Born Again Dancer

Once a week now, I try to "do the double." Not pirouettes, but back-to-back classes, usually ballet and then theatre dance or street jazz. I love it. But my body tells me when I need to slow down. So a few weeks ago, I was 30 minutes into my second class and getting light-headed during a torturous jazz adagio. Chuckling at my ambitious attempts to dance for nearly three hours, I sneaked around the edge of the studio to talk to one of our teachers, who was observing in the corner. When I told him that I was tired -- that I'd just taken ballet -- he grinned and said "that's great!" -- a supportive "atta girl" that made me proud. That thumbs-up alone would have made my day. But then he said something that made my head spin. "You oughta get a gig." "Doing What?" I asked, wondering what he possibly had in mind. I waited for him to explain his headlining remark: "39 Year Old Amateur Dancer Seeks...Gig." He shrugged. "I...

A few years ago,  I settled into a studio on a cool Tuesday evening, eagerly awaiting a ballet class. So I was a bit surprised when a different teacher walked in to teach a different class entirely: modern. Uh-oh. My mind quickly evaluated my choices: Do I stay? Or do I make a gracious exit and apologize for my mistake? The fear of appearing rude overwhelmed my fear of the unknown. I looked over my shoulder to the pianist in the corner and mouthed "I've never taken this class." "You'll be fine," he mouthed back over the 5-foot grand piano. "I want everyone to make more mistakes," my teacher confided to me as I fumbled through my first-ever modern dance class. "I don't know where we get this idea that we have to be perfect when we dance." "Ballet teachers," I said. Like Parisians are fairly intolerant of imperfect attempts to speak French, ballet teachers are bred to be intolerant of imperfection, period. Go to...

On Thursday, I went a lot of places and hauled a lot of stuff. In the course of the day I carried a purse, laptop case, two different tote bags, a kid's backpack, a kid's bookbag , and two large gym bags. I went to a meeting, then a grocery store and then to work. Then I went to school and back home, then to soccer practice and a nonprofit event. Then, finally, at 8:15 p.m., I went to dance class. I walked into theatre dance with my arms full. I carried a purse filled with its purse-like necessities; a tote bag with makeup, a hairbrush and antiperspirant; and my large quilted "dance bag" with three more bags inside: one with dance shoes (heels and flats), another with two pairs of comfy sandals, and a third bag with 3-inch heeled street shoes that I'd worn to the said nonprofit event. That's a lot of baggage (and shoes!) for a 75-minute class. I should have seen this all coming. Something special about dance classes in this community school (as opposed to a da...

My first ballet class of the century was kind of boring. I was going to dance around this heresy. But there, I said it. A few weeks ago, I took a ballet class for the first time in about 10 years (maybe 11? I lost count). I joined a room full of teens and adults of all shapes, sizes and abilities. In a 75 minute class, we spent a full hour at the barre. Though it's not a shirt-soaking activity, the barre work fatigued my hips and legs and provided plenty of awkward moments as my limbs and head flailed stiffly. Let's say that an hour at the barre makes me feel like a good girl who ate all of her spinach. Barre work is like learning multiplication tables. Like practicing scales. Like memorizing the periodic table. Like learning prepositions in Ms. Gorman's 7 th grade English class. Memorize. Practice, practice, practice. Mastery and memory precede application, expression and creativity. Those are earned, not given. During my first class, our teacher noted that ballet dem...

Exactly one year ago today I began reclaiming my dancer's soul . I honor this day as a wonderful birthday of sorts, because the decision to dance again changed my life. (Dancing -- or not -- has always brought change.) When I left my first class a year ago, I was wobbly and inspired . I was frustrated, too, because it was clear that I had a lot to work on. I decided to give it a year. I pledged to pass no judgment on myself for a year. I would not critique myself, I would simply show up, do the work and see what happened. I would strive to give myself unconditional acceptance, in part because it was offered to me by strangers -- two men who became my teachers and 100+ classes later, also have become my friends. Silencing my inner critic is no easy task. It was really important to have reinforcements in that battle. I persisted, and a lot happened in a year. 125+ hours of class and rehearsals. 2 musical theatre workshops. 2 new pairs of dance shoes. 1 recital in a red dress . 1 bl...

