Waiting in the wings has to be the most nerve-wracking part of being in a show, I thought, as I stood behind the curtains of the AFP Theater. The butterflies in my stomach seem to be doing everything at once. What if I'm not able to do a trick? What if I forget a step? What if my footlocks come off? What if I fall?
What if I fall?
That was always the question. That is always the question. I'd fallen--many times--from the pole, face first, from the silks, with a mark on my foot to prove how much it burned. I'd fallen, and though I'd gotten up and kept climbing, falling was always the fear.
For most of my dancing years, the floor was my comfort zone. I did difficult rolls and drops that gave my knees incredible bruises. I'd watch dance videos and study the floor work, filing them in my mental list of things to accomplish. The floor was good, it was safe.
But safe is never good enough, and last night, I stepped out of my box and flew. The nerves were different, they were far more intense. I could hear my heart pounding as I wrung my hands and tried to regulate my breathing before I went onstage. This was not something I was used to.
I needn't have worried so much, I think. I wasn't able to hold my Hummingbird, but I didn't fall. I got my hand stuck in the silks, but my footlocks held. But more than that, I was dancing.
Being onstage felt exactly the same. The moment I left the wings, I became completely unaware of anything and everything else except the lights and the music. I was in a trance.
Yes, being onstage felt exactly the same: it felt incredible.
I am always taken aback by how short a performance is. We sweat and bruise and burn and stay up day in and day out for months on end. And for what? A few minutes onstage? Yes. A few wonderful, exhilarating minutes. I have been doing this for 20 years and I am still amazed that I would, without a single doubt, do it again and again: train relentlessly for a few short minutes on that stage. That's love, I suppose. Because I cannot imagine a day I would stop.
It was scary, yes, but there are times when scary is good. When the pull to do something is stronger than the fear. When the regret of not trying is greater than the failure. I flew last night. Like the characters in one of my favorite books, I had faith and I had trust, and pixie dust? Ah, I had plenty. I had teachers who believed in me, I had friends who danced with me; I had all the magic and the love I needed around me.
So this is a thank you, for a summer that deserved an entire chapter in the book of my life.
To Kyla, whose strictness and patience pushed me to do things I was afraid I couldn't do. To Kayleen, who made me stronger than I ever thought I could be, than I ever believed I could be. To CD, nearly everyone's first teacher, who continues to teach us even if we're not in her classes. To Mara and Margaret, who prove to me that dancing doesn't stop, that dancing doesn't have to stop. To the Polecats, for inspiring greatness in your students and, most importantly, for giving us not just a place to train, but a home.
To my classmates, people I never thought I'd call sisters, for your unending enthusiasm and positivity. To the mafia, whose lovable bitchiness make waking up early to travel two hours in the hot afternoons so worth it. To all the friends I made in the past year and a half, you have given me a magic that shines as beautifully as the moon on a clear night.
To my body, for bearing the weight of sleepless nights, the evidence of endless battles, and the pain of limitations, and for always surprising me with the things I can do.
To the stars, may I never stop reaching for you.
What if I fall?
That was always the question. That is always the question. I'd fallen--many times--from the pole, face first, from the silks, with a mark on my foot to prove how much it burned. I'd fallen, and though I'd gotten up and kept climbing, falling was always the fear.
For most of my dancing years, the floor was my comfort zone. I did difficult rolls and drops that gave my knees incredible bruises. I'd watch dance videos and study the floor work, filing them in my mental list of things to accomplish. The floor was good, it was safe.
But safe is never good enough, and last night, I stepped out of my box and flew. The nerves were different, they were far more intense. I could hear my heart pounding as I wrung my hands and tried to regulate my breathing before I went onstage. This was not something I was used to.
I needn't have worried so much, I think. I wasn't able to hold my Hummingbird, but I didn't fall. I got my hand stuck in the silks, but my footlocks held. But more than that, I was dancing.
Being onstage felt exactly the same. The moment I left the wings, I became completely unaware of anything and everything else except the lights and the music. I was in a trance.
Yes, being onstage felt exactly the same: it felt incredible.
I am always taken aback by how short a performance is. We sweat and bruise and burn and stay up day in and day out for months on end. And for what? A few minutes onstage? Yes. A few wonderful, exhilarating minutes. I have been doing this for 20 years and I am still amazed that I would, without a single doubt, do it again and again: train relentlessly for a few short minutes on that stage. That's love, I suppose. Because I cannot imagine a day I would stop.
It was scary, yes, but there are times when scary is good. When the pull to do something is stronger than the fear. When the regret of not trying is greater than the failure. I flew last night. Like the characters in one of my favorite books, I had faith and I had trust, and pixie dust? Ah, I had plenty. I had teachers who believed in me, I had friends who danced with me; I had all the magic and the love I needed around me.
So this is a thank you, for a summer that deserved an entire chapter in the book of my life.
To Kyla, whose strictness and patience pushed me to do things I was afraid I couldn't do. To Kayleen, who made me stronger than I ever thought I could be, than I ever believed I could be. To CD, nearly everyone's first teacher, who continues to teach us even if we're not in her classes. To Mara and Margaret, who prove to me that dancing doesn't stop, that dancing doesn't have to stop. To the Polecats, for inspiring greatness in your students and, most importantly, for giving us not just a place to train, but a home.
To my classmates, people I never thought I'd call sisters, for your unending enthusiasm and positivity. To the mafia, whose lovable bitchiness make waking up early to travel two hours in the hot afternoons so worth it. To all the friends I made in the past year and a half, you have given me a magic that shines as beautifully as the moon on a clear night.
To my body, for bearing the weight of sleepless nights, the evidence of endless battles, and the pain of limitations, and for always surprising me with the things I can do.
To the stars, may I never stop reaching for you.
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