I'm
not a dancer but I do know a bit more about ballet than most, having
worn the tutu at the tender age of four. My performing career as a
toddler was brief and unmemorable: recitals where I pranced blithely
upon a stage applauded by adoring relatives. As I grew into a spindly
schoolgirl, their enthusiasm waned and my ballet classes with Mrs.
Cameron ended. Later, in my twenties, I would return to ballet and
eventually learn to dance en pointe. Mine was not a straightforward
journey from tutus to toe shoes. There were non-balletic twists and
turns along the way but I never forgot the barre exercises and the
five positions. It seems I'd developed a lifelong love of dance and
movement.
Coming
from a blue collar family, I understood the importance of a college
education. I needed to earn a living. At the time, there was a
growing need for math teachers and I was good at the subject. I
enrolled in Boston State College where I majored in mathematics. For
four years, college and part time jobs kept me busy. Pursuing the
arts was a luxury I could not afford. There was no time for dancing.
. . although one of my part-time jobs did involve motion.
In
my sophomore year, I worked at R. H. Stearns on Tremont Street where
I learned that I was not cut out to be a salesgirl. I was soon
transferred to the position of elevator operator. For some reason the
store hired only students from Boston State for these jobs. It took
training to operate the elevator manually. (Yes, in those days
elevators were not automatic.) Once I'd finished training and
obtained a proper license from Boston City Hall, I became part of an
elite group of employees. We proudly wore our smart maroon blazers
embroidered with the RHS logo and became accustomed to chronic motion
sickness.
It
wasn't until I graduated from college that I returned to ballet . Or
at least I put the concept of ballet into use. I was teaching math
at a junior high school in a small town. Their school budget was low;
there was no money for anything outside of the standard curriculum.
So teachers were required to do double duty, assigned extra subjects
like music, art, and physical education. Because I was the youngest
and supposedly fittest member of the faculty, the latter fell to me.
I took on the additional job of teaching a gym class.
What
was I do to? Only two sports had ever interested me: badminton and
basketball. Badminton simply required a light racket and shuttlecock.
Basketball seemed easy enough – ball into hoop. Although I
never did learn the rules of either game, I figured at least I'd get
my students moving around out there on the gym floor. But when I
opened the equipment locker, I found only an assortment of different
sized balls. No rackets. No nets. My lesson plan was already pretty
meager. Now it was cut in half. Could I actually fill up forty
minutes with run, jump, and shoot?
I
saw that the girls were having fun without the structure of rules but
I kept worrying that my ineptitude would come to the attention of the
board of education. I had no training in the subject. I was not your
typical gym teacher but under-funding had forced me to play the role.
Surely the bureaucracy would understand that. Then I realized that it
didn't matter. The bureaucracy had no clue about athletics. Back in
the day, athletics had not yet gone mainstream. Your average person
didn't run track, lift weights, or swim laps. I was that average
person without training in any of the above, yet now required to
teach physical education. Of course I could rise to the task. I just
had to ask myself what skills did I have in the area of movement?
Ballet? Really?
I
surveyed the vast gymnasium: an expanse of wooden floor patterned in
obscure red and black markings and surrounded by stacks of bleachers,
Even with light flooding through its two-story windows, it was cold
and bleak. It certainly did not have the feel of a dance studio.
However, along one wall, I did notice a handrail of sorts which could
serve as the barre. This one corner of the room happened to be close
to a heating vent. A collection of wrestling mats hanging on the
walls improved its acoustics. I began to see possibilities here.
Next
week I brought in my phonograph and a stack of classical records. We
were in business. Off came the sneakers; feet must be free to flex.
Here is first position, extending into second, curling into third, up
into fourth, tightening into fifth. And so it went with the basics.
Then on to pliés, arabesques, and eventually even a tour jeté
or two. They were naturals! By the end of the term, my girls might
not have been ready for Swan Lake but they knew how to move, even
with a certain amount of grace, I might add.
