For the Sake of Dancing
As I flip through the bowl of memories, one photo arrests me. Standing awkwardly, heels touching, toes thrust to the sides, a three-year-old me smiles, staring unapologetically up at the teacher. My eagerness to learn exploding from me in a similar fashion as my underwear from the sides of my leotard. Chuckling, I place the photo outside the bowl, turning my attention to the next photo, my family’s voices having dissolved into the walls of my grandparents’ living room. Taken at the same dance class in England, this shot captures my leg raised, my shoulders scrunched as I reach my arms overhead while the rest of the class remains in first position. Impatience born early, I charge full steam ahead, exclaiming “Let’s do this”.
I stifle a laugh, a slight rosiness alighting my cheeks, as I recall a much different style of dancing which I executed last weekend at the bars up at school. The night began as I stood at the crowded bar, uncomfortable, slurping my drink as though it were a lifesaving buoy, the air stale with dried beer and cigarette smoke. Minutes later, the cavalry gallops up, the alcohol hitting my blood stream, and I drag a friend to the dance floor. I begin moving my body provocatively to the seductive beats of “Dancing Queen” while I eye a guy a few feet away.
I am confident Ms. Peggy, one of my childhood ballet teachers, would not approve. Then again, I’m not sure she had the ability to dance so freely, the image of her always in only black leotards and pink tights, zero body fat, a stern look permanently etched into her face, her hair pulled sharply back in a bun. Was there another side to her, one that her students never saw? A younger Ms. Peggy, who also danced seductively under the glittering disco ball? Or perhaps real ballerinas have no time for “Dancing Queen”?
My thoughts return to ballerinas, depositing me in the audience of Boston’s Wang Theatre, for my first full length viewing of the Nutcracker. The dancers executing complicated steps with an ease that dupe us into thinking anyone could do it, moving perfectly, dripping with grace. My eyes light up, my body moves forward, and I remain hunched over the entire performance as the music swells, speeds up and slows down, drawing me in with each lift, each turn, breathtaking. That performance was the start of my addiction, which yearly, still pushes me to zip into NYC to see Swan Lake at ABT, or Twyla Tharp at The Joyce – their dedication and commitment apparent through their flawless precision and awesome grace or the simple fact that Twyla is still dancing in her 80s.
“Sarah, are you done with that bowl yet?” my brother squeaks, snapping me back to the present. I utter “no, not yet.” I continue flipping photos, stopping briefly when I run across a platinum blonde, bronze skinned ten-year-old wearing a sparkling white headband, off the shoulder top and blue and white striped leg warmers. Heading to my yearly dance recital, I am grateful for this relatively normal costume, recalling others from my years of studying ballet, tap and jazz outside our nation’s capital. One costume entailed a black leotard complete with plastic fruit safety pinned to it, and another year I tapped my heart out while wearing a maid’s uniform.
Not that my dancing was always so silly. In 5th grade my dad’s assignment flung us to the west coast. My parents enrolled me at a fancy dance school downtown, where nothing was ever good enough – one perfect pirouette? Well do two! The smell of competition as well as failure, hanging heavily in the air, as real as the chemically laden odor of our hair gel, forcing our 80s bangs to lie flat.
A year later, enter Ms. Peggy, who breaking from Spokane Ballet, takes some of us with her, and allows me the opportunity to become an understudy at her new company. Weekends are now spent in rehearsals, with only a short break for lunch, which passes in an instant. Soon, the soft lamb’s wool is back in my hand as I prepare to wrap it around my throbbing toes, though it is hardly enough protection from the hard surface I will soon force my toes to stand upon. Grateful when the weekend does not include auditions, where critiques were delivered like Christmas presents, when in reality they were merely thinly veiled criticisms.
Hours passed at the bar, redoing a plie or a tendu, until we were finally released to the center where we could really dance. Often frustrated with my limited flexibility, sub-par balance and inability to soar through the air when leaping. Often filled with grace and devoid of fear. Always giving it everything I had, pulling from deep inside to express my heart through my movement. When the music started, the transformation began: I was water, a pioneer woman, or a soldier. My fellow classmates became shadows, fading into the background, as I and the music became one. Even at performances, though the ripe odor of sweat mixed with fear threatened as I waited for the music to be cued, once I stepped onto the stage, the audience rarely occurred to me. Even if I did accidentally break character and looked out at them, my eyes fell only upon darkness and I quickly sank back into my role, comforted by the knowledge that it was just me and the music.
