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[ofdancinganddreaming]

Some Days

Some days

it occupies a place in the framework of my life and mind

no more dominant than gravity.

Fundamental, but peripheral.

I am a sleepy girl: for so long now, it seems strange to point out the habit.

On buses, in lectures, on lawns.

At tables, leaning against a wall,

or crouching, limbs folded against myself.

Standing on trains, feet positioned for optimal balance, just resting my eyes.

On those days, diagnosis is a gentle relief,

and a twang of satisfaction –

I am not lazy! My craving is legitimate, I am interesting, memorable!

On those days, I enjoy it as an ice-breaker, a party trick, a get-out-of-participating free card,

and lose little in return.

  But there are other days.

Days when it interferes.

When it overcomes my free will and my authority

over my own body.

My thoughts get lost in the fog and my speech slurs,

sentences unraveling.

When periods of alertness trickle away into mere glimpses.

When it undermines my control over how I participate in life.

Did you even leave the house today?

  On those days,

diagnosis inspires grief.

I mourn myself.

On those days, I am revealed to myself as a doppelganger of the person I had planned to be,

and in my dreams and aspirations,

in my daily operations,

I struggle against the pull of a powerful grounding force.

And in the background, a voice,

Threatening me always with those damning words:

Failure to launch.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

Ballet Light

  Tonight I danced my last class for 2014. It was only my third, I think, since I've been home, and that was frustrating. Just as I began to feel strong again and back in the swing of picking up choreography and holding my muscles in position, the year is over and it will be weeks before I can take class again.

But of course, there is much to practice at home. When I am waiting for the kettle to boil, or waiting for the bus, or any other moment in my day, I can be practicing holding my muscles in the impossible ballet posture, focusing on moving through first in a rond de jamb or rehearsing the complicated double frappé beat, or slowly marking the progression of a fondue. As I wait in line to pay for my petrol, I can work on my turnout. And of course, my flexibility would benefit from… well, any stretching at all, to be honest.

  Tonight, as we gathered in the centre before bows, our teacher took a moment to reflect on the nature of our practice, as adult students of ballet. At the October Adult Showcase, video reflections from students included the comment, “I don’t want to learn ballet ‘light’”.

  Nobody at Studio Tibor learns ballet light. We come together in an evening, arriving from long days at our varied workplaces, bringing with us vastly different backgrounds and skill sets. But we all come determined to learn and improve at our chosen art, we don’t shy away from the physical or mental challenge. We allow ourselves to be vulnerable in our passion.

Tonight, as we bowed, we all took a moment tonight to be proud of and inspired by each other.

  I look forward to 2015 as a year of emotional healing and steady technical improvement, and I look forward to sharing it with my passionate peers.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

Better than red wine

Monday was a shitty day. At school I fumbled to catch a collapsing child  and winced as their head connected with asphalt, and then a surprise downpour made me late to sign the lease on my new apartment (yes, I did find a place to live before my deadline of homelessness).

The only things that could improve that day were red wine, or ballet. So I searched my carefully packed up wardrobe for the appropriate attire, stopped by the ATM so I could pay my way, and walked the one kilometre from home to Studio Tibor.

I have always loved classes with this teacher, and Monday was no different. When you find a teacher whose style and approach you connect with, it lifts the whole experience. In Clancy's classes, I understand the explanations and recognise how general corrections relate to my own movements. This easy understanding yields steady improvement, not to mention enjoyment, and classes feel extra rewarding.

In addition to the meditation and endorphins, this class lifted me with the satisfaction of a neat double pirouette, and the pleasant surprise that my strength (though not my flexibility) has mostly survived my absence. At the barre, I can still hold my leg in a respectable 75 degrees in second.

Every day is different, but it is a relief to know that every time I step up to the barre, I can rely on ballet to deliver results. It is the best way to start the week, and the best way to end the day.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

A Time to Dance

[If you are new to my blog, take a moment to visit the archive and read the first two posts, Drifitng Off and A New Awakening.]

