Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
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On a sunny Sunday morning, I went to my first ballet class. But this wasn’t the kind of class where I’d have to squeeze myself into a pair of leggings and pray to the fitness gods that I don’t make a fool of myself in front of a group of strangers. This was Class on Stage, a rare opportunity to watch dancers from the National Ballet of Canada warm up during their daily 75-minute class at the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts.
I went in knowing that I would be impressed by the physicality of it. Top athletes aren’t born, they’re made, and I was paying to watch it happen from the comfort of a cushioned seat in a beautiful theatre. Ballet without the sets, costumes and production, stripped of its spectacle, is a room full of people who have been training and continue to train every single day. Even before class begins, amongst a sea of resistance bands, foam rollers and water bottles, the dancers casually stretch their bodies in ways most of us wouldn’t even dream of. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, remembering the time I pulled my back while getting off the couch.
Artistic director Hope Muir is leading the class. It begins with plié, which is a bending of the knees. The dancers stretch their legs with tendu, circle pointed feet with rond de jambe, and elegantly raise their arms in port de bras. Assemblé, dégagés, relevés. This is more than a set of instructions. This is a language.
After about 45 minutes, the dancers don’t even look tired. Now the barre work is done, and the floors are cleared. While watching dancers quietly plié in unison with complete control was almost meditatively calming, watching the floor exercises that come next is anything but.
As someone who is still somewhat traumatized from a significant injury I sustained while walking several years ago, all this jumping makes me nervous. And while a certain amount of my accident was bad luck, I can’t help but wonder if these dancers, who seemingly have a different relationship with gravity, could have avoided the fall altogether. Watching their petit and grand allegro for the next half-hour convinces me. It seems they’ve learned to fly.
The sequences are short but become increasingly complicated, so I stop paying attention to the directions I can’t follow, and simply allow myself to observe the remarkable results. At the end of the class, I applaud and watch the dancers leave the stage. They have already accomplished so much with their day, and I am left in complete awe, not just of my inadequacy, but also of their effort.
As I clomped down the steps to the subway I tried to think of the last time I worked as hard as those dancers at anything in my own life. So much has been made easier by technology: I can listen to any song I want, whenever I want. I can have pretty much anything delivered. I can stay in touch with friends without making the time to see them. But instead of taking shortcuts, maybe I should look for challenges. Because once you start doing hard things, they become easier, and then you know you can do them. Until one day you find yourself at the end of your ballet warmup, having barely broken a sweat.
With the determination and discipline of ballet dancers still fresh in my mind, I commit to doing some hard things: I buy a copy of a notoriously difficult book I’ve always wanted to read and flip to the first page, dictionary at the ready. I get back in the habit of practising a language I’ve been trying to learn. I lift heavier weights. I take the stairs. I write the essay.
Nothing demands as much of me as what ballet demands of those dancers every day. I think of their practice, their ritual, and feel inspired to do more. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that sometimes a fitness class can change your life, even if you’re not the one taking it.
Florence McCambridge lives in Toronto.