On Wednesday I did something that made me absolutely giddy: I rented a dance studio for one hour, all to myself. Luxury, I know. I prepared my iPod with a playlist of music from my favorite class and showed up 30 minutes early to relax and contemplate my opportunity. After a strong warmup, I had 25 minutes to "play." Being alone in a dance studio had a slight "blank page" effect on me. Where to start? What to do? What will come out? One of my classmates encouraged me last month to have this "alone time" to dance. She assured me that I would know what to do. And I did figure it out, piecing together some turn combinations and then dancing a handful of pieces that I have learned in class. My nifty brain, loaded with memory and logic, figured it out. Afterward, it occurred to me that my body knows a lot, too. But my brain is a persistent, dominant force in my dancing right now. It is time to get it out of the way. It may not be easy. I realized this two mo...

I've loved words as long as I've loved dance, so marrying these loves seems natural in this blog. But my Virgo, perfectionist self would like to offer a disclaimer. I pledge this blog will improve. Which means, it won't be all about me (at least I'll try). Four years ago, when my daughters were infants/toddlers, "mommy blogs" were REALLY taking off. Friends said to me "You should start a blog." My reply: "I'm not self-absorbed enough to amuse anyone with a blog." (Especially about controversies like natural childbirth, bottle or breast, co-sleeping or crib...YAWN.) (And I tried to blog about work. Good night, I got bored fast. That blog effort is around here somewhere ... don't bother, it's boring. I'd delete it but ... well, okay, I'll delete it.) Some very supportive friends are following my new hobby, and I appreciate that they would take even 10 seconds out of their days to read my cheaper-than-therapy journal. Yo...

Sunday evening, May 31, is the occasion for The Red Dress. At Nancy's dance recital, we perform to Benny Goodman Orchestra's famous song "Sing Sing Sing." It's iconic, immensely danceable -- pulsing and fast. According to my dance teacher, Danny Herman, at one point "Sing Sing Sing" was in three different Broadway shows at the same time. To me that affirms its popularity as a Show-Stopping Big Dance Number and its place in the Grammy Hall of Fame. Which I guess is why we get to "close the show" with it -- it's a big sweaty mess of a dance. (I realize that an actual PHOTO of The Red Dress would be appropriate at this point, but I'm not there yet. Sorry.) Being in a dance recital at age 38 was sort of strange. All these adorable little kids -- mostly girls -- are running around in white and blue sequined tutus, sparkly leotards, exotic jewel-toned scarf ensembles. All ages of females changing their costumes in a big, makeshift community d...

“Mommy, is that dress for ME? Or for YOU?” That’s what my 6YO said the last week in May, when I held up a sparkly, red spaghetti strap costume loaned to me as a “guest performer” in a dance recital produced by my friend Nancy. My daughter has played in an old wardrobe box from the attic, full of flapper fringe, tutus, sequins and tails, all of my dance recital costumes from 20+ years ago -- which are now her dress-up clothes. Naturally, that kind of “ razzle -dazzle” red dress must be for her. Right? Like Mother’s Day and the Byron Nelson Golf Tournament, dance recitals were a perennial part of The Month of May when I was young. I got to wear pretty costumes, put on light green eyeshadow, pink lipstick and boogie to “Another One Bites The Dust,” “Boy from New York City,” “Greased Lightning,” or that perennial favorite, “ Puttin ’ on the Ritz.” As young as age 7, I remember whiling away afternoons in the basement of SMU ’s McFarlin Auditorium or the halls of a local high school...

From the witty and wise author and coach, Martha Beck, in her book Finding Your North Star. "Rule 1: If it brings you joy, do it." "Rule 2: No, really. If it brings you joy, do it." That advice sums up the 10 months between August 2008 -- when I took my first class at Ballet Austin -- and May 2009, when I danced in three workshop performances and one studio recital. Putting the joy of dance into my life became a significant resource for managing anxiety that has lived in my body for many years. In the last 10 months, life has happened as usual with its numerous joys and milestones (our wedding anniversary, my daughters' birthdays, the start of kindergarten); and grievous loss (the death of my best friend's newborn daughter, Lily Christine, who touched my soul in ways I never could have imagined; and the passing of my paternal grandmother, age 97). It also has presented new opportunities/challenges (I decided to form a business with a partner). This new thr...

