I don't get starstruck for the usual suspects. Growing up in Jersey, there was a pretty good chance you would see someone recognizable (like Bruce Springsteen or Jon Bon Jovi) once in a while. For some reason, though, this was never a big deal for me. I mean actors and singers and pro athletes are interesting but they've never made me stop and stare. They just don't get me going.
But ballet dancers? I instantly turn into a total, hardcore, whoa-there-they-are, capital S Superfan.
That lucky day I sat there, 2nd row, only a mere 10 feet from some of the dancers I grew up watching, absolutely mesmerized. I was
But why do I go batty for ballet?
I was 5-years-old when I stepped into the small ballet studio where I would ultimately learn how to dance. When I slipped on my peachy pink tights, leotard and ballet slippers all of a sudden I felt important. I learned how to stand up straight and hold myself (and in more ways than one.) My Mom had initially enrolled me hoping it would help with my growing posture. But I think even she was surprised with just how much I loved it--and I truly did.
Within that studio, it didn't matter that I was the tallest child in my grade, even among the boys. And it did not matter that I was all knees and elbows for a while. All that mattered was how I suddenly felt powerful and strong as I moved across the floor. I would marvel at how I could leap, spin, pause and pose my arms just so. My body was capable in a way I had never known it to be before. I could be doing something as subtle as standing in place with my arms overhead but I might has well have been flying. In those moments, and in those movements, I felt most myself. My Mom would smile at me as she watched. All was well and life was a complete, ecstatic joy.
Seeing how much I enjoyed to dance my Mom started an annual tradition of going to see The Nutcracker ballet at Lincoln Center each December. I still remember the first time I saw this production. The theatre was so beautiful and when the lights dimmed for the performance, all that illuminated the space for a moment were the warm diamond-like spheres stationed on the different layers of the mezzanine. I sat there in my prettiest dress and party shoes, my Mom beside me, listening expectantly to the score, my heart racing in my chest. Then the lights went up and my Mom squeezed my hand. The dancers took the stage. And it was magic. I was so taken aback that I think I held my breath for most of the first act. From the Sugar Plum Fairy to Cavalier to Mother Ginger, each performance was more impressive than the last. The sets were awe-inspiring! The costumes were breathtaking! And the dancing left me absolutely speechless. It did not matter that I was sitting still in my seat. In my heart I was flying on that stage right along with them. My Mom would smile at me. All was well and life was a complete, ecstatic joy.
When I turned 14, I made the big leagues: I earned my toe shoes. This is kind of a big deal. It meant that my legs were finally strong enough to get "en pointe" and support myself when standing on my toes. After years of conditioning, a ballerina cannot get those things fast enough! And as soon as I had my own, I sewed my ribbons into the shoes, that are actually about 3 sizes too small so that you can stand on your toes, and strapped them on. I'd stand in rosin for a few seconds to get enough grit on the soles so as to not slip later, and soon enough I would be leaping, turning and doing pirouettes. Now I really was flying and even higher than I ever had before.
It's hard to explain what it feels like to be on toe. But it's almost like you are completely unsure and completely sure of yourself at once. Somehow you get up there and strike that delicate balance between the definite beauty of the postures and the precariousness of your own movements. You pray not to fall. You breathe, you move and you hope it all comes together in a graceful way knowing that a lot of it is out of your control.
With that special advancement, it also got more serious. In order to really excel, it became clear that I would have to take 2-3 dance classes per week. By that point I was also playing basketball and developing other interests. As much as I loved it, 2-3 classes per week was more time than my foolish and short-sighted teenage mind was willing to sacrifice. So as much as I hate to admit it today, a bit shockingly, I quit dancing.
Years passed. And things changed drastically. I was no longer flying. And my Mom was no longer there to watch me dance and squeeze my hand. At Christmas this was always the hardest to take. I'd get a mailing about tickets and instantly throw it in the trash. Making the journey to Lincoln Center alone seemed completely daunting. This and other holiday traditions rang hollow. Things felt unsure and shaky.
For a while I felt like I was back on my toes, just praying not to fall. I was trying to somehow strike that delicate balance between the beauty of what we had shared and the precariousness of my new life without her. I was trying to still be graceful but it was really hard.
One year I took a leap. Don't ask me where I got the courage but one Christmastime I went into the city, bought a ticket and saw The Nutcracker by myself. It was just as beautiful as it had been before, just a little different seeing it by myself. A lot of my new life was out of my control, but this little part wasn't. This was my own way of breathing, moving and seeking some grace.
Now each year I head back to Lincoln Center come December. I sit awestruck in my seat, like I have for so many years before. And I marvel at the performance I have seen, to date, at least fourteen times. It is still my very favorite Christmas tradition. When I am there, my Mom is still sitting beside me smiling. And once again I am flying. And no matter what is occurring in my world at the time and no matter how much has changed, all is well and life is a complete, ecstatic joy.
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