For the past few months, I have been concentrating on self-care. Figuring out the sort of life I can lead, and managing all the overwhelming feelings I have been experiencing, necessitates some deliberate attention to looking after myself. Tonight, despite a lovely day full of people I like and useful activities, I was feeling lonely, nervous, and plagued by an ambiguous sense of urgency. I was foreseeing hurdles ahead that I don’t have the resources to jump, and identifying no plausible solutions to prepare myself better. That paralysing sense of isolation from everyone I know, which I touched on in my last post, was growing.

 In case anybody is wondering, the pinnacle of self-care in such a situation, is to turn on a Taylor Swift playlist, and dance naked around your home while you run yourself a bath. Optional extras include shaving your legs, a tasty red or white bath-time beverage, and bubbles (in the bath).

That’s what I did, anyway, and it worked a treat.

There are lots of things I do to take care of myself and manage how I’m feeling – eating well and supporting my body, maintaining the relationships in my life, consciously relaxing regularly throughout each day, talking to people when I’m not feeling good (maybe you got one of those morning-staffroom text messages?), and indulging in small enjoyments whenever I can.

And then there is ballet. Ballet doesn’t just reset my breath, or distract me from how I’m feeling; it reignites my passion and sends endorphins soaring and engages every fibre of every muscle. The physical challenge stirs my body into action even when I can’t remember what being alert feels like, and the supportive, ambitious atmosphere can lift my mood even when I know nobody in the room. Figuring out how to fit ballet into a life that Narcolepsy has drained of time and money, is difficult. In fact, despite missing it dearly, for a while it wasn’t even on the list of priorities. But when I shared the last post about my struggle to adjust, my wise mum posted A Time For Everything (Ecclesiates 3:1) in a comment.

A Time for Everything 

For everything there is a season,

a time for every activity under heaven.

A time to be born and a time to die.

A time to plant and a time to harvest.

A time to kill and a time to heal.

A time to tear down and a time to build up.

A time to cry and a time to laugh.

A time to grieve and a time to dance.

A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.

A time to embrace and a time to turn away.

A time to search and a time to quit searching.

A time to keep and a time to throw away.

A time to tear and a time to mend.

A time to be quiet and a time to speak.

A time to love and a time to hate.

A time for war and a time for peace.

  Two days later, a direct transfer appeared in my bank account, with the description, A time to dance. The line stood out to me when I read her comment, and I am taking it as a gift to be reminded that there is a time to grieve, and a time to dance.

  Ballet makes me happy. Every time I dance, engaging every muscle and striking alight that passion, I heal a little more. It lifts my mood higher and faster than anything else I can think of, and for that alone it will always be a part of my life. In my adjustment to life with Narcolepsy, and especially to life with Cataplexy, ballet is playing another special role.

The way I relate to my body is changing. My physical experience no longer blends seamlessly with my identity, and it is an uncomfortable conflict to live with. My body does not always have the energy to match my state of mind, and in moments of cataplexy, it fails me completely. Through ballet, I practice engaging every muscle, to work with my body rather than against it. I focus on what my body can do well, and how strong it can be, appreciating hard-eared control rather than dwelling on the ways in which my body fails me.

So I went to class. I stood at the barre, and centred my weight over both my feet, forward on my toes. I slowed my breath and tucked my pelvis and meditated on my body. I let the music carry me around the room and felt the technique come naturally despite stiff joints.

  Perhaps to move through my time of grief, I also need to dance. And even if it doesn't help at all, even if I do not adapt and accept and find peace, then at least I have danced, and for those moments, I will be happy.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

The Dam Has Broken

The dam has finally broken.

Five years on, superficial knowledge of my condition and symptoms has finally given way to intense, overwhelming emotional recognition. I wrote and said aloud many times, that maybe my easy adjustment to life with narcolepsy and cataplexy was superficial, and one day I would have a meltdown.

