When I was 17 and coming to terms with two approaching knee surgeries, I never could have guessed that recovery would present itself, more than three years later, in the form of a beginners' disco dance class in Moscow, Russia.
The beginning steps are simple, there’s no forced turnout or amplified pressure on my knees, and, as this is a partner dance, every new undertaking falls equally on two sets of shoulders. For the first time in too long, the sum of what I can do is greater than the sum of what I can’t. The thrill of spinning freely and always being caught by my partner is, well, it’s just fun. There’s no better word. It’s just so much fun. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun. It’s the kind of fun that makes my hands sweaty and my head dizzy with adrenaline. I feel like I’ve flipped on some switch of a long-dormant section of my brain, making sleep unreachable and homework unthinkable. It’s actually a little inconvenient - how much fun I'm having.
Granted, I only understand 53% of the teachers’ explanations; I’m pretty sure I’m the youngest student by 7 years; one person literally, unexplainably (and disturbingly) wafts the smell of chamomile tea every single class; and I smile so much that I’m concerned a few of the older men think I’m flirting with them. Also, I accidentally wrote down my “Russian coffee shop name”, Anna, when signing up for a class so, yikes, now half of the group thinks my name is “Anna” and the other half leans towards a pronunciation of “Aubrey” that could easily be confused for “Oprah” so... that’s probably something I'll have to deal with soon but, for right now, I dig it. The ambiguity keeps things interesting.
Somehow, in this hall of awkward exchanges, missed connections, and dazzling, dizzying moments of ease, I’m healing. It’s a quiet wound, not so much an injury now as a tired shadow, but one so closely intertwined with my psyche that I couldn’t previously pinpoint its intrusion without the aid of a spiritual scalpel or Dora the Explorer’s talking map.
You see, my teenage years spun out in a spider-webbed saga of leaking ice packs, ripped ballet tights, and the snap, crackle pops of patellar dislocations. Like the pairing of fine wine with aged cheeses, Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake”, Lionel Richie’s “Easy Like A Sunday Morning”, and the entirety of “West Side Story” are forever linked with the premature conclusion of a grand allegro, the slap of my hands to the floor, and that “oh, shit” feeling that I really screwed up this time.
Ballet, although it will always be a great love in my life, is not the love of my life. I still get a kick out of teaching creative movement classes to little kids. I like to guess who among them will grow into pointe shoes and long Saturday rehearsals, and who will enjoy the incomparable feeling of satisfaction that comes from raising the height of an arabesque an inch futher. That particular sense of satisfaction is gone and unreachable for me now, and that’s okay. My body still works. My knees still move. I am not broken.
I forgot that there are different ways of dancing, just as there are different means of expressing love, different avenues to healing, and different methods of creating joy.
I’m so glad I remembered.
With the help of Oprah.
And the Backstreet Boy's classic song, "Everybody (Backstreet's Back)", which usually plays in the background of any big moment for me.
With love,
Oprah
Image credit: Oprah.com
P.S. the real Oprah did not write this blog post.
P.P.S. Here's a gem from 3 years ago in the hospital!! I think I may have been high on oxycodone. Idk. Hard to tell.
