Life Moves: Older and still reckless
By Rebecca Hope Terry
There it is, a fresh split on the bottom of my thick-skinned dancer’s foot, just round the corner of the bunion. Looks like a fish gill, we used to say.
To fix it, I dig out my little brown suitcase, full of safety devices. It’s been awhile since I have opened it. Inside, there are old rolled up tensor bandages, wooden foot massagers, a rolling pin, poky objects meant to dig knots out of muscles, and balls of different sizes. A roll of super-sticky Leukotape for my sweaty feet, used for preventing fish-gill foot splits. Pieces of socks, for extra padding, and a bicycle inner tube, for stretching. Cut out pieces of foam in amoeboid shapes, to prevent a bursa (of knee or elbow) from swelling to goose-egg proportions. Astonishing to look at, these alien shapes protruding from joints got in the way.
Yes, I remember.
I wonder if it is still considered dancing if the dancer is in pain… I used to laugh a lot, so maybe it all balanced out, back then. I laughed so much, a choreographer told me to try laughing with my body if I felt the urge coming on. Just let it flow into your arm, she said, and let it shake around…
I pick up a piece of homemade knee-armour. Turning it over, I run my fingers over the red-checkered cotton. I cut it to match, from an old tea towel, to absorb the sweat. I shake my head and admire my brilliant invention. Never throw away any of your creations.
Now, at 56, I am performing again, in a long-running Toronto series called Older & Reckless. I get to live and experience another dance season. Feels like spring. But, oh, the pain. And the fear!
Fear of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fear of forgetting the steps. Fear of my now relaxed belly showing. Fear that my neck will not look graceful, or that my feet, knees, or hips will come to an embarrassing halt. Still, like a deer. Frozen. Or perhaps — my brittle state exposed — I will crack and fall apart into a million pieces, on to the studio floor. Likewise, I easily fall into old roles of following, leading, speaking up at inappropriate times, or keeping quiet. I don’t want to stand in the front. But I really should. I must! No. I should go to the back. I should be agreeable and pleasant. Sometimes, a deep force rises up, bold or defensive, and then I become embarrassed. I feel like a child, wanting to be good. I tell myself, It’s okay, Hope.
I listen to other voices of dancers in the studio. Some soft, some louder. No one wants to go back to being mute and invisible. Now, we have lived a little and know a little more, that it is every person’s birthright to inhabit our living space with body and voice. Fortuitously, the piece we are performing is called You See Us (UCS — Unstoppable Coalescing Streams), by choreographer Peter Chin.
Surrounded by kindred spirits, the chitchat is easy in the dressing room. Magically appearing oranges and chocolate are found in the green room. On another day, figs. Talking about whatever is on one’s mind. Over-sharing is normal around here.
Singing, for fun.
Oh yes, I remember, and I try to savour each moment, wanting it to last a bit longer. But this happiness is a rare and fleeting thing. We can only catch this wind briefly.
I do push-ups and side planks again. I feel more alive. Clear.
Pre-show silliness, endless waiting, warming up again and again. Noticing each one’s beauty. I want to slow it down, we all know it will end. The stage has no past or future, but it does have its own potent DNA. And it mixes with the DNA of the performers and the audience and as a result of this magical conception, we are reborn. We aren’t the same people post-show as we were pre-show. We are renewed.
I watch my old friend downstage, slanting to the left. Not until after saving myself from falling off balance, do I realize that I was leaning, too, inhabiting his movement. Perhaps my edges disappear when I feel safe — even with the fear of forgetting the steps, and being in the wrong spot and that pain in my knee,
I still
feel
safe.
With my clan. My mates, my dancer family. Past and present.
Peter said to slow down. Let the ancestors in.
Then, on stage, I remembered.
Take your time.
Take your time.