Knowing I am lingering on this photo, I drop it and keep flipping, landing on a photo of three teenage girls in black leotards and pink tights. We stand in a line, our left hands grasp the solidness of the bar, while our right arm encircles up over our head. Our faces are serene as we gaze up at our hand, though we stand upon our tip toes. Taken in high school, my father now retired from the military, we have returned state side, settling in the town adjacent to my mother’s hometown. This allows me the privilege to dance at the same studio my mom and aunt attended, given instruction by the same teacher.
Senior year, Mona asked three of us to perform at a small venue in a nearby town. No stage or curtain, the lights on full blast baking me in their heat, nothing separating us from the audience. Unnerved by this new intimate setup, I lifted my prop at the wrong time, and stumbled through a forgotten step. Yet when I gushed disappointment to my mother afterwards, stating, “Tracy (the best girl in the class) didn’t mess up.” My mom said, “You might have missed a cue, but you were the best dancer up there.” And with those kind words, it was then that I realized that though I’d never dance for a living (for perhaps Tracy’s stronger turns and better memory would catapult her to higher places); I would always be a Dancer. I had an inherent ability to move well and express my inner emotions, and often soul, through creative movement – something that could never be taught.
The bowl now empty, I settle into a chair by the window and look out at the lake. Though there are no more pictures of me dancing, high school was not the end of the road for me and dance. Rather than hanging up my ballet slippers, I brought them with me to college, perhaps finding comfort in the familiar, amidst a time of great change. Unfortunately, my body protested, and the doctor’s verdict stated the cause of my discomfort was ballet. My passion and need for dance disallowed the option of giving dancing up. So, I regrouped and signed up for a modern dance class.
Apprehensive, I arrived at the first class and noticed everyone else was lined up in the center rather than at the barre. Class began with plies, per usual but as I moved full steam ahead, I quivered as I bent my legs, waving back and forth like a palm tree in the wind as I deepened into a grand plie. Tendus were no better, the teacher instructing turned in toes, the small adjustment rendering me almost unable to move my leg and stay upright.
Eventually the “bar” portion of class came to an end and she said “from the corner”. With these familiar words, I became hopeful. She continued with, “cross the floor as though moving through mud.” I stood there, awaiting a road map, yet none arrived. It dawned on me; I was expected to decide what that would look like. The teacher had abandoned me. Rushing to the back of the line, I awaited the sound of the music, yet the room remained silent. The first dancer began and a quiet drumming started. I allowed its rhythmic tapping to dash away my nerves, searching internally to determine what movement through mud would look like, and feel like, thus beginning my harsh introduction to the world of improv.
All this newness was difficult, unfamiliar, and uncomfortable. But refusing to quit, I kept at it. My reward – to evolve as a dancer, having found new ways to express my heart while adding new movements and shapes to my repertoire, the taste of triumph, sweet like sugary frosting on a cupcake, hitting my tongue.
Years after college, I would finally find a studio to call home throughout my thirties and forties. Jumping back into dance would not be as easy as I expected, my brain taking two seasons to pick up the steps as quickly as the other adult students. Dancing in recitals as an adult would also take an unpredicted turn. In the middle of the dance, my nerves would rush in, the taste of fear staining my tongue, causing my feeble mind to begin to shut down, nearly forgetting the next part. Accepting Dance’s challenge, I would practice each dance repeatedly, etching them into my brain while refusing my nerves further footholds. And through sheer determination, unwilling to fail, I would eventually learn to let go and to dance with at least half the confidence I once had as a child.
Dance – an inherent part of my life, as deeply ingrained in me as church, family and school. From hours of tedious training to my newest shift, in present day: a modern dance class completely devoid of structure, but full of absolute abandon. This class, where no recital loomed and the mirrors are covered, introducing me to focus on how I feel when I dance rather than what I look like. Dance – one of my greatest joys – From my pre-teen years in Virginia, where I blasted the synthesized dance music of the 80s, leaping from the top of my mom’s rust armchair, with unabandoned joy to hours of unabashed escapism at bars and dance clubs through my twenties and thirties.
Dance taught me confidence – to walk tall and strong, to know my body and my space in this world, to trust my body, enabling me to express myself. Whether I am flying, leaping and spinning around my apartment or taking a structured class, I dance with my heart. It is the one place that I am always, without apology, passionate, where my soul speaks to the world or whoever may be watching. As important as air or water, dancing is a necessity in my life. It is a moment where my heart and body and mind are completely engaged, where I draw forth the greatest part of myself to arrive at my most sacred moment.