On Ballet

God knows that over these past three months, I have been the antithesis of life, and all things valiant and persevering. Life has never been difficult, so rubbing down my bruising toenails today came with the compulsion to ask - "How do I stop being so shitty at this ballet thing, sir?"

Renato, the fifty year old Brazilian who never teaches a new dance without an accompanying metaphor that would seriously compromise the austerity of ballet, looked up at me. For the first time, I notice the shrewdness in his eyes.'You keep coming every week, like you are doing now,' he says.

I didn't realise he noticed me in class, but I suppose it is a little bit difficult not to notice a hunkering hippo admist the swan lake. But Renato notices even my disbelief, even when two inches off the floor, entangled in arms and legs.


'Keep coming, don't stop. Ballet takes years. Every class you improve 1%. You feel happy you can do first half an hour of class at your level. You cannot jump or turn, but you should feel happy you can point and kick. Like when my boyfriend died, I think to myself, at least I have him for a few years.'

Three months ago, I would've tripped over the awkwardness. But I know only too well now what a sudden swerve like this in a conversation means. He smiles. But just as his legs can rotate without affecting his torso, his mouth turns without affecting his eyes. The awkward silence hangs, and I begin to wonder if I should give him a hug, or slide quietly out the door. But then he breaks the glaze in his eyes and laughs again like the Renato I know from every Thursday.

"The following Thursday, it is my birthday. You know the sushi place outside? I am going to celebrate it there. All of you are invited to join me. If you can, everybody!"

He looks at me again, "You can try this: yoko, mai, yoko, mai." He leaps to his feet, and I trip over mine. He laughs, "I am praticing too, see. I am going to Japan soon!"

In ballet, you hold your head up high and still, even when the floor beneath you slips away. You lift your head to the mirror and smile, even as your toes bleed. You float and touch the ground lightly, even as your muscles scream against gravity. So next Thursday, I will hold my arabesque, even if I feel like crumbling. And I will laugh, especially if I feel like crying, because I have a great teacher.