Eleven Perfect Steps, Part 4

I will never be able to do this.

I can’t do this. I can’t keep trying and trying and trying. I can’t walk a single step without faltering. Everything I try fails and fails again.

I start at the feet, tightening everything up, tuck in my butt, clench those muscles, suck in my stomach, contract my ribs, lift my chest, pull my shoulders down and back. I am in ballet repose, poised for flight, my energy a fine, taut line that shoots in two directions from a place just under my ribs: to the stars, to the center of the earth. This is a lovely place to be, poised for flight.

Q is at my back; I am facing The Man on the Wall. I turn out from the hip and present my foot. It is the most beautiful movement in dance. It is degage, tendu, the beginning of rond de jambe. It’s a very small and particular move, and it feels as lovely as it looks. I could do just this and no more. My foot is a precious jewel I offer tenderly to the floor. Just so.

The Man on the Wall Smiles appreciatively. Apparently, he is an ankle man.

My feet are turned out, not severely as in ballet, but 30 degrees, my natural stance. My rear leg is bent and I push off from the ball of my foot. I land sharply and square on the front foot; my leg is tall, solid and flexible as a tree. This has the feel of the chaine turn or a pirouette: stick it, stick it stick it. You must land precisely, square and straight on your foot, strong and perfectly centered, or you'll land on your axis, as they say.

Except that I don’t. Nine years of ballet and I never found my axis.

I am told to collect from the groin. I press my thighs hard together. My center is in there somewhere. I compress all of my energy into where it might be. As I squeeze my thighs together, the balls of my feet dig into the ground until I think they will break.

Mid-step, one foot in front and one foot behind, weight on the front foot. Halfway there!

Now to collect. Slide the rear foot forward to be meet the front foot.

I dig my front foot into the floor. My rear foot digs a trench as I drag the leg forward. My thighs are so clenched that my feet are turned onto their inside edge. I am impressed; I see this quite often on the better dancers.

But it is no good for me. My center sloshes from side to side, taking me with it. I grab for a bookshelf, the back of the chair, a piece of the wall. I tell myself with every step, “Stick it. Stick it. Stick it.”

Eleven steps to the end of the room. I take one staggering step after another. I grab for a bookshelf, the back of a chair, a piece of the doorjamb. When I reach the end, I topple against The Man on the Wall’s hard chest.

Originally, the game was to retreat to the starting line every time I staggered, so that over time I would go from one perfect step to two to three to four.... I have a different goal now: to get from one end of the room to the other without grabbing onto supports.

I have been at it 90 minutes tonight. I am at it nearly every night, 60 minutes, 90 minutes and more. Pugliese, Canaro, Di Sarli. I walk forward and backward, with front hooks and back. This is Tom’s warm-up drill. Everyone in the class can do it but me. My feet hurt and hurt. I am growing bunions the size of my knees. And I still can’t go even one pass of the room.

My grandmother used to say, “If I thought it would help, I would cry.”

I know that it won’t, but I do.