This evening I did something pretty monumental: after a ten year absence, I pulled out my leotard and shoes and plodded my way through a ballet class.
From the age of seven ballet was part of every week, and when I was about 13 I added an extra class, and the classes got longer. My last few years of school saw me dancing for about 4 hours a week, which was exhausting but wonderful.
I’d had big plans to go to drama school after 6th form, which would have kept me dancing, and then 6 months before leaving school (and about a week before handing in my uni applications) I changed my mind and decided that I wanted to study theology instead. I love theology, and I loved studying it at St Andrews, but neither the course nor the uni gave me much opportunity to continue balletic pursuits, and other than a brief foray into the world of Irish dancing, these dancing feet of mine have done very little in the last decade.
Tonight that changed. It was lots of fun, but boy was it hard-work!
Jeté and plié and port de bras are words that I haven’t heard in a long time, but it turns out that this body-memory stuff does count for something, because it all came flooding back (along with the pain!).
In summary: tired, but in a good way.