Last night, I was tired. Exhausted would be a better word. Bone-crushingly exhausted. It was late (again). I had stayed up to work on yet another project (again). Everyone else was peacefully slumbering while I lay in bed, my mind going a mile a minute (again). And tired as I was, late as it was, I just couldn't fall asleep.
Because I couldn't stop thinking about this:
and this:
and my recent foray into my life-long dream.
I have always wanted to own a dance studio. I mean, I've wanted to do other things as well, and even pursued some of them more seriously, like law school and being a seminary teacher. But dance was my first avenue into creativity, my first opportunity to understand the bigger world around me. And it has always felt like home.
I love dance. All forms. (Well, almost - modern, I'm looking at you!) And have studied all forms at one time or another. But my favorite...
Ballet.
Yes, it's a beautiful art form. Yes, it requires crazy discipline. Yes, it's the basic building block for all technique. But I love ballet because it's familiar. It's comforting. And it ties me to all sorts of good things in my life.
I can close my eyes and hear the barre music swelling. The staccato clapping of the teacher counting out beats. The smell of rosin, pine, and leather ballet shoes fills my memories. I see my black leotard, my hair in a tight bun, my blistered toes from hours spent en pointe.
And no matter how long it's been since I've stepped foot in a studio, I can always count on the familiarity of the class: barre work, adagios, center work, allégros across the floor. I know I'll leave with my arms burning, my feet aching, and wake with my body sore and stiff. And yet, I'll crave more.
But back to my life-long dream. After having Shaelyn, I even seriously looked into a real-estate opportunity for buying a space for a studio. And created a business plan with a friend would be co-owner. However, the reality of being a new-mom and a new business owner didn't mesh. And the dream was left unfufilled.
So last Friday I invited a group of preschool-aged youngsters over for a dance class. And brushed the dust off my leotard, tights, and gore boots. I moved all the furniture out of my (fake) hard-wood living room. I taped numbers on my studio floor. And created a playlist that incorporated basic ballet, tap, rhythm, and across-the-floor movement.
But most importantly, I pulled Shaelyn's hair back in a bun. And put her in a (too big) pink leotard. And introduced her, for the first time, to the love of dance. And staccato clapping. And allégros involving frog-hopping and snake-slithering.
I hope her future involves the smell of rosin. And the pain of blistered toes. And the joy of finally nailing her first tour jeté. Or double pirouette.
Because I will never forget the look on her face the first time she was introduced.
