Tutu Dream for An Old Girl

It feels right, everything about my first ballet class at age 35 and 1/2.

Am sure everything would be easier if I were 20 years younger, etc.  But never mind that, everything feels right even though everything isn't easier to do now at this age.

It feels right because I had signed up for the class myself, paid for it with my hard earned money and drove myself to the class...

All the things that my dad couldn't have afford it for me when I was little, I could afford it now.  I feel proud for my dad...that he brought up a daughter who could afford this slice of class now.  Of the humble beginning we all grew up together in.  My mom and dad still don't allow themselves what my siblings and I care-freely buy ourselves but they seem happy to watch us grown into this class of folks.

It was beautiful to attempt those many half-cooked plies, and my horrible rounde de jambe, to the ballet piano music.  It was beautiful to watch my still reflection in the mirror in my short-sightedness, so graceful and hopeful in my ballet shoes and tights.

It felt right because of the long journey I had before stepping into this class, now standing next to a foldable chair, ready in my first position...ready for action.  The long journey of self-discovery, soul-searching, the struggle for approval, for money, for meaning, for love, for the right job, the right room, the right name, the right address.

Having gone round the `world' before I finally made it to my first ballet class, feeling like a small little girl, finally, waiting in line in this class: learning her poise, learning how to be beautiful and graceful, learn how to be a lady.

Why do I feel like that tonight?

I have experienced so many other things that could have given me the same feeling?  Being on stage receiving my applause for having done something (else) right, in a beautiful gown with immaculate make-up and beautifully styled hair, being flanked by feathers and sequins, among horns and brass; pouting for a camera and being told that my gaze is sexy and smoldering, my body is gorgeous.

But why did standing in front of that mirror tonight, knowing that I have such a long long way to go before I could point my foot beautifully like my teacher - made me feel so good, compares to those other glamorous experiences where I was appreciated for (apparently) having done something right?

I guess being a ballerina must have meant something really magical for me, without me realising it all this while.

I had signed up for the class because it is the place to continue to learn, dance technique, from the `proper beginning'.  I wasn't expecting to feel what I felt earlier tonight at class...the ethereal, surreal being of a beauty, waiting to be revealed, in this very existence of me.

This is my destiny, I am destined to find beauty in this journey, destined to learn to be beautiful, destined to appreciate beauty.  The meaning of beauty is finding the perfect tendu, in a beautiful line of a raised arm...in port de bras, in that grand jete (one day, one day)...perfect high C, perfect pianissimo, beautiful lyrical line, the list goes on and on.

The time is right.  As I drove home after the class and supper with classmates, I wonder how many years ahead do I have to continue this quest of learning how to be a ballerina, in slightly less than 5 years I would be 40.

Am grateful for having been granted the time and place to find myself the right buttons to push for my doses of satisfaction.  Back when he was around to witness the bliss that music and singing grant me, he reminds me of how much I should push myself for excellence.

Now that it's just me and myself, and some good memories..it seems that I am addicted to pain, stress, and a highly strung lifestyle...all these, my drugs for happiness nowadays.  For, I don't know what else to live for...I just don't know what else, for now.

This is the right thing now.