It has taken six weeks to write this post at all; the confusing mess in my head has been so disabling. Explaining what I am feeling and thinking has felt utterly impossible. As time is passing, though, the isolation of private grief is becoming it’s own burden.

  I am panicking.

Regularly, probably three or four times per week, I am overcome by such intense anxiety that I cannot participate in regular activities. My breath gets away from me, I shake and shiver, my thoughts spiral, my voice gets high and shrill, I cannot escape the sense of impending doom. I find myself paralysed and panicked in casual scenarios with familiar, friendly faces. Even when I am not so acutely affected, anxiety is a constant drain on my energy. I am scared, nervous, jittery, defensive, anticipating inadequate resources and competing priorities, but lacking any tangible strategy to prepare or manage.

  I am angry.

So fucking angry. I am mad at the universe for dealing me this shitty neurological hand. I am furious and offended that in a country like Australia, my parent’s ability and willingness to pay is the only reason I am not at risk of homelessness. I am so fucking angry that my efforts and abilities don’t matter shit because I’m not awake enough to use them the way I want to. I want to yell and spit and punch and stamp my feet at someone until they fix it. This fury boils up inside me sometimes until scrunching my hands into fists isn’t enough and I have to yell at nothing or punch something or dig my nails into my own forearms until the tension subsides.

  I am sad.

When the anxiety or rage eases, the anguish remains. I feel utterly helpless to overcome it, for much like a death, the cause is an immutable fact. On the couch or in my bed, I curl up as if to hide until the oppressive sadness lifts, resigned to a reality I cannot change, only get used to. It feels just like a death: I don’t know how to move forward in a world where this is the reality. All I know is that eventually it must stop feeling so awful, so I curl up and hide until it eases.

  I am indignant.

Blame the privileged selective-school education, but it is absolutely unacceptable to me that these are the permanent circumstances of my life. I have proven to myself and to others that I am capable and competent and confident, personally and professionally. The injustice of a life in which a nonsensical neurological disorder might prevent me from fully participating in society and the economy, is inconceivable. It isn’t fair. There has been a mistake, a flaw in cosmic justice, and surely if I explain my reasons and argue clearly and assertively, then the situation will be rectified.

  Five years on from diagnosis, I am finally feeling the permanency of my life with Narcolepsy and Cataplexy. I have not felt this vulnerable or unstable since 2010, when it was my body left frail and weak from adjusting to the medication I saw as the solution to all my problems. Only last week, as we celebrated my graduation, mum admitted to wondering at the time, God, how will she ever do this?

With wonderful, indispensible support.

This time, it is me feeling doubtful and anxious. But once again, I will figure it out and find a way, because I am lucky enough to have incredible love and support from my family and friends. While I feel so vulnerable, feeling connected to my community reassures me.

As I grieve the loss of one future, I am concentrating on building another. If I am open and honest with the people around me, then their understanding and support can help me to build a different future for myself, one that I will enjoy and be proud of.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

All the colours of the rainbow

Lately, I’ve been gay.

  For whatever reason, the dial is currently set way over to the homo side of my sexuality and identity.

Maybe it is due to being here in Berkeley, which is the most mundanely queer place I’ve ever been – it feels good to be in a place where gender and sexual diversity is visible and unremarkable. It feels comfortable and welcoming and I can’t imagine feeling like I need to go find my university Queer Space, because actual diversity is all around me.

Last night, a friend asked how I identify. This isn’t a question I face very often, and I was embarrassed by not knowing how to answer. Most of the time, I say bisexual. Other times, queer. It’s a bit of a mouthful to say, sometimes I’m into men but right now I’m only into ladies but I’m not really a lesbian and all of these words feel like wearing something out of a dressup box.

My personal shade of gay varies, independently of any relationship, and the why or how is a mystery to me. Regardless of whether I have a girlfriend or a boyfriend or nobody to be loving and lusting after, sometimes I feel very very gay, and other times only a teeny bit. Obviously it’s a very personal thing, and there’s no reason anybody should need to know. But from my perspective it’s all part of learning about myself and finding where I fit into the world, and figuring out how to share that with other people.

