Disclaimer: I have no memory of this. I was three years old.
But here's the story.
The dancer Edward Villella had come to town and my parents took me to see him. The show was proceeding as normal when all of a sudden my dad looked around and saw that I was not in my seat. I was, in fact, almost at the stage. I had evidently decided that this world of grace and beauty would do very nicely and was taking the logical next step.
#
Naturally I was prevented from actually rushing the stage and we probably left.
In case you're wondering, no, ballet lessons did not ensue. That was left for the next generation. I did start drawing ballerinas obsessively, but my parents interpreted this as having to do with art rather than dance.
The thing is, I didn't stop. Into my twenties, I spent a couple of hours a day drawing dancers.
Is that why I was here? Was I supposed to do this thing that I did not in fact do? Am I an amputee from myself? Left to make do with what remains? Will I never actually be who I am? Is that the source of my panic?
Is that why I write? Is that why we all do? Because for each of us, a door shut somewhere else, so we had to live in the hall? It would explain a lot.
#
I wish I could step back into that memory. What did I think I was seeing? People, or angels? 'Dance' or just sheer beauty? What made me think that I could somehow become part of it by going up on stage? What did I think would happen if I made it? Did I know?
Or had I just gone forward on trust?
