A Dancer's Old Shoes
My sleep is restless, troubled by dreams of movement; not allowing me to keep my mind still. The television program I just watched showed hundreds, all willing and eager to move as I move, obviously some better than others, but still I have my place among them. The life of a dancer is tough; as Agnes De Mill once said "Ballet technique is arbitrary and very difficult. It never becomes easy--it becomes possible". Tough on your body, tough on your mind, and tough on your soul. I've let most of my trained faculties slip since my departure from serious dance instruction. But beginning again has allowed me to feel the pressure on my skin that I love and always yearn for. The way I move and stretch lends itself to a world outside of common movement, where each intentional act is one of focused and concentrated beauty. Expressive movement is what ballet is all about.
When my back arches it creates a silhouette down my body that can captivate and reassure the girl in the mirror that I can still move like I remember. My toes stay pointed, despite the strain, and hit the bare wood floor hard, drumming in a constant beat along with everyone else's. I should get new shoes; my feet and ankles will thank me in the morning. I dug my old ballet shoes out of the back of the closet the other day, it surprised me how much my feet could grow, larger and out of shape and practice. My knees bend as I hit the floor in time with the music and movement of my hands: in and out. I stretch as far as my muscles will allow pushing myself through the pain, sweat and ache. Especially that of warm up push-ups, I've never had great upper body strength. I shuffle like an old woman who has seen better years, my calves ache for days; I take my time and dread walking up stairs. When I stretch certain ways I can feel muscles I've never been consciously aware of protest in a shoot of pain. And I love it. The pain is a physical reminder of my progress.
Unfortunately or fortunately I never...
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