It’s a tricky process. Categories can be useful, and labels help us understand. But this is a part of me that is not easily defined.

*Credit to Jon for the title <3

[ofdancinganddreaming]

The frequency with which people have trouble distinguishing necrophilia and narcolepsy is both hilarious, and disturbing.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

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Last night I took my last challenging, wonderful, joyful ballet class here in Berkeley. I have enjoyed these classes so much, and I will miss this teacher’s beautiful, musical variations very much. Every teacher brings a slightly different dimension to class, and I treasure the opportunity to experience ballet through each new perspective.

I wanted to share this little video, just so you can know what I’m up to. This clearly shows every weakness and all the improvements I need to make… my back foot isn’t pointed, I look down far too much, my arms are floppy and indecisive. But when I am leaping across the floor, I am at my happiest. So I wanted to share that.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

I am enough

[If you are new to my blog, take a moment to visit the archive and read my first two posts, Drifting Off and A New Awakening.]

This week, I was reminded how empowering ballet can be.

Nearly two years ago now, I wrote a letter to Tibor, thanking him and explaining the way my life had changed because of his classes. I remember writing, when I am in your class, I feel strong. I was still adapting to my new diagnosis and regaining control over my symptoms. With each passing week, I was becoming stronger: physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Over time, the connection between building physical strength and mental resilience through ballet became clearer, and in each studio I find stories of personal growth and changed lives. Studying ballet simultaneously engages creative expression and physical strength; it is a practice in awareness and control over your own body. 

Ballet develops strength in a highly accessible way. There is no arbitrary benchmark of achievement, just a set of principles and techniques to guide every movement. An arabesque can be as perfect at 30° as at 150°. You build strength by resisting against yourself, so variations and exercises can be as gentle or as strenuous as desired. It is not a case of right or wrong, but of working towards perfection. Elements such as turnout, stretch, flexibility, rhythm, and musicality, are measured in shades of grey. You utilize them to the best of your ability: they are not ‘achieved’, but improved and refined. One element might compensate for another. No two dancers will ever be exactly alike.

  Whenever I am feeling defeated or frustrated by life, ballet class helps me recalibrate. As well as lifting my mood with an endorphin rush, it is an opportunity to direct my focus inward, and meditate on my breath and movements. I can flush out emotions through choreography and dissolve tension with music and motion. For a while, I concentrate only on my body and on what I can control. Ballet turns my attention to what I can be achieving by myself, for myself. It is a singularly positive use of energy.

When I leave the studio, the awareness of my mind and body remain, and this consciousness has a profound impact on my state of mind.

Ballet has taught me to recognize the depth of my own resources: I have ability and strength that is autonomous and unconditional.

With this knowledge, I go through life secure in my independence. I can engage with people and experiences, without feeling dependent on them for success.

Even when life falls apart and circumstances are grim, I can stand alone in a room with nothing but my own breath, and achieve something beautiful and strong.

Ballet taught me, I am enough.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

What I Needed

[If you are new to my blog, take a moment to visit the archive and read my first two posts, Drifting Off and A New Awakening.]

Last night, I needed to dance. 

I look forward to ballet any day of the week, but yesterday I needed it.

This week left me fragile; dissolving at the slightest inquisition. I needed to dance, throw all my passions into the fervid, liberating artistry. I needed to find that sweet relief, until my muscles gave up and sweat washed away the week’s wounds.

Unfortunately, only one other person arrived for the beginner/intermediate class. In this situation, the protocol is that the class is ‘barre only’, and therefore only about 45 minutes long. I was anticipating a demanding, exhilarating class, with a teacher whose choreography is always beautiful and varied. Her barre exercises are graceful and expressive, never regimented drills. I desperately craved an exquisite adage or powerful grand allégro, something I could dance with total abandon. Instead, I channeled it all into extending my développé, really dancing my port de bras, holding turnout in retiré, pulling up. During a rond de jamb combination, the rise and fall of my passé felt so exquisitely tragic, tears welled all over again.

