I’m sitting in a dance studio– not any studio; the studio. I can’t begin to count the hours I spent in here– required hours, stolen hours, all hours. Sense memory took over as I walked across the floor. Same creaks. Same smell. Same sense of wonder even if age has made some of those possibilities dim.
My body remembers this place. It remembers the calluses, the hamstring pulls and the exhaustion. And it remembers joy.
I had a life here. I knew a boy here. I was challenged, frustrated and just shy of brilliant here– at least once or twice.
Every five years or so I make this pilgrimage. I see old friends, and we talk about the years gone by. But this place I come to alone. Even though we had rehearsals and class here, each of us had our own experience– our own blessings and curses. Explaining it to spouses and kids seems unthinkable.
Impossible to recapture youth, I know, and yet it feels so near here. If I close my eyes and take a deep breath I’ll be who I was here.
I’m sitting in a dance studio. And I’m me here.