Curtain call

I recently started taking dance classes again after an almost two year hiatus and found that, happily, my technique and ability has not entirely disappeared. However, my re-emergence into the "dance scene" has brought up some questions that I'm finding hard to answer. Although my body is still cooperating I know that there will be a point in the near future when it decides it's had enough. How do I really know when it's time to give it all up? Now to some this might not seem like much of a dilemma. "Quit when you want to quit" some might say, after all it's just an hour and a half a week. But to those dancers out there like me, you know it's just not that simple. I have literally been dancing all my life. I started ballet classes when I was three and never looked back. Like most dancers, dance is my religion. It's in my blood. I never worried about this type of thing during my hiatus because I had every intention of returning to the studio (which I did). But now I've had to start choosing between yoga classes and dance classes since my limited free time does not often allow both. Both provide exercise, strengthening and beautiful movement but dance is a punishing art that is slowly breaking down my body. In contrast, yoga is stabilizing and rejuvenating. I probably wouldn't even have made my body last this long had it not been for yoga. And now that I've started dancing again I feel guilty when I miss a class, as though my dedication were in question. I know this is all in my head. Nearly 30 years of dancing suggests that I am dedicated to the art.

The thing is, I've worked so hard all these years and it seems blasphemous to just walk away. While dance has given me many opportunities and provided a lot of joy and happiness it has also been a source of disappointment. Throughout my childhood I spent many hours at the studio in classes and rehearsals. I was one who always knew the routines, remembering changes in choreography and spacing. I may not have been the best dancer but I certainly wasn't the worst, and yet I felt I rarely got any recognition, no featured parts or solos. My high school was home to a large and well known production called Dance Theatre. I was a principal dancer for all four years, was often called on to remember choreography for 20+ dance numbers and even run rehearsals as an upperclassmen. But when all was said and done, I still felt overlooked. I was left out of routines that most of the other principal dancers were cast in, including the three other girls who, with me, were the only dancers to become principal dancers as freshmen.

I continued to dance through college and when I moved to New York City I sought out Broadway Dance Center to continue my dance training. BDC is a competitive studio that has a lot of professional dancers taking classes. I found my niche with a few specific teachers, and even performed in some studio showcases. I finally found one teacher whose style I particularly liked, who had her own dance company. For many years I took four to six classes a week with her hoping to be asked to join her group. I even expressed interest in dancing for her. I worked as hard as my body would allow and yet was never asked to perform, all the while watching other dancers become part of her company. It was frustrating and disappointing.

Now, at 32, I no longer expect to be asked to dance with her company nor do I have the burning desire to as I once did. But the competitiveness never leaves, and the yearning to perform never entirely disappears. That is why we dance, to perform. After all, it is a performing art. I have performed on stage in musicals and dance concerts but perhaps it's not enough. Perhaps I can't walk away because I feel like I will be wasting all my years of blood, sweat and tears in the studio with nothing to show for it. Perhaps I believe I will be letting myself down. Perhaps I never want to say "I was a dancer".

Oh, the Places You'll Go!

I knew very early on that Pennsylvania was not where I wanted to spend my entire life. A dancer from the time I was 3 years old, I was regularly traveling to New York City with my dance studio for dance conventions and competitions. I fell in love instantly and informed my mother that that is where I was meant to be. It was always my planned destination after college, a no-brainer seeing as I was a theatre major. The pieces fell into place rather easily and, only a year after graduation, I was packing my life into a U-Haul and moving away from home. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time. Although I had never lived this far away from my family before and I hardly knew the girls who were to become my new roommates, I was never so certain of anything in my life. I've never regretted the move to this day.

What occurred to me recently is that once I got to New York I made no more plans. Oh, sure, I planned to find a restaurant job to make the most money that I possibly could, I planned to take classes at Broadway Dance Center, I planned to be an actor. But I never planned where I would go or what I would do next in the grand scheme of things. The first part of my life was so set in stone - be a dancer, study theater, move to New York City. It was what I planned and it was what I did. Then my plans abruptly ended. I had never thought about where else I wanted to go but I had never firmly decided that New York City was my final destination.