As I walked home, I felt full. Conflicting and confusing emotions made a dizzy mess in my head and a painful lump in my throat. I was exhausted, disappointed, invigorated, sad, fortified, lonely, defeated, determined. Another wave of tears came as I reflected on my Gran’s favourite and oft-repeated proverb: music helps us to remember, and helps us to forget.

Dancing does that for me, and it is what I sorely needed last night. Help remembering, help forgetting. Help reflecting, finding peace, seeking balance. I found it, in small measure. Perhaps soon, some grand allegro will deliver more of what I need.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

The San Francisco Ballet

[If you are new to my blog, take a moment to visit the archive and read my first two posts, Drifting Off and A New Awakening.]

The San Francisco Ballet’s Program 7 triple bill was a breathtaking, invigorating production. 

To begin with, it was fun to have plans that justified dressing up and looking a bit special. Finally, I could wear dangly earrings and a leather jacket without looking over-dressed!

After all, the War Memorial Opera House is beautiful. Stunning art deco features abound, and in the elegant dining area the walls are lined with portraits of the brilliant dancers, musicians, and singers that have performed there. There is an atmosphere of great respect and devotion to the virtuous arts.

Prior to the performance, we enjoyed an audience with the Musical Director as part of their “Meet the Artist” lecture series. It was highly informative and offered a deeper insight into the process of creating a new work, and the special, intricate relationship between movement and music, a sort of symbiotic creativity that must be fostered between the dancers and orchestra.

Then of course, there was the ballet itself…

Program 7 is made up of three separate works. They are truly diverse expressions of the same art, offering an appreciative nod to the infinite possibility that is ballet. The Fifth Season (choreographed by Helgi Tomasson) opened the show with an elegant, contemporary ballet. Serge Lifar’s neo-classical Suite en Blanc followed, full of grand staging and whimsical, cheeky flounces.

But it was the final piece, Hummingbird, which gripped my emotions and overwhelmed my senses. A brand new creation by Liam Scarlett, Hummingbird was stunningly beautiful, emotionally turbulent, and exquisitely intimate. If only I could afford it, I would buy another ticket and immerse myself once more in the perfection.

Watching ballet is always an emotional experience for me, flying between ebullient joy at the sheer beauty of the spectacle, and a swelling grief at the tragedy that I shall never achieve the same perfect expressiveness through movement.

But each time I recover the same inspired, sanguine commitment to ballet, thankful for my unlikely opportunity to be a part of this special artistic world.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

Waxing and Waning

[If you are new to my blog, take a moment to visit the archive and read my first two posts, Drifting Off and A New Awakening.]

I confess! I confess! My enthusiasm and devotion to ballet in Berkeley waned.

After throwing myself into two classes with great zeal, I suddenly found myself totally uninspired, and unmotivated.

I was really worn out from work (excuse). It was important to have early nights before school (excuse). It was my turn to cook those nights (excuse).

The truth is, I just didn’t feel like going.

This blog is a place where I have always been absolutely honest with myself, and with you. But at first, it didn’t occur to me to post about this. Momentarily, I contemplated taking class so I would have something to tell you. A few days passed clouded in guilt that I was being flaky.

Eventually, I adjusted to the reality that being temporarily unmotivated doesn’t make my passion for ballet any less authentic. It doesn’t mean the elation I expressed in my previous post was fake.

As I have mused previously, the magic of ballet is born of a complex experience. I am not drawn there only by exercise. The challenge of choreography alone does not entice me. I am in love with the stimulating combination of fitness, control of my body, mastering an art, expressing myself, core strength, whimsical escape, pushing my limits, exploring my bodily awareness, learning new choreography, performing, failing, losing control, gaining control, friendships, sharing all of these experiences. When I walk through the door at Studio Tibor, I savour the feeling of being right at home.

