Once A Dancer…

–Just outside of a subway exit, somewhere in between Ebisu and Roppongi. It wasn’t the best place we could have chosen to meet; groups of people kept on pushing by, pinning me up against the luminescence of the vending machines.

Waiting for Michel, I tried to count the years since we last saw each other. He’d been with Alberta Ballet during my first season with the company. Six years. Until he’d snagged me on Facebook, mentioning that he’d be in Tokyo for a teaching gig and — hey, why don’t we try and meet up during that time? — I really never thought I’d see him again. Ah, but that’s the beauty of living in a place like Japan. You find yourself seeing people you never thought you’d see again, and doing things you never thought you’d do again.

*

I’m still not quite sure how it happened. After a dinner of Mexican we hopped on a subway train to Ebisu, where we sipped on Japanese umeshu plum wine at a table in an open-front restaurant. Michel was describing the ballet studio where he’d be guest-teaching with great enthusiasm.

“You’ve got to see this place. Sponsored by some architect who happens to love ballet. The main studio is huge — easily the size of the one we danced in at Alberta, with good floors and a high ceiling and live piano accompaniment. It’s not often you come across a space like that in a city like Tokyo.”

“Keep selling it like this and I really will come. Ever since I quit Japanese Tea Ceremony I’ve been toying with the idea of picking up a few ballet classes…”

“You should. They’re all open classes, and you should see the mix of dancers we get. Everything from seasoned pros to fifty-year-old secretaries trying ballet for the first time.”

…Or maybe that’s precisely how it happened.

After weeks and weeks of hunting my bleak existence for inspiration, I walked into the ballet studio where Michel was teaching the next day, smelled the familiar mixture of odors (sweat, vinyl flooring, canvas-lined ballet slippers, resin, wool outfits, hairspray, and perfume), heard the familiar tinkle of the piano guiding a group of dancers through an enchainement in front of a mirrored wall, and thought to myself: I have found my haven. These last five years, I’ve been going out of my way to avoid anything that might tempt me to try ballet again, anticipating a horrible surge of pain — the type of pain that can only come from the jagged edges of a broken dream — but here I was, allowing myself to be tempted, and what I felt was not pain. Instead, I felt a startling sense of longing.

*

The Afternoon Of

Now I entered the ballet studio not as a guest, not as an undancing mortal, but as a dancer. I may not have looked any different than I have over the course of my five-year retirement, but the tattered carpet-bag over my shoulder contained a crisp new black leotard, black tights cut off at the feet, yoga pants, a headband to secure my chin-length bob, a bottle of sweetened coffee, a bottle of water, a container of hair pins, socks with grips on the bottom (I haven’t yet purchased ballet slippers), shower gel, perfume, and a towel. All items just as religiously and meticulously arranged as they had been when I was dancing professionally.

Michel was already in the main studio, finishing up a junior-level class. At the sight of him I had to pause and take a breath; struck as I was by a tidal wave of nostalgia. That particular shirt he was wearing, the reed-thin dancer’s physique — it was as though he’d been cut from the fabric of my memories of being at Alberta Ballet, and transplanted into this different setting, this present setting, in Japan. It hurt a little, just to consider: How different would my life be right now if I hadn’t quit my professional ballet career? A pang in the heart like knives. Dizzy with vertigo.

All of this washed away by Michel’s face when he saw me limbering at the barre.

“Look at you,” he smiled, encouragingly, “ready to give it a go?”

“It’s time,” I replied, “let’s see what this body can do.”

Hidden amongst a forest of Japanese dancers, all different shapes and sizes and abilities, all moving in unison to the music, I explored the terrain of muscle memory. I’d been expecting something like Mars, but everything I’d carefully cultivated was still there, albeit choked by time, increased body fat, and disuse. However, all systems physically, mentally, and emotionally responded favorably.

I was dancing.

Let me tell you why I dance…