I went to the ballet the other day. 
Not the ballet like you imagine, not a polished production. No, this was a class. A class they do every morning. Except that it was on stage at the Sydney Opera House!
The stage was filled with barres, ballerinas and beauty. 
They began their warm up, similar to what I did when I was dancing. Except that they are professional ballerinas with amazing long, lean bodies, and I was never any of that!
There were words I haven’t heard in many years. Piqué, balancé, effacé, glissade, pas de chat, sissonne, rond de jambe. I felt like I’d come home. 
Rolling my hair around into a perfect bun. Pulling on the stockings, leotard, trying satin ribbons around my ankles. 
Walking into class with my friends, ready for the enjoyable hour long discipline that was coming our way. 
Roll that pelvis under. Turn those legs out. Shoulders down. Neck long. Pull your belly button to your spine. Don’t sickle that ankle. Arms rounded. 
I loved every minute. Even when I didn’t want to go to class, I always walked out breathlessly happy, exhausted and content. 
My ballet life began at the tender age of 2.5 and finished up around 20 or so. 
I started in Turramurra, spent a year or so at Waitara before heading to the Kenthurst School of Dancing. That place still runs through my veins. 
It was my home away from home. I loved my teachers so much, one became almost like a second mum to me. 
At one point I was there three evenings a week plus a whole day Saturday. Exams were a bit stressful but the eisteddfords and concerts were what I lived for. 
Bright lights. Make up. Costumes. Nervous excitement. I felt I was born to be on stage!! 
But then I grew up. My classmates had moved on and I felt old. Too old to continue. So I stopped. 
And now, 15 years later, I think I’m going to start classes again. I’m inspired to do what has always made me happy.