The studio I attend here is very welcoming, and I enjoy the friendly, chatty atmostphere of each class. But it doesn’t feel like home. Perhaps I have underestimated how much satisfaction I gain from sharing ballet with my studio friends. Sticking a triple pirouette is a good feeling, but when I am in class with my friends, it feels like a triumph. We celebrate together and laugh and remember our failures and delight in retelling the stories later.

  After two weeks off, I rediscovered my motivation. Trailing the internet for a ballet fix, I bought a last-minute ticket to see the San Francisco Ballet (more on that later). By the time Monday evening came I was itching to get back to the barre. My body is once again full of that familiar, jittery inclination to move.

Dancing is a passion that swells up in every cell of my body, crossing oceans and date lines and international borders. But it is a passion best satisfied by my beloved Studio Tibor.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

Just Because

[If you are new to my blog, take a moment to visit the archive and read my first two posts, Drifting Off and A New Awakening to get the backstory.]

The scariest aspect of sharing my narcolepsy, being open and authentic about my health and the way my life functions, is not the possibility of ridicule. It is not the very real possibility of discrimination in the workplace, nor is it the possibility of being ineligible for insurance. The scariest thing about being open and authentic about my narcolepsy and cataplexy is that somebody might one day say, “prove it”.

During my first week here in California, I reverted to adolescence. With a whole morning to myself, I announced plans to go out exploring and made a show of getting ready, eating breakfast, packing my backpack. As the family hurried out the door, I sat on my bed To Check My Email. Within a few moments, the fog was building and I decided it was Responsible Nap Time. 

This is the scene I was acting out, performing for myself. I had from roughly 9.30am until 2pm alone in the house, but rather than acknowledge that it was my plan to nap first, I pretended away even to myself, creating the opportunity to make the call in secrecy. I wasn’t really hiding it. I just changed my plans. While nobody was there. And set my alarm for well before they came home.

Managing my condition is getting slowly easier, as I become increasingly familiar with myself. Responding to my body is something of a precision operation in balance and judgement, relying on inexact scales and unreliable measurement. Interpreting the highly varied sensations of my mind and body simultaneously is a purely subjective exercise, which I can try to explain but cannot hope to define meaningfully for others.

I am constantly evaluating my levels of lethargy, ‘brain fog’, hunger, movement, concentration, and stamina. These sensations must be evaluated in the context of the day, my schedule, and how busy or relaxed my week has been and is going to be. If I use medication to buy myself an extra few hours of pep today, I will be paying it back tomorrow. How do I explain the complexity of these choices, when I cannot tell you reliably what the answer is? To nap or not to nap, that is the question.

The decisions I make each day relating to how I feel, what I can achieve, and what my body needs, are not backed by any reliable, objective data. My reasoning cannot be verified. If I excuse myself for a break during a university class, or tell my friend this time, I simply cannot drive them home, I am unable to justify it empirically – and so often, it feels woefully inadequate to respond with, “today just feels different.”

Chronic illness is a minefield. There are no clear answers, but to be eligible for accommodations there must be documented evidence. Holistic management of these conditions requires constant consideration of fatigue, diet, energy, medication, activity. But arranging life around these issues cannot be done to a schedule – every patient must feel their way, one day at a time. What a weight to carry - what an elusive argument to defend.

It takes a great deal of strength and confidence to be up front about my strategies for managing my health. I feel incredibly vulnerable when required to assert my decisions regarding narcolepsy and cataplexy – friendships, dignity, jobs, my drivers license may be on the line. Perhaps, by voicing this insecurity, I can bring a few more people on board to understand and reflect.

  Please, keep asking for information. Keep asking how it feels, what I need, how I know.

But when necessary, settle for “just because”.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

Highs & Hangovers

[If you are new to my blog, take a few moments to visit the archive and read my first two posts, Drifting Off and A New Awakening.]

You know that person, who comes home just a little bit drunk sometimes? Not off-their-face-falling-over drunk, just, very tipsy? They get a little too loud, and aren't great at taking hints to shut up and let you continue watching tv, reading, or sleeping in peace?

