Still Breathing, Still Dancing

Despite pain in my left foot during the past year and a half, I have continued dancing and conditioning as much as I can. For quite some time I have feared I would never be able to dance properly again. I feel incredibly lucky that I have been able to walk, stand, and even run mostly normally throughout. Pointing my left foot would bring sharp, stabbing pain, and sometimes I felt like my foot would want to "crack" apart from my ankle!

Performing through it all!

After extensive physical therapy and finally an MRI and CT Scan, the podiatrist discovered an unusual structure between two bones. Apparently I have an "extra" growth where there shouldn't be one, thus causing the pain. Thankfully, it is fibrous and not osseous (meaning the growth is not comprised of actual bone). After receiving a steroid injection into my ankle to break up and soften the growth, my range of mobility has increased. I still have to be careful, though, and I make sure I warm up my ankle properly before attempting any activity.

(And no, it's not that kind of steroid - I am happy to report that I did not grow an unusually muscular left foot after receiving the injection!)

The podiatrist recommended surgery, and I confess I would like to avoid that unless absolutely necessary. I am encouraged by the effects of the steroid injection and will monitor the progress. And every day, no matter how tired I feel before I start my morning exercises, I remind myself how fortunate I am to even have the choice to be mobile. No matter what happens, I will dance on, even if it is only in my heart. 

The Show Will Go On!

My left foot was in fairly excruciating pain and I had a couple of hours to decide if I was going to pull out of the show that night. Despite the painkillers and anti-inflammatories, every time I even began to point my foot a sharp stab shot through me, up almost to my knee. I knew I'd landed a bit off one too many times from jumping in rehearsal, and the tiny bones in the top of my foot were probably misaligned. All too often, dancers ignore pain as part of daily wear and tear, until it's a bit late.

I thought I wouldn't be able to dance that evening every time I felt the pain and looked at my swollen foot, but the only times I'd pulled out of a performance were because I was either completely bedridden with the flu or I'd injured myself to the point of not being able to physically leave the house. In other words, if I could get my body out the door, I would dance.

And so I danced, and during those moments onstage I was happy. I could have danced more  - danced bigger without fear - but oddly enough there was no fear in my heart even though my body registered the pain. In fact, I was more anxious about watching the video later, preparing to wince at a half-baked performance. I was relieved to see that I appeared to be enjoying myself as much as I had felt while dancing onstage.

These are the times I pray that the love that burns inside me shines brighter than any technical shortcomings. I hope that you, too, can feel a bit of the joy I wish to give every chance I get to dance.

Rediscovering Why I Dance

Dancing atop the grand staircase at the Asian Art Museum

It’s been another hiatus, but I’m happy to report that I’m back and going strong! After a somewhat low period, my love of dance has been thoroughly reinvigorated. How? By performing! In the months nursing my injury, I’d forgotten what I was working for. It wasn’t until I was called for a job performing for a private event at the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco a couple of months ago that I remembered, with full force, just how much I love to dance.

I’d designed a program that spanned different ethnicities, in styles that would maximize the cultural breadth of China: Yi (southern), Uighur (western), and Han (northeastern). In terms of color, it was: bright pink, bright orange, and bright pink! It’s funny, because blue is my favorite color and I hardly have any costumes in that hue. Still, I’d selected dances and costumes that were diverse from one another and beautifully designed and made.  

I had four sets, from the moment guests arrived in the beautiful foyer to the very end, as they exited. Hello, and goodbye! I received numerous compliments and questions about what ethnicities my costumes and dances represented, which gave me such joy. Although, I do my best to limit any conversation with guests; when performing as a dancer at a function it’s important to stay professional. But, I didn’t want to be rude and ignore people point blank. And of course, I enjoy sharing with people the cultures behind the dance styles.

I warmed up amongst beautiful Chinese porcelains while waiting to perform. 

On the heels of this job was a stage show in which I performed a Yi ethnic minority dance from Yunnan in the south of China. Still on a high from performing at the Asian Art Museum event, I found a renewed energy during my rehearsals. Suddenly, instead of going through the movements, I was actually living the dance. I was ... dancing!

It’s really true; knowing the movements and being able to accomplish the technical requirements of a dance by itself does not constitute dancing. You could call it movement, or a series of linked movements. Dancing, however, is imbued with life. There is a breathing, an ebb and flow, a sense of direction embodied by rhythm and energy. There is a spirit that the movement serves to set free.  