Word
got around. Some of the other teachers got interested in what I was
doing in my gym class. They wanted to learn ballet too. It had
already occurred to me that I might go back to my former teacher if
she was still around, even if just to get some pointers for my
students. All it took was opening the phone book and looking under
“B” for ballet classes. (Yes, life was that simple then.)
Happily I found out that Mrs. Cameron was still teaching. The very
next week I signed up for her Saturday morning ballet class along
with four of my fellow teachers.
This
is where it gets complicated. Call this Part Two of my little saga.
After the initial six-week session ended, Mrs. Cameron took me aside
and suggested I might be ready to go en pointe. I hesitated. I looked
for excuses. What about exercises to build up ankle strength? Did I
have the balance to support myself up on my toes? Wasn't I too old to
start dancing en pointe? In the end, I trusted my teacher. I went out
and bought size nine Capezios and lamb's wool to stuff inside the
toes. You need as much padding as you can get when the entire weight
of your body is concentrated on just the tips of your ballet slippers
or, in ballet language, the platform.
When
classes resumed, my colleagues were still wearing their practice
flats while I was struggling with alien footwear. My clunky new toe
shoes at first seemed to inhibit movement. No matter how much I tried
to break them in by practicing at home, they never loosened up. In
retrospect, a certain stiffness was required in order to protect my
feet. And protect me they did as I attempted leaps and pirouettes.
Incredibly, I always managed to land on that platform, an area of
less than one inch diameter. Yes, dancing en pointe was a study in
physics and I was determined to get it right. Gradually I began to
feel more comfortable up on my toes and, even more amazingly,
balanced on one toe. When I succeeded, it was exhilarating. My jetés
took me as close to flying as any earthbound creature could
experience.
My
teacher seemed to take pride in my growing proficiency. I was proud
to be her star pupil. Although it never occurred to me to take up
dancing as a profession, she might have had the impression that I was
serious about entering the performing arts. So, once again, Mrs.
Cameron took me aside for a little talk, sharing her own experiences
as a dancer. She warned me that competition in the dance world was
fierce and brutal and, at five feet eight, my height gave me a
disadvantage. You know, because of her concern, I began to think that
perhaps I did have some potential.
A
couple of years passed. I started grad school. My Saturday mornings
were no longer free. Life was taking me in new directions. Although I
discontinued my lessons, I still practiced the basic positions and
movements of ballet. I got engaged. I married and soon was pregnant.
Ballet practice became awkward with my expanding belly. My balance
was off. I put away my toe shoes. I thought I would never fly again.
There
is, however, a happy ending to this story. In my forties, I
discovered yoga. I suppose it was a middle age crisis of sorts. Stuck
in an unhappy marriage, I had pretty much shut down. I had even
abandoned my ballet practice. Now life without dancing had no appeal.
At least I had the sense to do something about it. An ad in the paper
for a nearby yoga class caught my interest. With a background in
dance, I figured this was something I could do. I attended my first
class and was completely surprised when I went into a state of bliss
during the guided relaxation. I was hooked. Yoga was everything I'd
been looking for – moving my body, calming my mind, freeing my
spirit.
Since
then, there have been many teachers. . . and then I became the
teacher. Since then there have been many students. . . and they have
enriched my life. I seem to have found my calling as a yoga teacher
and I almost never look back. However, I must admit that my toes
sometimes itch to perform a solid arabesque and I long to spread my
wings in a tour jeté.
There's
no doubt that I find joy in my yoga practice. It's a different way of
spreading my wings, less exciting but no less rewarding. Perhaps I am
content to leave behind that kind of excitement. My toe shoes, and
the physical exhilaration of flight they promise, now belong back in
the days of my youth. As the song goes: To everything, there is a
season. This is my season to embrace the ballet in the role of
spectator only.
I
hope to pass on my love of ballet to my daughter, a 58-year old
equestrian. After all, the connection between horse and dance has
long been a theme, notably in the art world with the paintings of
Degas and in the choreography of Diaghilev and Nijinsky. I have
bought us two tickets for a performance of Stravinsky's “Firebird”
ballet choreographed by Balanchine This is an ambitious endeavor for
a local troupe. Wish me luck.
