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“leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are paper mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.”

-Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell

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Okay, okay, I hear you. I just posted a gallery of photos including both bougie hotel room views and 3 angles of a public restroom. It’s confusing here today. But so is life.

Lately life has been, well, confusing. The sky is falling, the world seems to be full of friends and strangers, with surprises- and coincidences- around every corner.

I hear Mercury is in retrograde. Do you guys believe in that stuff? Yeah, I don’t know either. More confusion. Ambivalence…

…but Mercury does appear to be flying around backwards, and life on Earth is coming up…color coordinated? This warm fuzzy hue of green/orange/yellow keeps making its way into my suitcase, around my best friend’s neck, under my dinner plate, and in front of my lens. It’s in the bathroom mirror behind me, under the sink where I wash my hands for the weekend, in the midnight meal we prepare. Life is doing this chameleon thing and it’s all I can grasp onto to keep from flying away with that retrograding rock.

This weekend B and I performed in Ballet Theatre Company’s 20th Anniversary Gala. Ah, what a weekend, and what a feeling to find a place that feels so cozy and welcoming and inspiring. And and and, here are some non-bathroom-related photos from the weekend, including more unintentional matching!

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What a weekend.

Opening night always generates the most jitters.

Before the curtain’s first rise, the corps de ballet is tilting chins from one corner to the next like birds, cooing and checking in with the fluttering heartbeats around them. Feet shift from one to the other, hovering in sixth position, right arm ready to raise up and block out the moonlight. Finally the strings ring out and the adventure begins.

I whirl, I twirl, I collapse, I pose, I dip, I dive, I wake, I die. Waltz girl is a swirl of emotions, overtaking me and flooding the stage. I leave it soaked and stained with that euphoric feeling.

The rest of the evening continues in the bliss of performing a truly fulfilling program. The following day does not.

Saturday night I am in the corps of Serenade. Just before the start of the Waltz, I turn to dramatically drag my invisible mink coat off stage left. It’s surprising but not altogether startling to see Misha standing in the wing, directly in line with my slow exit. It is quite startling when he takes my shoulders and frantically whispers, “Can you do Russian Girl?”

My heart flips and then sinks. My best friend is cast to do Russian Girl that and every night. I manage an, “I guess so,” followed by a, “…wait, right now?” and a, “but what’s next?” and 32 counts later I’m running out from the wings to someone else’s cue.

The corps shuffles around to accommodate one less as I blindly navigate the role I barely learned and have left unconsidered for weeks. My mind wanders dangerously into worrying about the shoes I am filling- my very best friend’s. Where is she? What happened? Is she in pain? My own shoes turn their tips toward our dressing room, and then sharply back to the stage. I must do this for her.

Never in my life have I experienced a more intense performance. Never have I jumped into an unrehearsed role mid-show, unsure of the steps, the timing, the spacing, or why any of this was happening. Never have I felt so shaken and helpless towards the fate of my friend, unable to follow her ambulance to the emergency room because there are still two ballets on the bill.

Never have I felt so tangibly the support of this ballet family, stacking up like human beams to bolster me, eyes wide and minds ready to slip a hint where one was needed. Hands criss-crossed like little Russian dolls, sending squeezes from one hand to the next. A circular hug and immediate murmurs of quiet, strong love. A dedication to our spritely Russian Girl, to whom we unanimously, simultaneously, unspokenly dedicate the entire weekend to.

The Elegy finds me in a different light. I am dancing when Waltz Girl is statued. I am a strange new spoke in our pinwheel and I’m dizzier than before. The wheel bursts and I am thrown from the explosion. I run frantically towards center stage, saud de chat with everything I have left, and dive into the wings.

Finally, the curtain falls. We bow. The curtain falls again. My powder blue family surrounds me. Hugs, tears, hair stuck to my eyelashes and a bitter taste in my mouth.

A surprising Serenade it certainly was.

first and third photos by Ty Parmenter.
second and fourth photos by Dylan Giles for Festival Ballet Providence.
fifth and sixth photos by Alex Lantz.
Serenade
Choreography by George Balanchine
© The George Balanchine Trust

Today, I am 27. Wow.

I am a nester. I am a small talk-avoider. I am a devotional walker, an emo-music rediscoverer, a reborn journal keeper. I am someone who hangs gauzy curtains to softly filter morning light. I am a woman who overthinks, has trouble escaping her own mind, who vows to practice the delicate art of unwinding. I am someone who is soon closing a major chapter- organized education- but remains hungry to learn. I am a woman who strives to empower herself and her fellow ballerinas simply by believing in her own sparkle. Easier said than done, yes.

I am an author, a homeowner, a soon-to-be wife. I am a friend, a partner, a colleague. I am endlessly nostalgic (did I search through every February 11th post I’ve written here since 2011 this morning? why yes, I did). I am a modern romantic, I crave renaissance, reverence for the old and bold creation. With surrendered bones I ride the ebb and flow of the process, letting inspiration die to be reborn in some strange surprising spark. I am growing, I am changing, I am learning to really love my own company.

I am beautiful, I am strong, I am talented, I am powerful, I am me. 

I am repeating affirmations, I am seeking adventures, and I am never slowing down.