When I decided that the life of an actor or, more appropriately, the life of a bartender was not for me I went into a bit of a quarter-life crisis. Should I stay in New York City? Should I go home to Pennsylvania? Should I try a completely new location? The second question was easily answered, I had no desire to go back to PA. The third question weighed heavily on my mind for quite some time. After a surfing trip to Mexico my thoughts turned to the West Coast and living the life of a beach bum surfer. I was seriously considering the move when my first question was answered. Ultimately, the answer came in the form of a boy. So, yes, I stayed in New York and I'm happy I did.

But here is the dilemma. Every so often, Arbor boy and I talk about moving out of the city. We both look forward to one day having a yard where he can play in the dirt and I can play with my dogs (that I plan on adopting once we have said yard). The dilemma is that we have no idea where we want to go and, once we get there, will we even be happy? How do we know that suburbia or rural life is what we really want? I then ask myself, how did I know that I would like living in New York City? Sure, I loved visiting but visiting a place and living in that place are two very different things. Was it a hunch, did I just know that I would love living here? Or was it the naivete of youth that made me so sure. It's true, sometimes I'm so tired of living in this city that never sleeps (pardon the pun but the frantic pace of New York is there, just outside the door, all the time) that I can't wait to have a house with nothing but peace and quiet all around. But then there are the warm sunny days when we enjoy a walk around Central Park followed by dinner at one of our favorite neighborhood restaurants and beer drinking at The Beer Garden (I will definitely miss that place if we leave) and I think, how could I ever leave this place that I call home.

I guess the truth is, you never know. You just have to take the chance if it feels right. Some people will point out that "the grass is always greener" but I've rarely fallen prey to that cliche. It was used when I was considering giving up bartending for a more "normal" job. I left the restaurant industry a year ago (well, I was asked to leave but that's another story) and I haven't missed it for one second. So maybe we'll just know when the time is right, like I knew that New York City was the place for me. Or maybe we'll take a leap of faith and see what happens. Maybe we should revisit our youth and be as naive and headstrong as we once were. Maybe the grass will be greener on the other side, maybe not. But at least we'll have grass.

Skipping Stones

Ever since the day, 23 years ago, when I saw my best friend's older brother skip a stone across the pond at Long's Park I've wanted to be able to do it too. I watched the stone skim gracefully across the surface of the water and thought that that must be the most amazing skill to have. I immediately wanted to acquire and perfect such a trick and asked my friend's brother how to achieve such a feat. He gave me a brief tutorial that he, being a 12 year old boy, surely thought explained perfectly the intricacies involved in skipping a stone. Needless to say, my attempts at skimming the rocks I had collected across the pond failed with a few miserable "plunks". After that day, any time I came upon someone skipping stones across water I had to give it another go.

It's been many years since my last attempt to skip a stone.

This past weekend we traveled out to the eastern end of Long Island to visit Arbor Boy's family. Sunday afternoon the two of us along with his brothers and sister-in-law jumped in the car for a visit to the ocean, a tradition that we hold to no matter what the weather. We were wandering down the beach checking out the waves, picking up shells, zoning out on the beautiful day. I don't know who started it, but soon Arbor Boy and his oldest brother were skipping stones across the calm knee-deep water that was barely disturbed by the incoming waves. The determination that I've felt every time since that day at Long's Park came flooding back (along with the little 8 year old girl),

"I wanna skip stones, too."

Being a natural teacher, Arbor Boy gave me a much more detailed description of the art of skipping stones. Armed with my new found knowledge of stone size, shape and heft, wrist maneuver and stance I collect a few stones. My first stone again plunked loudly and solidly into the water, as did my next few. Dejectedly, I figured that I was just not meant to be a stone skipper. But my natural urge to keep doing something until I get it right kicked in and I searched carefully for the perfect stone. Finally I found one that looked like a candidate, flat, slightly rectangular and light weight. I grasp it as firmly as I could so that it would spin off my finger and flung it as low and level as I could. I saw it zip through the air along the water and hit...then, skip...skip....skip. I had skipped my first stone and, what was more, I had skipped it four times.

I am not ashamed to admit that I felt more satisfaction in that moment than I have for a long long time. It was the satisfaction felt only after many failed attempts. The satisfaction of finally squashing the frustration that comes with not being able to perform such a trivial task. The satisfaction of a spunky 8 year old girl who can now hang with the big boys.

And it felt great.