I’d temporarily lost that spirit in the months before. I’d worked diligently on keeping in shape and learning dances, but my heart wasn’t in it. It’s hard to feel motivated when the the most basic movements required in my style of dancing causes sharp pain. Still, I’m glad that at least my sense of basic dedication (and the strong influence of habit) to dance, stretch, and exercise kept me going.

The difference in my experience after regaining my inner spirit for dance was palpable. When rehearsing, I felt my face break into smiles so natural and fitting for each moment of the dance. There was nothing premeditated or forced. I knew then, that the dance had finally begun to become a part of me, and that I was becoming the dance. 

Let’s just say I also knew I was doing something right when my teacher said at the end of my rehearsal one day, “It’s better. It’s improving.” She does not pay compliments when she doesn’t mean it, so even though she’d delivered the message rather tersely I was thrilled. And most important, it had felt *good* dancing the piece.

Just about to head backstage!

I had my usual nerves backstage, but once I was out there a strange sense of calm overtook me. It was just me and the stage again, the bright lights flooding me from the wings and above me, and the darkness out in the audience. In the back of my mind I worried that I wouldn’t be able to find center mark or the front of the stage after my series of turns, or that my slow front walkover would go wrong. But when I got to those parts, I felt no fear. My body knew what to do.

And when it was over, I lay awake at night going over my performance over and over again as I am wont to do. While I was tired and would have gladly welcomed more sleep, I knew what kept me up. I was excited. I couldn't wait to get back into the studio and work. Every chance, every moment I get to dance, is precious to me. My joy in rediscovering this knows no bounds.

Pain and Pleasure

Mid-air, trying not to think of the landing

Pain and pleasure ... who hasn't experienced this before, when it comes to something one loves? I haven't been to technique class in a very long time as I cannot point my left foot without a sharp, stabbing pain. It's as if the top of my ankle is being lanced with great gusto by a thick, sharp needle. When it first happened, I was executing the most simple tendu a la seconde. The pain was quite shocking and before I knew it I was on the floor, pushing myself off the marley with my hands to get out of the way of the other dancers.

Of course, it wasn't the tendu itself that had caused the pain. I admit that my left foot had been bothering me for quite some time, but not enough for me to have stopped and gotten it checked out. Who doesn't dance with one or more nagging discomforts at any one time? My left foot had been feeling stiff and "crunchy" for months. It suffices to say that a number of misaligned small bones, slightly swollen tendons, and a whole slew of big jumps finally did me in.

But why did it have to converge on the day the show opened?

Don't get me wrong; I'm not whining. Much greater heartbreak has occurred to dancers everywhere. But when it happens, you just have to think: Why now? You've worked so hard to prepare for the stage, and now you either can't present your work or you'll have to dance it to less than your potential. I honestly don't know which one is worse; it entirely depends on the extent to which you can dance full out with the injury.

But we dancers are gluttons for punishment, but not because we simply like suffering: Think of the burning desire to get out there and dance! That's what we've trained and rehearsed countless hours for. Dance is performance art, after all.

I couldn't give it up, so when the time came I took painkillers and tried to warm up my stiff muscles; no matter what I did I couldn't seem to warm up. I now realize it was psychological. Doubts raced through my mind: How am I going to do those big jumps? How am I going to get through anything if I can't point my foot? I'd gingerly test a movement and my heart would plummet as the pain shot through me.

In the end when I got out there, I danced my heart out as I am wont to do. When performing, it's extremely difficult to hold back or to "save" yourself to nurse an injury or to preserve endurance for subsequent shows. You want to give your all.

So, I gave it my all. Despite having taken the painkillers, the stabbing sensation was intense. Miraculously, a feeling of calm flowed through me and I smiled without having to force it. I felt real joy. I was dancing!

It goes without saying that I didn't dance the next day. Or the next day, or the day after that. But, I was satisfied; I had danced the show. Maybe the jumps weren't so pretty, but the energy was there. Now I must be patient. The extent to which I miss going to class is painful in its own way, but I will be good. It's better to be out now than push an injury too far and be out for longer ... or forever.

I can hold out for self-preservation, and even more so, for the chance to dance one more time. I'll take pain now, for the pleasure to come.