Ballet turns me into that girl.

I just get so high on endorphins and passion that I am literally not entirely in control of myself. My family sometimes thinks this is cute. I know dad does - he loves seeing me after ballet and really enjoys my 'ballet highs'. However, for the next few months, it is not my family that will be on the receiving end of the ballet hangover.

Tonight, I finally made it to ballet class. Feeling very out of shape and ill-prepared to be back at the barre, I was careful to plan my day to be full of energy and appropriately fed in advance.

Perhaps I was unnecessarily apprehensive, or perhaps my forethought paid off, but the class went very well and I was mostly happy with how I danced. I am growing ever more confident in my technical foundations - even the parts I haven't mastered, I am now able to adjust towards correct positioning without abandoning choreography or grace.

Better still, having attended a class and satisfied myself and the teacher of my competency, I now have twice as many classes available to drop in on! I have been deemed advanced enough to enrol in the beginner/intermediate classes, so I am planning out a weekly rotation of Fundamentals, Beginner and B/Intermediate classes to focus on technique, dancing, and stretching myself, all in one week.

Berkeley is shaping up to be a truly special and intensive ballet experience.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

Irony sucks.

So. Having spent the last two hours writing about ballet and how much I love it and can't wait to do heaps of ballet here in Berkeley…. I have lost track of time and missed the start of my first class.

[ofdancinganddreaming]

Balancé

[If you are new to my blog, take a moment to visit the archive and read my first two posts, Drifting Off and A New Awakening.]

Welcome to my adventure in dancing and dreaming - in Berkeley, California! 

For a whole month prior to leaving Australia, I didn’t make it to a single ballet class. Aside from leaving me out of shape and inflexible, the time away has stimulated some deep thought about my priorities in achieving a happy life. 

Though the topic is frought with conflicting opinions and hair-splitting, one theory is that to lead a satisfying life, you need a life filled with meaning and engagement, and to be extremely happy, you must add pleasure.

Ever heard the phrase ‘easier said than done’?

One of the great pleasures in my own life is ballet - the physical and mental energy I get from a single class can last all week. But in the past year – especially since finishing my university degree – it has become increasingly difficult to balance this recreational mood-enhancer with the competing priorities of adult life. Experts use the term endlessly, but I’d really like to know how to find this mysterious “balance” of which they speak. 

I am one of those lucky few that can easily identify all three components of happiness in my life. Surrounded by wonderful relationships, I am lucky enough to have a job that is intrinsically enjoyable and very meaningful. So my question is not about finding these magical ingredients to happiness, but about balancing them.

At what point is it irresponsible to prioritise ballet class over the daily grind?

If I attend an evening class, I must first consider how tired I am. While taking class leaves me buzzing for several hours afterward, it also leaves me exhausted. When I crash suddenly at 11.30pm, can I still be confident of waking up to my alarm for an early work session? If I am too fatigued to get up for work the next day, going to ballet is probably an irresponsible choice. But too long away from the barre, and I feel my body get sluggish, my mood slump – I can’t win! Despite knowing my body very well, and an increasing familiarity with the various symptoms of “sleepy” compared to “fatigued”, the choice is always confusing.

Thankfully, this four-month intermission brings an exciting opportunity to devote time to my body and to ballet, indulge in whims and foster meaning in my work. Even if I do not find an answer to all this confusion, perhaps Berkeley 2014 will place me in a physical and mental space that is even healthier, and at peace.

In the meantime, I’d love to know how you balance priorities of pleasure and responsibility. Does scheduling it in work? Does involving other people make it easier or harder to stick to? Maybe you are sitting there, laughing at the very idea of pleasure being a priority (you have a three-year-old, right?). Let me know in a comment!

[ofdancinganddreaming]

Party in the USA

Guess where I'm flying to on the 6th of April?

Go on. Guess.

I am off to Berkeley, California for roughly three months. 

The countdown is on. Wish me luck!