Phoenix

Blindly I ran. Fuming, indignant and yes, scared, I ignored the gasps of protest behind me. Without thought I rejected the life sentence I had just been given and followed the arrows to the building's exit. Furious, I rushed through the old city covering winding narrow streets, crossing numerous bridges over stinking canals, ignored historical sites, did not pay attention to the fabulous architecture, a testament to man’s success. I sneered at the beauty of the futuristic new buildings.

Instead, I railed against the unfair twists of fate and the savagery of time. Silently I cursed the betrayal of my body. I could not believe or accept what I had heard. Scoffed at and rejected all suggestions and options that had so carelessly been voiced. Desperately I wanted to continue to build on my many triumphs. I grappled at air, prayed there had to be a way to yet achieve those unreached goals and unfulfilled dreams. As I walked on, I raged and cursed my body’s treason, how it had raided my strength and skill. I held on to my anger, keeping sadness at bay. The longer I walked the stronger I believed that I was alone in my struggle.

The salad I was served when I stopped at a sidewalk café, was wilted, the wine I asked for turned out to be sour. I watched people hurry by, absorbed in their own miserable thoughts. Paper lanterns, like fading flood lights, outlined the patio. Leaves fell from trees like teardrops.

Feeling restless, my thoughts still churning, I walked on. Avoiding the busy avenues, I heard the rhythm of my footsteps echo in the quiet side streets. With each step, my body begged for rest, warmth, and comfort. Yet over and over, I tried to capture one more glimpse of me. Just one more dance, one more performance, one more ovation for who I used to be. In my mind I flew again, my body in perfect control, each part of me exactly where it should be. In my mind I only felt the exhilaration of perfection. As I walked, I did not feel the strain, the near constant pain and fatigue after hours of rehearsing the same movement. I chose to forget the jarring impact of each landing that inevitably followed every perfect flight.

And then I did.

As I walked through the old city and passed under scaffolds used for repair of centuries-old facades, as I stepped from one unevenly worn cobble stone to the next, I felt each hour of practice, each bone crushing plie, soubresaut and grand jete. I relived each blister and damaged toenail, felt the white pain of every torn ligament, the repeated agony of landing on stress fractures. And the frustrating restraint of plaster casts.

Yet obsessively I walked on, one painful step after another.

I heard music cascading from open windows and felt it wrap itself around my heart, my soul, my gut. But when I urged my limbs to remember what they had been taught, when I told my body to follow the music, to dance and fly, I could not. I felt like a stranger in my home. I could not find myself.

In my anxiety, my panic, I could barely remember what I used to take for granted. Gritting my teeth at my weakness, I hunched my shoulders against what I feared most to face, a future with what was left of me. A washed-up, side-lined, old, useless, soon-to-be- forgotten has-been.

I turned into an alley; one I’d never seen before. There, ahead of me, walking from one pool of light to the next, was a mother holding her small daughter’s hand. There was something about the child, the way she walked, her proud posture, the flutter of her hands as she studied her movements. She reminded me of myself at that age. Long ago when I first fell in love with dance.

It was as if, by design, history decided to repeat itself. One of the girl’s ribbons slipped off her braid. It only took three steps to trap the pale satin under my foot, two more and I was within speaking distance.

“Excuse me.” I said, like my hero had said to me.

The mother looked over her shoulder, pulling the small girl closer. “Yes?”

I smiled at both and spoke directly to the child. “You seem to have lost this one.” I held the now stained ribbon out to her.

Shyly she took it from my hand.

“Are you a ballerina?”

She nodded, like I had done so many years ago.

“I can tell, you have the posture, so graceful. Do you love it?”

Her smile grew, as I remember mine had spread, her head bopping emphatically. “Oh yes, very much.” She enthused.

“More than ice cream?” I teased, just as I had been teased.

“Oh, yes!” There was no hesitation.

“More than your mother?” I echoed my mentor’s words.

The little girl thought carefully, looked up at her mother and back at me. “No.”

“Good, you remember that. There may come a time that you have to choose. Be sure if you choose dance that your loved ones are with you.”

Something, a thought, a memory, niggled at me. Had Olga felt the same as I did at that moment when she gave me this lesson? I doubted that, like me, the child would remember my words and started to walk away.

“You are her, aren’t you? You are Eden, right?” Her little voice was full of wonder.

Smiling, a bit ruefully I’m sure, I turned back. “I was, yes.”

“I saw you dance last year and wanted to be like you. Wanted to fly the way you did.” Her voice sounded dreamy, as if she were seeing that performance play out again.

I just had to know, just had to torture myself. “Which performance was that?”

“You were the black swan.” She sighed reverently.

I laughed. Everyone always looked at the white swan. I had been accused of upstaging. But I have always given it everything I had. “Thank you, I am very pleased to hear that.”

“May I give you a hug? May I touch you?” she whispered as I had pleaded back then.

I bent, ignoring the groans from my back and wrapped my arms around her small frame. Suddenly, as if the child were sharing the promise of her future, as if Olga were reminding me of life still to be lived, I realized I had purpose and substance, I had knowledge and experience. I had something to give in addition to a hug and a smile. I swallowed my tears of relief. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

“Thank you.” I whispered. “For letting me see a future.”

With a lighter step I turned and finally headed home, where my family was. The ones I had ignored, put second for too long. I hoped they could forgive me and allow me to be in the chorus of their lives. I prayed they’d help me find more than the momentary high of a performance and the empty warmth of applause. I wondered if they’d let me lean on them while I transformed myself from the ashes of my dreams.