Missing a part of me

I spent the early afternoon watching one of my favorite movies - “White Knights” with Gregory Hines and Mikhail Barishnykov. Directed by Taylor Hackford, who is currently directing some friends of mine in a show about Louis Prima and Keely Smith, which will probably be a feature film very soon. But that’s another story.

This film has always been a favorite of mine because of the sheer passion and joy in the dance numbers between these two men. If any guy ever says anything about dancing being “gay” or not athletic, just check out the dance number with both men, competing but sharing, just brilliant choreography, physical, powerful, athletic.

And there’s an amazing “folk” number Barishnykov does to express his pain and anger at being trapped back in Russia, while Helen Mirren watches, her pain evident on her face. Makes me sob every time I see it.

Okay, the point. The point is this.

I was dancer once upon a time. What feels like a hundred years ago. I studied ballet and jazz. I taught ballet to five to ten year olds. I got on pointe. I loved every single second of it. Couldn’t get enough of it. I loved the way my body felt when I danced. I loved to just let go and let the music fill me up and make me move.

One of my teachers told me (as happens again and again in my life) that it’s a shame I didn’t start dancing as a young child instead of as an adult because I had talent. I had skill.

Ballet was my favorite. I could dance jazz effortlessly but I loved the feeling of stretching into an arabesque, unfolding my leg into a developpé. Feeling every muscle respond to unconscious commands, reaching, pushing, going past where I thought I could do and stretching a single inch further, bending a single inch lower, reaching a single inch higher.

I can’t watch dance anymore because it breaks my heart that I don’t dance anymore. And not just dancing, like, hanging out and dancing. But really, truly dance.

I first gave up dancing because of my first marriage. My first husband seemed to be very threatened by my ability and constantly made me feel like I was doing something wrong when I did something I loved so very much. Somehow, I convinced myself that dancing had something to do with our marriage ending. I know, don’t know why that seemed important then but it did. I danced for a while after that but because of the negative connotations, I never enjoyed ballet as much as I did before I made that weird, irrational leap.

I danced a bit when I moved to LA, took some classes. Again was told I should have started when I was younger as I apparently had some skills. What good does that do when you’re 25? I also am a bit broad and a bit tall for ballet, although I could have gone into music videos and stuff, I guess.

But then I danced in “American Tail”, a live show at Universal Studios, and that ruined my hip and my knee. I couldn’t take any kind of dancing for a long time. I continued to dance in the show long after I should have and really ruined my already stressed hip and knee. An injury when I was puppeteering on the show tore all the muscles in my back and added to the pain and problems.

After that, I never really danced again. My second husband never encouraged that part of me to re-emerge. When I did try to dance again after years of therapy and acupuncture, he discourages me from continuing because he was afraid I was going to hurt myself again. Valid reason, although I resented it. But I could have chosen to continue. I didn’t.

I pretty much stopped dancing altogether. RJ didn’t like to dance socially. He didn’t like to go where people danced, like clubs and such. Didn’t like to dance at weddings or anything like that. So I didn’t dance. I longed to go country line dancing for my birthday year after year as I thought it’d be fun. We could laugh at others making fools of themselves as we did ourselves. But he would have none of it so I had none of it.

My body ached every time I saw a movie that featured dancing. I stopped watching anything like that because it made me long for something I left behind so very long ago.

Now, I’m 47. My hip and knee have long recovered from their injuries, thanks to a brilliant acupuncturist who saved me from a hip replacement. I haven’t had any pain or problems in more than 10 years.

And I still don’t dance.

I think part of me is afraid. Afraid I won’t have the skill anymore. Well, duh, it’s been 20 years or more since I’ve really danced. Haven’t taken a class in that long. I’m afraid I won’t love it the way I did. Afraid I’ll hurt myself again if I try to take a class.

I just know, watching “White Knights”, the 20-year-old in me cried out, wanting to know why I left her behind, why I ignored her all these years. Why I let her become dormant and atrophied. Wondering why I gave up something I loved so much and that I was so good at.

And I have no answers. I can only say I won’t ever give up something I love so much again. No man, no woman, no person is going to stop me from doing what I want, what I love. I don’t want to look back in another 20 years and say, I wish I had never given up (fill in the blank).

Maybe I’ll be foolish enough to try a ballet class again. See if I still have a move or two in this old body. Maybe just a simple ballroom class. My friend, Shelley, has been encouraging me to tango and that sounds like a blast. Maybe it’s time to find that 20-year-old again and let her loose on the dance floor, see what she can do 20 years later.