Finding Home, Chapter 8; The Importance of Dance

The Importance of Dance July 6, 2004

I had a dream this morning I believe was about my mother. At first when writing it down I thought it didn’t add up. However, the emotions it stirred and the heaviness I felt assure me it was somehow significant.
I went out for my run and upon return it made more sense than I first realized, taking into consideration how I grew up. It occurred to me my mother could have also been a dancer, perhaps even professional. In this dream my mother was a dancer, but I could never clearly see her face to confirm her identity. I did not write anymore about the actual dream, but more about my thoughts regarding the connection to my birth mother.
For reasons I cannot explain I have always enjoyed classical music and I dreamed as a young child I would one day become a ballerina. The dream did not come from being exposed to the world of dance, it was just something I really wanted to do. At least I thought it was my idea all this time, but now I wonder if my birth mother had been the instigator, me following in her footsteps, so to speak.
As it turns out she indeed was a ballerina and an artist, and she loved horses (I will never forget my pony, Angelina).
I was introduced to Classical music at a young age as my adoptive parents purchased season tickets to the Calgary Philharmonic. My brothers and I would take turns going to the concerts, which were normally on Sunday afternoons. It was a magical experience for me; the huge auditorium, the special treat during intermission and most of all the music, which sounded amazing performed live.
At home there were often records playing and I believe this opened a door in my mind that later in life enabled receptivity for all types of music from around the world. My brothers did not have the same passion for this music, so in the end I went to all the concerts, which I saw as a great gift.
As I began to explore different genres of music I came to understand the healing aspect of the different frequencies of instruments and vocals. As I trained my ears to accept the music from foreign shores, I became completely dissatisfied with commercial sounds listened to in North America.
I began to comprehend the importance of listening only to music which gave me positive feelings. It was also this way with ballet. Starting when I was nine and from the very first lesson, I knew I wanted to become a professional dancer, I loved it that much.
It was quite amazing to me when our year-end recital was performed on the very same stage where all those years before I watched The Calgary Philharmonic perform. Looking out from the stage is a very different feeling from my familiar position on the first balcony looking down.
After my first year I transferred to another ballet school to be trained by a teacher from the Bolshoi Ballet Company. She was quite old but very strict, demanding we give our very best. She saw something in me she felt should be nurtured and so from the beginning she recommended I take extended classes three times a week. She worked us hard and I never felt more alive than during the time spent with her.
When I was in class I became my true self, unafraid to try, and be challenged. Compared to when I was at home or school where I did my best to not be seen or heard.
Unfortunately my adoptive parents did not feel this teacher and her son (who would help to teach on occasion when he was not with his dance troupe), were their version of a desirable influence. I remember he was very angry with me when I came to class with short hair. He seemed to see it as an offence and I remember being quite ashamed. I was too humiliated and shy to explain my decision for cutting it, that it was an expression of self, something foreign to me. His anger at me for cutting it at that time and the humiliation from my first short hair cut seemed to intensify my insecurity about my right to choose. This was something that haunted me for most of my life, this belief my voice has no strength.
I believe this was the last year I attended Madame Chermentoff’s class. Duncan and Helen didn’t like the fact she smoked during class and felt her son was perhaps becoming too familiar with me while he was instructing. They transferred me to a different school once again. I was very sad to be leaving my teacher because I knew my family was just making excuses – they did not want me to take dancing so seriously, as Madam Chermentoff wanted me to train to be a professional. I found her to be an excellent teacher, bringing out this incredible resolve in me to keep doing more, become better. This was not something I did for others though, it was internal, something just for me, teaching me stamina and determination. These were gifts that would not fail me as I began to remember my past, giving me resolve as I climbed ever farther from the darkness.
Although it was hard to make the change, I really loved my new teacher and her classes. She was younger, with two children that I sometimes babysat. She too saw my potential and began steering me towards a professional career.
She pushed me hard, getting me to take the yearly exams. They were very difficult and the examiner came from England; only three or four students were allowed in the room for each exam. It was quite intimidating, nowhere to hide from the stern looks of the examiner sitting at the front of the room making her notes.
