"Reverence"
Webster Definition: honor or respect felt or shown; a state of being revered
Ballet Definition: A bow or courtesy. The last exercise of a ballet class in which the ballet dancers pay respect to and acknowledge the teacher and pianist. Reverence usually includes bows, curtsies, and ports de bras, and is a way of celebrating ballet's traditions of elegance and respect.
Bone grinding on bone. The doctor said it was the worst hip he has seen in his twenty years of doing hips. He said it was Superior ++. I know these words were meant to berate her hip, but in many ways they described my mother. Superior ++.
She was scared, yes. But do you know what my mom, affectionately know as Miss Taunia, said wistfully like a child right before she went into surgery? "Maybe I will be able to do a Grande Jete again!". And asleep she went, with visions of Sugarplums dancing in her head.
How many years has she been dragging that bad leg behind her? I don't know. But it was long enough to train herself to walk in a lopsided fashion, a new way of walking to try and avoid the pinch and stab that took her breath away with every step. This was not the gait of a ballerina. And if anyone is a true ballerina, it is Miss Taunia.
An impeccably performed single Plie can bring her to tears. She no longer moves with grace exactly, but it emanates from her still, finding a way to seep into her words, her softness, her kindness. She points her toes when she watches TV. You can take my mom out of ballet, but you can't take the ballet out of my mom. It's her essence.
I wanted to love ballet so much. I wanted to love it because my mom loved it, and I loved her. As a child, I struggled. I was not born with natural ability, but with knobby knees and pointy elbows that did not seem to have the strength and curve to hold themselves the way my mother's did. But I was nurtured, I was taught. I was strengthened, I was primed. And then, I was a Ballerina. Thanks to Miss Taunia.
My mom looked so little in that hospital bed for a woman so mighty. The nurses and doctors said she handled the surgery better than they could have ever imagined. Strength. My mom would take a sip of water, flutter her eyelashes and dab at her mouth, still half asleep. Dignity. She would never fuss or push the button to call in the nurse because she wanted to be a star patient, and someone the staff loved to take care of. Grace. See? A true ballerina.
Time heals everything. Or so they say. I believe that when something is sacrificed, it's never given completely back in return. Instead it is shattered in fragments so generous and plenty, that when it is gathered and redeemed, the result is futile. The pieces never really come back together. They are misconstrued and lopsided, but they will have to do, for a sacrifice is a choice.
I watch Miss Taunia swing her leg out of bed and lean against her walker. I know we are both holding our breath. This is a big moment for my mom, one she has dreamed about for years but only recently had the means and the insurance to make it happen. She walked unsteady and unsure. I know in those few steps it is not what she had wished for. It's going to take time and practice to train a new ballerina.
Physical therapy, unbelievable pain, nausea, swelling, this is nothing compared to the years of teaching eight hours a day on a bone on bone grinding hip and a bad knee. From three year olds learning first position and not to pee their leotards, to trained dancers preparing to leave into the professional world, every day my mom works her magic. Her happiness and cheery attitude radiates and fills the hearts of students when they are feeling empty. Never does my mom complain. Never does she give less or hold back. So what is a little hip recovery to her? A small hill amongst mountains she's already overcome.
I feel hopeful knowing this. But in my heart I know something else. We were her sacrifice. I was her sacrifice. She has given her ballerina body to us, only keeping her soul. Generations and thousands of students have passed through her life, taking this and that, and moving on. Taking her joint lubrication, her good knees, her hips, her flexibility, her feet. Every hour she spent working her aching body, she lost something, letting us be the one to gain. Dance was her life, and she has given it freely to us so it could be ours. The only thing we can give back in return is to love it. To live it. To always have the strength, dignity, and grace of a ballerina. I can pirouette and grande jete like I've been taught, but I know that my time too will come when I have to sacrifice that. I have to wear my body down to be able to give of myself to my students and let them be the ones to live and be free. It's the debt I owe for the sacrifice my mother has given to me.
I know it will never be the body she had, but my mom is healing. And when she does, that just means that this makeshift body has more to give. And she will. I've learned that this is her calling in life, and her greatest joy. So I will let her give. I only hope that this new hip will bring her more happiness, more fragments to share, less pain, and more time seeing the fruits of her labor. I hope she gets to Grande Jete again and be free. She has earned it. Superior ++.
My favorite thing in the world is to see Miss Taunia step in front of the class and lead a Grande Reverence, a way to say goodbye and thank you. Her to us, and us to her. The movements are slow and simple, and don't require two good knees or a good hip. They are full of love and beauty, and respect for Ballet, things that can't be sacrificed, not even by my mom. Her arms flow like willows. She never looks at her self in the mirror, but at the top of her fingers, extending the beautiful line and lifted chest for as long as it will last, or until the Grande Reverence music has played the last note. These thirty seconds we get to see her dance are so sweet and beautiful like a poem, so I decided to close this blog post with a sonnet I wrote for my ballerina mother.
She gives her reverence dutifully, heart and body bowed.
It is to bend to fold, to surrender yourself to the art.
Walking stiffly and in pain she comes to do her part,
But when she moves transforms a swan, long necked and proud.
Every class is a test, a detergent of doubt, "Will she ever be dimmed?"
Yet every day she makes her way back to the floor to pay homage to her love.
When it's over she invariably glides, she moves, assisted by angels from above,
Like a ship plows through uneven waves and a lily survives the wind.
It is a feudal ceremony, she acknowledges herself the vassal of a lord;
Subordinate to the law of ballet, she is tested.
A ballerina, no glory, but a fighter whose title never rested,
Axed and hammered, bent and broken, but she will never fall to the sword.
Silence falls when this warrior dances.
A glint of applause, for a brief moment you see,
The world is her stage, the earth is her dance.
She will bow, but as she does her story enhances.
She is trapped but for a moment she is free,
This is her Grande Reverence, this is her chance.
Wishing you a speedy recovery mom. Love you forever!
