A jock I’m not.
Mountains make me dizzy; marathons make me tired.
Physical risk and boldness are not my game.
I’m more of an indoor, reading-by-the-window sort of person.
They look so innocent and girly.
But these shoes are not for the fainthearted.
Pain is also involved.
I think of a swan taking wing.
Far from the floor.
It hurts like hell.
Why do I do it?
Short answer: love.
Then my regular teacher mentioned that she also had pointe students of all ages and levels.
Taking a deep breath, I decided to reenlist.
Besides, there is something seductive about attempting the impossible.
I felt brave and intrepid.
Then I lost my job and, with it, my nerve.
Although I griped about the pressure and deadlines, I couldn’t imagine life without them.
I’d always assumed I’d be part of the workforce until I keeled over.
Instead, I found myself suddenly and embarrassingly idle.
I felt rejected, with that same sick dread that takes over when a boyfriend dumps you.
I was also furious, my head filled with curse-laden rants at my former employers.
And, as after a breakup, I felt fear and panic.
Would anybody want me ever again?
I lay awake at night, hot with shame: Could the situation bemyfault?
Was I lacking in talent?
The timing, though unplanned, turned out to be brilliant.
The labor and leap of faith required by my new toe classes rescued me from self-disgust.
I was willing to work hard; therefore, I was virtuous, or at least not lazy.
God knows, I needed it.
Without work, my life looked and felt very different from before.
Sometimes, I didn’t bother to go out at all.
I felt deprived, as if I were on a diet.
Some people might argue that grief is a time to be tender with yourself.
But what I needed was a drill sergeant.
I also sorely needed the structure.
I used to fit ballet around my job, chiseling out time to practice, stingy with my calendar.
Now class was central to my week, giving my amorphous life a moral spine and a destination.
The hours spent in front of the mirror provided me with everything but the paycheck.
It has taken months of struggle to figure out who I am without a professional affiliation.
Through it all, I’m still dancing.
When I was on deadline, I didn’t have to cook dinner or do my own writing.
“I don’t have time!”
was my mantra, and I felt righteous saying it.
Work trumped everything, including those creative pursuits I was going to get around to “someday.”
The exposure feels dangerous.
But it also feels good.
After it happened, I did it one more time to double-check it wasn’t a fluke.
I felt like cheering.
Elated, I practically floated home from class.
Granted, advances like these are only tiny steps forward.
I’ve always been security minded.
For me, pointe is a plunge into the unknown.
Another phase in my career?
A smashing triumph of an entirely different kind?
The posture in ballet, and particularly on pointe, is exactly the opposite.
I am forced to pull myself up as far as I can go and then some.
By sheer force of will, I make my legs, body and neck inches longer.
I gaze up and out, leaning slightly forward, embracing the hypothetical audience.
Ballet has given me the flexibility to deal with loss and the courage to finally emerge from the wings.
True, I don’t perform on stage and nobody is going to shower me with roses or applause.
But in writing from the heart, I’m finding my own kind of spotlight.
Photo Credit: Image Source/Getty Images
