Dance - Part 1

I guess if I'm ever going to recover (as they put it in OA), I have to face the D word... Dance.

At 67 years old and somewhere around 190 pounds, I still have a dancer inside me... All my life... a dancer in me with no outlet, an inner dancer who has only rarely been public, an overweight, sometimes obese, girl/woman hiding a lithe and passionate dancer inside.

I just watched episode 2 of So You Think You Can Dance, which makes me feel my feelings, with tears of joy. I've loved this program and watched every episode since it began. Even my husband, who does not dance and has not ever danced, has developed an interest in seeing young dancers working with excellent choreographers to learn and perform different styles of dance.

What is it about dance? Movement... the body speaking the heart's truth when the mouth is only mute?

As a child my parents took me to The Ballet Russes. Seeing the beautiful grace and electric energy of these dancers at about 4+ years old is still a vivid memory. I felt myself transported into their bodies, my heart into theirs. I wanted to be a dancer, a ballet dancer.

I poured over the performance program and a ballet picture book, practicing the positions in my bedroom with the door closed. My brother and I made crepe paper ballet costumes for the kids in our neighborhood. We showed them how to dance and staged a show for our families on the sidewalk in front of our house.

When I was 8, I finally persuaded my parents to enroll me in ballet lessons. Here is a poem I wrote 15 years ago about those lessons...

You Were Wrong, Mr. Andahazi

I call you back, Mr. Andahazi,
Mr. Russian ballet master,
with spindly legs
and equally spindly heart.
I call you back and place you
in front of a child
who will speak to you now.

You talked to my parents
in my presence
as though I wasn’t there
as though I were
the family puppy –
Look at those feet!
She’s gonna be a big one!
Well, maybe you’re a hot-shot
Russian ballet master, but
you were dead wrong about me.
It wasn’t a waste, Mr. Andahazi,
of my parent’s money
to pay for my dance lessons.

You could see only
the future, the lights,
the stage, the barely fleshed
skeletons of delicate women
held high over the heads
of small men, like you.
Paying money today
to realize an outcome
so many years down the road.
She’s going to be too big
and too tall, you said,
a waste of your money,
no man will be able
to dance with her, you said,
take her away,
off with her head.

I pity you, Mr. Andahazi.
You did not see the pure joy
in my heart. You did not
notice or feel or enjoy
the radiance of my love
for those weekly lessons
right there in your studio.

Little girls, you know,
take words like yours
to heart and turn them
into demons which can
prevent us from knowing
our worth and following our bliss.
I wonder if you care?
It doesn’t matter anymore.
You were wrong.
I have always been a dancer.
That is all I have to say.

I call you back, Mr. Andahazi,
Mr. Russian ballet master
with spindly legs
and equally spindly heart.
I call you back and place you
over there, against the wall
to witness the dancer
you tried to squelch
to watch her twirl gracefully
around the dance floor
like Isadora’s scarves
floating and waving in the breeze.
I call you back to notice,
to comprehend your lack of power
over us, the child and me.
You will stand there
and watch me dancing,
behold my pleasure, my delight,
time after time after time.
But I do not see you.
I do not recognize you.
I do not even remember you.
You are not here anymore.

At that time, I thought I'd banished the demons. But tonight, watching my favorite dance show, I felt them tugging on me again. There's more... more dance and self-image and weight stuff... I hope to deal with it in another post or two...