Head over heels
In late July 2008, on my daughter's last day of her summer ballet course, I knew I had to do something and get into a class at Ballet Austin, or I'd put it off indefinitely. Clearly I'd become skilled at burying (ignoring?) this desire.
So I bought a class pass. I ran to the nearby sporting good store and bought a top and pants. I didn't even bring my shoes with me that day. (If I had planned ahead to take a class, I might have talked myself out of it. Go figure.)
And I went to class. And I danced. And to my great relief, I didn't melt in a puddle of tears on the floor. I did not cry. (Yet.)
But I did go home that night and write.
An emotionally wrought essay poured out of me, as easily as a plie. The Austin American-Statesman published it a month later on Sept. 6, 2008, and Ballet Austin republished it last spring 2009. This was the beginning of Born Again Dancer.
So I bought a class pass. I ran to the nearby sporting good store and bought a top and pants. I didn't even bring my shoes with me that day. (If I had planned ahead to take a class, I might have talked myself out of it. Go figure.)
And I went to class. And I danced. And to my great relief, I didn't melt in a puddle of tears on the floor. I did not cry. (Yet.)
But I did go home that night and write.
An emotionally wrought essay poured out of me, as easily as a plie. The Austin American-Statesman published it a month later on Sept. 6, 2008, and Ballet Austin republished it last spring 2009. This was the beginning of Born Again Dancer.
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