I love to dance. My parents loved to dance, and my (adult) children love to dance. Even though I do not dance around the apartment like I used to, I wonder if old age might be best experienced through dance. Perhaps I should occasionally allow myself the freedom of abandonment through motion.
Nerida and I were reminiscing early this morning about the years we were ballet dancers. There have been years when I do not look back at those times. It is as if it was another life.
Another reincarnation.
I have been talking about that time in my life with friends. It is hard to imagine how much dedication and discipline it took to become a professional dancer. Certainly, watching athletes perform during last month's Paris Olympics, triggered memories.
The hardest thing to grasp is doing something with such
passion during my late childhood, throughout all my teen years, and then stopping suddenly in my early twenties, at my peak, as it were.
I know why I chose to quit, which I won't go into here, but part of me regrets not continuing to dance for another few years. Had I done that, I probably would not have gone into engineering, and where would I be today without that?
So, back to the conversation with Nerida. She mentioned how good I was and how when we finished the bar exercises and came into the center exercises, I would smile and shine with such joy. I'd forgotten that feeling and was teary at the reminder of what drove my passion—why dance was/is what I love best.
