Ballerina Dreams

Last night, I went to the a studio rehearsal for the Pacific Northwest Ballet's Sleeping Beauty.  I had never been to a studio rehearsal, and it was great to see all of these people I've watched for years on stage behind the scenes.  My son and I were in the balcony, spying on the dancers below in their workout clothes and no makeup, watching who was chatting with whom.

My son's music teacher said most people she talks to wish they still played an instrument.  I didn't really like playing the flute, but I wish I had never stopped dancing.  When I think about what I want to be when I grow up, I dream of being a dancer.  It is interesting to have this dream when I am 44, beyond the age where that could ever be a reality, where my career would be behind me.

I took ballet as a kid.  My teacher, Ms. Lenore Desmarais, was a professional dancer who had danced with Gene Kelly.  She was old, and lied about her age to get a job teaching dance to kids at the Park District.  She was old school:  there was no pretending we were baby birds skipping around in a circle.  Barre work, French terms and classical music were de rigeur.  Starting pointe at age ten was common -- nine if you were really good.

It was hard work, too.  While Miss Lenore was nice enough, the constant stream of corrections could be hard on the ten year old ego.  Point your toe, Laurie.  Lift your leg, Amy.  Shoulders back, Susan.  Leslie -- chin up.  Tuck in your butt, Julie, were heard every Saturday.  At times she would grab your foot and turn your leg the way it should be.  (She would tell us her childhood ballet teacher whacked girls with a stick if they were off.  One day, her dad came in and glared at the teacher.  The whackings stopped.)  Comments to one were comments to all, even if your name was attached to the correction.  If your mom was watching class, she would gush about how wonderful you were.  If not, your name was in the rotation.  I loved to dance, but got tired of the constant nagging.  It reminds me of the old expression, "The beatings will continue until morale improves."

Even still, we all liked Miss Lenore.  Her criticisms were true, and she made us better dancers.  When I watch the professionals, they make it look so easy and fun.  We don't see the years of hard work, the sore feet, the steel egos that take the beatings all in the name of beauty and art.

Still, I dream.  It makes me happy, imagining I am on stage with the lights, the costumes, the music and the curtain rising, preparing to take flight.