October's Timeless Dancer

Who you were and who you are


Autumn in northern California 

is a sort of now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t-event. My garden is in its last frenzy of blooming, with the pumpkin making a last few tiny green bulbs; lettuce and wildflower seedlings several inches tall, hopeful. But if you look closely, it’s not a lush green, but a far paler solemn, yet determined green, as if pacing itself for the last harvest. The hue betrays a simple but deep confidence. 

 

It’s a little like the dance class I took last night. Everyone, except the teacher, was over 40; many of us former professionals, all of us dedicated aficionados.

I had a vision, like these shadow dancers:

except there were no shadows.

We were doing rhonde jambe en l'air—

And I looked around the studio and my eyes fell on Bob—maybe sixty?—with his incredible dancer physique. It wasn’t his body I saw though, it was something else. It was Bob in another time.  He looked different, lighter, but still intense, perhaps a more composed, gentler version of himself from long ago.

We all have these timeless moments, but this one in the dance studio with its layers of mirrors, music, counts and the combination, was magic. There was a mist that covered us all so we could all be in that place, like Bob, in our own timeless bodies for a moment. 

Somehow we finished the barre, and went to the center for the final adagio. It was a little tricky, as I haven’t been to a ballet class in some time. 

But Bob in his not-to-be-forgotten-danseur-noble-persona stepped in; 

“You know, Susie, I can partner you in that turn." 

It was only a class, but I went home on air.

 ID