City Escapes and the Art of Time Suspension

Summer evening. Rain dripping outside—this is my favorite time to write. There’s something about the fresh air, the smell of rain, and the setting sun that just feels inspired. Some evenings, I hear strains of a saxophone outside my window. I imagine the player is in an apartment complex nearby, although he’s probably on one of the streets below. My windows are always open—I hate to surrender the fresh air to re-circulated A/C—so, when I’m here and he’s playing, his notes waft right up on the night air, seep into my soul and take me away someplace peaceful.

Right now, the rain is pattering on my window unit, and echoing off the sidewalk below as it falls. Part of me wants to go outside and just stand in it. To feel it soak into my clothes and drip down my back. A few nights ago, at the end of a hard, angry run, it started raining unexpectedly. I was thirsty, tired, and sweaty. The cold droplets on my steaming skin created the most glorious sensation. I felt incredibly alive.

I’ve been running nearly every day for the past few weeks now, channeling all of my emotion into the force of my feet shoving against the cement with every step. Remarkably, my bum knee and my hateful back haven’t forced me to quit yet. There’s a running culture here into which I feel as though I’ve inducted myself. If you run at the same time everyday (which is rare for me), you’ll actually start to recognize faces along the lake. I love to watch the people on the path. You can spot the distance runners with their sinewy frames and calm expressions; the red-faced dabblers who look on the verge of collapse as their run diminishes to a snail's pace; the newbies who don’t understand the traffic patterns and are nearly run down by the bicyclists. I'm pretty much a red-faced dabbler myself, though my stamina is much improved lately.

In addition to the footpath along the lake, the Joffrey has also been a haven for me this summer. I’m not sure why it took me so long to show up at the studio with ballet shoes in hand, but when I finally decided to face my fears of inferiority and go to class, I felt like I was coming home. Sure, the days of Firebird are long gone, but the passion still dwells inside me. And it’s always a surprise what passion and determination can make the body do. Frankly, not much has changed since my hard-core dancing days. When the music begins I still become one with the barre. I still feel its unwavering support like I’ve felt every barre I’ve ever touched in my entire dancing life. I still feel like I am tapping into something that lies deep within me, even if my legs need some retraining and my turnout’s a little rusty.

One of my favorite parts about the Joffrey is that you can look down at the city streets from the barre. It feels like being on top of the world, dancing above the city traffic, dirty sidewalks, and busy world below. In the studio it’s like time suspended in air. The city can do what it wants; it doesn’t matter, because you’re dancing and everything else stops existing. The stress and emotion of life just dissolve into the strains of Chopin or Tchaikovsky. They melt off your skin as the music takes over. There is nothing in the world quite like it...

Here I am in my apartment, drifting back from my reverie, rain still washing down the city streets. The saxophonist is still M.I.A., but I’ve got Miles playing in the background. My eyelids begin to grow heavy. I’m pretty sure that tonight I will have no trouble sleeping.