So that first class -- the one where I didn't cry, hooray -- was like sucking in a huge lungful of oxygen after being in an airless environment. I was left gasping -- literally and figuratively. But it sure fed the fantasy I'd been having for the six weeks leading up to that day, as I watched all the students learn Broadway numbers. After the 35 minute choreographed warm-up, our teacher said "Okay, how about Hot Honey Rag?" This number, from the musical Chicago and choreographer Bob Fosse, is all about style and attitude. It's not especially difficult, and everyone looks great doing it. Which is not to say it is EASY. But you decide. Here's one of my favorite performances of this number. Right after "All That Jazz." After that night, my need to go back to class was as potent as my love for my family. I couldn't imagine life without it. Now that I knew what I was missing...I couldn't miss it, anymore.

In late July 2008, on my daughter's last day of her summer ballet course, I knew I had to do something and get into a class at Ballet Austin, or I'd put it off indefinitely. Clearly I'd become skilled at burying (ignoring?) this desire. So I bought a class pass. I ran to the nearby sporting good store and bought a top and pants. I didn't even bring my shoes with me that day. (If I had planned ahead to take a class, I might have talked myself out of it. Go figure.) And I went to class. And I danced. And to my great relief, I didn't melt in a puddle of tears on the floor. I did not cry. (Yet.) But I did go home that night and write. An emotionally wrought essay poured out of me, as easily as a plie. The Austin American-Statesman published it a month later on Sept. 6, 2008 , and Ballet Austin republished it last spring 2009 . This was the beginning of Born Again Dancer.

But before I go any further, let me briefly -- or not -- explain my seemingly irrational fear of tears. Four years ago I went through a big personal and professional transition, leaving a good job that fueled my ego (and my wallet) but left me with little to share with my family, especially my 1YO and 3YO daughters. During that time I found support with a group of women who also sought balance and joy in their lives. We were part of a group coaching program called a Personal Renewal Group or "PRG." Our PRG met monthly for six months. Every month we were given activities and homework designed to help us reconnect with ourselves and our priorities. Goals, dreams, ambitions. That easy stuff. One of those months, we each brought an object representing an important activity that we did to take care of ourselves. I do not remember what I brought. (If I could have put my wonderful massage therapist in my pocket, I might have taken her!) But I do remember what my PRG classmate, T., b...

When I opened that box of possibilities, that I could simply take a dance class, I found many questions inside -- some practical, some unwarranted -- and some fearful. First, who were those guys teaching the teenagers' class? Do they even teach adults? Because as much as I longed to get into class, I really wanted to be in their class. What if they didn't teach adults? Where would I turn? So I found their names on the schedule. Okay, so I can take their class. Next question. But, but, but -- what would I wear? Do I have to wear a leotard? (Ugh.) Do my old dance shoes fit after two pregnancies? Will I be the oldest one there? Will I look lumpy and uncoordinated? How will it feel? And for the next 3 weeks (we're up to week 6, now), I imagined myself walking into that studio. My "self talk" was along the lines of "What was the worst thing that could happen? Just do it. What's the big deal?" Well, I had identified a visceral fear: that I would cry. Tha...

Once a week for six weeks last summer - 2008 - I took my 5-year-old to pre-ballet class at Ballet Austin in downtown Austin, Texas. While she danced, my 3-year-old and I wandered the building, peering in studios to see what was happening. Ballet Austin has a magnificent, second-floor viewing area that overlooks its largest studio . Floor-to-ceiling glass lets you see every inch of what's happening below. We loved to watch teens and college-age students in a musical theatre dance class down there. Every week, their instructors were pulling out classic and original choreography from some of Broadway's biggest shows past and present -- Gypsy, Grease, A Chorus Line, RENT. The kids were having a blast -- and I noticed, so were the teachers. In fact, I couldn't take my eyes off them, it was like watching a behind-the-scenes Broadway rehearsal. They were so good. Even my 3YO knew it was special -- every week, that's where she wanted to wander, to go and "watch the big dan...