About a year ago I had a reckoning. A come to Jesus moment. A walk-the-talk epiphany. It was a ‘practice what I preached’ directive to give myself the proverbial kick in the ass and do that monstrous scary thing that I had encouraged everyone else in my life to do.
“Step up and step forward Boo King and be the Girl Warrior you’ve been counselling other women to be. Stop instructing them to do what you say and instead illustrate how it’s done. Not just words but deeds.” This pragmatic wisdom, that I had been ignoring for far too long, became my motivation, my mantra and my marching orders.
It’s one thing to inspire others. But it’s whole different dance move to inspire yourself. That was one of the hardest lessons I learned this past year. I learned it in a place, and with people, I never imagined nor envisioned. None of it was on my radar or in the movie theatre of my mind. I did not see it coming. But I’m so glad it did.
It began with an invitation to dance.
“Would you like to take ballet lessons with me,” my daughter Aimee asked.
My immediate thought was “surely, you jest.” But then I realized she was serious and before I could reason myself out of it, I impulsively blurted, “Yes. Yes, I would love that.” Truthfully, I was deeply touched and moved by her invitation. That alone was everything to me. The thought of taking dance lessons, not so much. My “best before” date for pliés and pirouettes was in the rear-view mirror by at least five decades. And that’s being charitable. I’m old. I know it. So does my body. Restorative yoga and lying on the floor in Savasana for an hour, is more my jam.
But then we went shopping for ballet slippers together. So sweet. Pink leather.
Our first class was the following Saturday. “Maybe I can do this,” I told myself. “My feet look so cute in pink. I’ll just do one class and then bow out gracefully.”
But I didn’t. One lesson turned into a month of lessons. And then four months of lessons. Then it was Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Then winter, spring and summer solstice. Lessons. Lessons. Lessons. By spring break, I had made the commitment to participate in the end-of-year show. Until then I kept assuring myself that I could still bow out and watch the performance from the comfortable (and safe) seat in the audience. Once we began choreography, my fate was sealed. I was doing this thing. No backing out.
Thus began the journey of inspiring myself. It wasn’t easy. Especially since everything hurt. Every bone, joint and muscle ached and resisted all the poses and postures and positions the dance demanded. It hurt so much that my favorite part of the Saturday morning lessons became the twenty-minute bus ride home afterwards. I slumped into the seat next to Aimee and just surrendered all.
One of the most challenging things I had to overcome was my self-consciousness. I was painfully aware that I was an older woman in a room full of beautiful people who were young enough to either be my child or possibly even my grandchild. The age difference was one thing, but the manifestation of that gap was so transparent. It’s a very inclusive dance studio so there were many different body types and abilities represented. All good. Loved that for us. But for the most part the other dancers were taller, some with legs that just didn’t quit, with toes that naturally pointed and arms that extended gracefully in every direction. I, on the other hand, was a little teapot. Short and stout. With toes that clearly did not understand the meaning of point and knees that really didn’t like to go too close to the studio floor and the equilibrium of a bowling pin about to topple.
Week after week I showed up, ballet shoes in tow, and took my place at the barre and waited for the warm-up music to begin. Thirty minutes of plié, tendu, pirouette, frappe, rond de jambe, arabesque, sauté, en avant, en croix, elevé. Exploring the five positions and variations on ballet themes. Over and over and over. Step, point, twirl and repeat.
I placed my hand on the barre (sometimes it was a less-than-graceful grip), took a deep breath, released it with a sigh, and then followed the directions (to the best of my abilities) of our ever patient and poised teacher. From day one, I trusted her. Completely. Thoroughly. In every aspect – body, mind and spirit. She fully understood the limitations that my age presented but she gently, kindly, graciously and compassionately taught me how to dance. Not necessarily like everyone else in the class but in a way that was uniquely me, in a way that grew my confidence and diminished my self-consciousness. Silenced my inner critic. Slowly, and often painfully, I learned to express myself in this unique and challenging artform. Her thoughtful guidance breathed grace into my every move.
I didn’t know it in the beginning but as it turned out, I had many teachers in that dance studio every week. Each of them brought something unique and inspiring to the space. First and foremost, they made it feel safe and without judgement. I felt accepted. Like there was a place at the barre and on the dance floor for me. And for each and every one of us. We all belonged. And for that one hour, every Saturday morning, in that little downtown studio, tucked behind a black rod-iron gate with an entry code and a flight of stairs to the second-floor entrance, I felt like I had found “my people”, my community, my friends, my pioneer pals, the ones who made me smile and laugh and filled my heart with wonder and inspiration. Courage and hope. And most importantly, gratitude.
And on the night of our show, our grande finale, when we held hands and took our final bows, I was grateful for all the lessons of this past year. I was not only walking the talk, but I was also dancing it out.
