I sold my soul. Once. For cherrywood cabinets. Well, there may have been a few other times, but that's another story. When I was four years old I stepped into a ballet class at Charlotte Crowley's Dancette Studio. It was the first time I'd stepped anywhere without leg braces. And the first time I felt beautiful. A moment to be defined by grace, instead of a walking mistake. Beauty. It's hard to resist.
|life through cracks|
If my mother hadn't taken me inside that little pink studio with the gold "spotting" stars, I wonder if I would have had a lifetime of waiting on the outside of beauty? But, she took a chance, a risk, and did take me inside, and so the legs that were broken to begin with, straightened out and grew up and gave me a chance.
I was able to dance long enough to wear out my crooked legs. I danced in movies, on TV, and on some spectacular stages. For a moment, I was a Rockette. When that moment ended, I got married, had two daughters and moved to the desert. Which seemed like a good idea at the time. I want that sentence engraved on my headstone "Well, it seemed like a good idea...at the time."
We moved to Chandler, Arizona to raise our beautiful girls in a nice neighborhood we could almost afford. We couldn't afford an insecure house in any neighborhood in Los Angeles where we were currently living and working and acting and dancing very little. One day, house shopping in neighborhoods that were identical on the outside, we came upon a home that had the-most-beautiful-cherrywood-cabinets on the inside. I could not resist their beauty. So, we bought it.
Apparently, cherrywood cabinets also make me feel beautiful. I've been keeping my soul in those cabinets. Right next to the giant coffee mugs. And the memory of the soul freeing first day at Charlotte Crowley's Dancette Studio.
I just never planned to be a wife, or a mother, or live in a suburb. I was under the misguided impression that I was special. I mean, dancers are at least, pretty. I thought I would always have somewhere exciting to go. Chandler, Arizona was not the first place that came to mind, but here I am. A wife. A mother. Living in a sea of stucco.
We have lived in this suburb for 15 years now. The once beautiful cabinets are starting to show their wear and tear. They creak. They don't shut all the way. They used to be shiny with a deep rich hue. Just like us. They need to be refinished. Just like us. When the objects we traded in our souls for start to lose their value, what happens to us? Do we have the same chance for refinishing? I was refinished once when I was four years old. Ballet gave me a chance to change my story. Does refinishing truly mean- finishing again? To make beautiful - again? At the end of the story, can we still change our ending? Can ballet still save the day?
I made an important decision that lifetime ago to leave the comfort of Charlotte Crowley's Dancette Studio and become a dancer in New York City, and another to marry my husband, and to become a mother. I can't say that I made any of these decisions with intelligent forethought. But, if I hadn’t first made the decision to follow the intense tugging in my soul to dance – I know absolutely that I would suck at the life I now lead. And I do still dance, although stiffly and sometimes while sitting.
If my mother hadn't taken me out of my corrective shoes and allowed me the freedom to dance, I truly feel I would never have known…anything. I know very little, but I know I lived a dream. I know I searched beyond the dream to find someone who loves me no matter who I am or who I will become, and who loves saying he's married to someone who was once a Rockette.
And all of it sounded like a good idea at the time.