A ballerina, I am not

"When you were a child your mother thought, as mothers sometimes do, that you were strong enough and sure enough to someday be a dancer. But, when you were five, or was it six, or was it nine, you didn't want to dance. You couldn't bear to dance, unless you were dancing in the grass and dancing in the mud, as children often do. And then, your father kicked you a ball. And the ball was the shape of the whole wide world. And now if you see green you can only think of one thing to do. And the world slips away from your feet. And the sky slips down into your arms. And you are free, absolutely free to be who you want. To go where you can. To be wild to be loud to fly in the mud and run in the rain. Strong Enough. And Sure Enough. Like A Dancer. "














Athletic, I am. A dancer, I am not. Graceful, I am not.

At the age of twelve, encouraged by my teachers, I quit ballet. Though I was one of the smallest girls in any class, I was always put in the back row. This would ensure that no one could see me screw up or fall. My teachers learned that lesson early on when at my first recital I fell while sasheing across the floor and near brought my partner down with me. True, I was only seven years old, but I never improved.

Never daunted, my mother kept enrolling me in dance classes. Ballet, jazz, whatever it took to ensure I would be a beautiful ballarina.

Poor mom, it never happend.

And yet, I felt compelled, twelve years after my brilliant decision to quit, to try and take a ballet class of sorts. And, again, though I was the smallest in the class, I was definately the least graceful, the least ballarina like in the group. Even the 6 ft 200 lbs woman next to me looked more graceful and natural each new move we learned.

Maybe in another 12 years I will try again.