We were meant to be almost perfect and the passing mark was 98%. When I did the intermediate exam, I had only one year in this class and it was unusual as most students had at least two years of lessons and sometimes three before taking the exam. But my teacher (who had danced with the Royal Winnipeg Dance Company) pushed me to get through my exams faster so I could perhaps study in Winnipeg.
She wanted me to take a summer class at the Banff School of Fine Arts, but the Phypers would not let me go. Being under the age of eighteen I could not choose to go in spite of them. It was a huge disappointment. This would end up being the summer I spent babysitting rather than dancing. It would also be the year when I almost died from alcohol poisoning, and by a strange form of intervention isolated from all my friends.
My teacher most likely was not aware of these issues, at least I didn’t share my troubles with her. She worked me hard that year and I was grateful because it always gave me hope. My spirit was strong when in that room and I was happy. I was to take my exam that spring and was quite nervous because I knew she really wanted me to pass. It almost seemed more important to her than to me. It was as if she was challenging Helen and Duncan for not allowing me to follow my dream.
As I was preparing to enter the examining room she pulled me aside and gave me a little pep talk. She told me she was counting on me, which perhaps was not the right thing to say, given my background. I found the pressure a bit overwhelming, but, in for a penny, in for a pound. I had to do my best.
I felt I did well but my toe shoe broke and I had some trouble getting on point. Despite this problem and my nervousness I just kept going, staying strong and putting aside the pain in my feet. When I came out of the examination room my teacher hugged me, she had been peeking through the doors but she was unable to see everything.
She felt I did well however, and was confident I had passed. The results came by mail from England, so it was just before the end of the season when they arrived. I had failed, receiving a final mark of 96% if memory serves me right. Falling just short of the required 98%. Other than failing something about this always bothered me but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I had a difficult time facing my teacher. I felt I had let her down and was ashamed. I know she was disappointed, it was hard for her to hide it.
Her reaction seemed unreasonable to me because many students did not get a pass on the first try for this exam for which they normally had two years to prepare. But I now understand that her disappointment was not with me, but the lost opportunity a passing grade would have given me. Or was there something more, something she could not tell me? Did she understand perhaps the grade given was incorrect? This is just supposition as I ponder this moment in time that changed the direction of my life from what was possible to what it became, what it has been.
Looking back I have to be proud I did so well. In learning about my past and the family that raised me there were times it occurred to me my failed mark was intentionally altered so I would not continue with dance. The possibility of being in such a public position and perhaps being recognized was not something they could risk: dancers at this level often become high profile entertainers.
If you analyze the sequence of events one can see as I do this was a very traumatic year: first of all forbidden to attend The Banff School of Fine Arts; secondly I was living in a harmful environment rather than following my dreams; thirdly, I nearly died from alcohol poisoning; fourth, my long time friends were forced to abandon me so I was very much alone for graduating year—isolated with my self-esteem dangerously low; fifth, I felt tremendous pressure to take the exam before I was ready; sixth, I met my future husband, who also became one of my handlers, as meeting him was supposed to distract me and lead me away from my dreams; seventh and finally, failing the exam was instrumental in undermining my self-confidence. Collectively these were a devastating blow, putting me back in my prison. For many years afterward it made me a model submissive wife.
I did not go back to my classes in the fall, which is unfortunate, I just could not face my teacher. This has been a common thread in my life when I feel as though I have let someone down or if they let me down in kind. I walk away rather than fight to get back on solid ground. Rather than face the possibility of disappointment I know I cannot bear, I prefer to isolate myself – this is the distortion that has made me feel protected. Had I received a passing mark there would have been no stopping me.
When I was in my thirties I started dancing again, but this time it was more about having fun; there were no exams and it was not as technically focused. Still, I expected a lot from myself in trying to make up for how I had failed those many years ago. It felt really good to dance just for the pleasure of it, and it was during these years I started to have dreams and flashes of memories that brought back the realization my childhood was not what it seemed.
Perhaps bringing dance back into my life gave me the courage to face the dragon hidden behind the door of my mind. It was during this time I drew my third dragon, and when I finished I was finally able to cry for some losses I still could not recall. I was able to face more fully I had much to learn about myself. A new road began to open up before me.