metanoia's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ballet Bag My ballet bag is in my closet. It has been there since 1995, when I took my last class. In my efforts this year to clean up, fix up, paint up I know I must confront The Ballet Bag. Yes, it should be capitalized. In my bag - toe shoes (my first), 3 pairs of soft 'class' shoes (because one is worn out but I kept it because sometimes I could not find my newest shoes in the bag, one is brand new but a different brand and did not ever feel 'right' but I kept that pair for a spare, and my daily shoes with duct tape and holes), tincture of benzoin, duct tape, athletic tape, various ace bandages, leg warmers, spare leotards and tights, towel, hair bands, hair stick, two bandanas, a half sweater, a sweat shirt, a notebook and pen. Should I dismantle this bag, my comfort? I treasure the days of taking class, the smells, the sound, the camaraderie, the jealousy, the unique company of dancers. I miss it. There is always the thought, there hiding in the back of my mind, jumping out to say, "You might go back to class. You might need all this stuff. Keep it for awhile longer." and then it jumps back behind the box of dreams chuckling that I heard it's voice, and heeded it. I always wanted to be a dancer. Mother did not want me to be. She said I was too short and it was a road of broken dreams. But she was talking about herself - not me. Nonetheless, I never took classes when I was a child. She did not want to encourage me in that regard. In the year I turned 36, I resolved to take ballet class. To realize a dream. So I did. I loved it. I took more and more. I was taking class 4 days a week and it was nirvana. I wanted more still, and after 2 years my feet were strong enough to go on my toes! I got my first pointe shoes when I was 38 years old. How excruciating! How sweet! How seductive, pungent and EXCRUCIATING. Hurt like hell, but I loved it. I WAS ON MY FUCKING TOES! Dancing, turning. How grand it was. I moved to Georgia when I was 40 years old. Here in the small town where I now make my home, dance was only for children. There were no adult classes. I languished. I deteriorated - not only physically, but spiritually. I missed my barre! I finally found one school that had class in evening for adults. It worked. It was good. I felt the old feeling. Then I bought a house waaaaaaay out in the wilds of Georgia. I no longer had the time to stay in town until the class started. No more class. That was in 1995. My bag is waiting. My spirit is waiting. The little voice is waiting (behind the box of dreams). Will I answer? Will I dismiss it, clean out the bag and use it for my knitting which I am now learning? The leotard is probably rotten by now - maybe. I could not even get my foot in the toe shoes without cramping. But, there is no urgent cry to clean out that bag just yet. I have many other drawers and closets to go through. It is doing no harm there. A reprieve of sorts. I may get back to class this year... you just never know. Better to be prepared to dance than not. It stays for now. 8:28 a.m. - 2004-01-16 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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