277. Midnight Alien Ballet
There in the dark, I slipped out of bed, and I put on one of the songs that Sofia had recommended by the legendary Tunisian musician, Anouar Brahem. I
In my hometown in upstate New York, only a few blocks from my house, there was a dance studio run by an immaculately chic woman whom we called Madame. As a young woman, she had trained at the School of American Ballet in New York City, then danced professionally in both the U.S. and Europe before opening her school. I began taking classes there when I was about twelve. I started with an introductory ballet course and was hooked. By the end of that first year, I had my first pair of pointe shoes, and I was taking classes every day, everything from ballet to modern dance and hip hop.
I loved everything about those classes—the leotards and tights and chiffon skirts, the camaraderie with my fellow dancers, the feeling of my body getting stronger, becoming more pliant, able to assume new shapes. But more than anything I loved Madame. She was exacting and had very specific ideas about how a young lady should dress and carry herself. I remember she once told us that maintaining the posture from class—neck long, straight spine, tailbone tucked—would ensure our posteriors would remain firm until old age. Sometimes she could be absolutely terrifying. She might halt class midway through and ask us something like, “What Russian authors have you read?” We were twelve, so inevitably no one raised their hand, and she would chide us for our lack of sophistication. But somehow she also managed to be very loving and incredibly encouraging, and my fellow students and I flourished under her guidance.
I began to dream of dancing professionally. Setting my sights on the New York City Ballet, I signed up for classes at Skidmore, which has an amazing dance program. But a couple years in, as my body matured and became curvier, I came to the devastating conclusion that I was not destined to be a prima ballerina. I decided to refocus my attention on other interests, like the double bass and writing, and I left ballet behind.
Until a year and a half ago, that is, when I was in the hospital. I was being treated for some complications from my second bone marrow transplant, and I’d been in excruciating pain for days. The only way to cope was to completely dissociate from my body, to sever myself from its turmoil. Every time a physical therapist came to my room, I shooed them away. I hated how clinical it felt, but also I felt angry about how much I had physically deteriorated. I spent all my time either sleeping or painting, both of which were a complete escape.
Then on a Sunday morning, I woke early, long before the sun came up, and I read the essay and prompt in that week’s newsletter. It was “One Hundred Small Dances” by Sofia Tsirakis, a dear friend from college who had started a daily dance practice during our first 100-day project a decade earlier. Sofia wrote about her process—how she would close her eyes, listen, and let her body guide her. Over time it became a cherished ritual. She described it as “a road trip with no fixed destination.”
There in the dark, I slipped out of bed, and I put on one of the songs that Sofia had recommended by the legendary Tunisian musician, Anouar Brahem. I had grown up listening to him—he was one of my parents’ favorites—and I began to move without thinking. I used my IV pole to steady me, and I rolled out my neck, then flexed and pointed my feet. I hinged at my waist and did a swan dive (suddenly, I recalled: a port de bras) and felt the most wonderful stretch in my legs and hips. After that, a slow turn—the most gentle pirouette. By the end, I felt an almost electrical current coursing through my limbs. I was also amazed by the muscle memory, and how those movements transported me to those days with Madame. At that point, I didn’t recognize my face in the mirror; bald and lashless, I felt like an alien. Connecting to my younger self was a powerful anchor.
Writing about it from this distance, I can recall a sense of elemental gratitude. For feeling well enough to be present in my body, for being not only able but eager to move, even if it was in the simplest ways, like stretching in bed or tangoing with my IV pole. If you’re lucky, and you emerge from the valley, it can be hard to stay grateful for such simple things. You forget what a miracle it is to have strong legs that can carry you a distance, however big or small. You forget what a joy it is when the fog of exhaustion briefly lifts. And maybe that’s how it should be. But I don’t want to forget. I never want to forget.
