Stepping through the door and looking out to the empty studio laid out invitingly before me, I can feel a beautiful flower of joy, blossom in the center of my body. And then its roots twirling and intertwining through every fiber of my being, until they eventually send ripples of excitement in every direction.
My limbs are like delicate paintbrushes gliding across the flawless white of a canvas.
Whilst an artist will use colour and an author will use words, I use my body to tell my stories and use the entire spectrum of emotion as my palate.
As I spin and spin and spin, I sigh a relief as the world melts completely away from me, like an ice cube left out on a hot summers day. While willingly allowing classical music to envelope me in a warm embrace, like the urgent yet tender hug of a long lost love.
Remember that feeling of invincibility you get after watching a superhero film as a child? Or that burning optimism that true love will find you next, after reading a romance book as a teenager? That’s how I feel every time I dance; like the impossible is possible…
The studio is more than just a close friend to me, it’s like a diary. For only on these hardwood floors can I truly be me and allow my heart to say what it truly wants to say, without a moment of self-doubt or second guessing.
There is no hiding when you’re dancing ballet; your body may be clothed but your soul is naked. But, be warned: any stresses from life you bring into the studio clamps onto your ankles and refuses to be shaken off like steel balls. So, whether it’s a cheating boyfriend or a sick relative, the necessity is… leave everything at the door, no matter how serious it is or how much it made you cry the night before, because the studio always knows and like a mirror, your body always reveals too much.
For me there is no cheat days and to my home I’m a fleeting acquaintance, always gone before the sun has a chance to raise. But alas, the constant sacrifice is worth it; how else could I truly feel free?