When we become adults, something happens in our bodies," he continued. "We begin to fall backwards, we fear what is coming, we protect." He exaggerated his demonstration for effect - bent at the waist, staggering backwards - and I recognized myself in a visceral way. "But watch a child. They haven't learned yet to be afraid. When they fall, they fall forward." He now moved across the floor as though pulled by an invisible string from his heart, light and open. "A ballerina knows to fall forward. You can always take more steps, find your balance, keep going. But you fall backwards? Boom! You're on the floor. The dancing stops."
I choose to fall backwards more than I'd like to admit, stopping whatever dance is happening because I'm afraid. Ballet itself is just a tiny little step in my quest to fall forward, leading with my heart, moving into the unknown with curiosity and joy.
Like a child.
Like a child.
