It’s a Friday and I’m driving along Kings Way. The traffic is heavy but my heart is light. Soon I’ll get to Flemington and the ballet studio on the hill, the highlight of my week and a beacon of grace in my life.
When I get there, I’ll head to the change room. In my bag is a leotard, ballet tights, ballet skirt and pink ballet slippers. In winter, a cardigan and legwarmers, too.
As I enter, I’ll sigh with relief. I’m through a magic portal and the outside world is on pause. The studio door shuts and I’m somewhere special, full of beauty and music (and strenuous exercise).
But there’s no escaping the headlines. “Ballet?” people ask. “Isn’t that a luxury with everything that’s happening in the world?”
They’re right. Yet now, the need for ballet – like art, literature and music – has never been greater. We need the arts to reflect the world we live in and to bring respite from the daily, brutal news diet.
In a ballet studio, the outside world doesn’t exist for 90 minutes as we become part of a centuries-old tradition stretching back to Renaissance Italy.
My ballet journey began at 53 when I took it up for the exercise. I first walked through the doors of a ballet school in 2014. I was fed up with gyms and their pounding electronica and had no interest in other fitness styles.
I’d played violin from the age of six and grew up listening to Beethoven, Mozart and Bach. But the violin was a hard taskmaster; playing it strained my neck and shoulders. When I lost my father to suicide, I gave up music entirely, ditching the precious gift of being able to play.
Gravitating to ballet was like a loving pivot back to music.
Most classical ballet dancers retire in their 30s. At double that age, I am preparing to take to the stage for the first time.
This week, I will fulfil my goal: to complete a Royal Academy of Dance exam. I’ve been learning the grade 3 syllabus since May. It takes about 20 minutes.
Normally, children do this exam but I’m 62, not 10. As an adult learner, memorising dance sequences is beyond tricky, like reciting poetry in a foreign tongue. I practise countless times to cement the steps in my muscle memory.
Then there’s the problem of age. A bit of back pain and a wonky knee are frustrating in daily life but in ballet they’re devastating. I do the best I can with these infirmities. I feel strong and as fit as I’ll ever be.
The exam is a challenge that I must do now before more aches and pain arrive. Unfortunately, the stress of it has exacerbated my mental illness and keeps me awake at night.
Sometimes my hands and knees visibly shake, telling of my broken leg in 2001 and the medication I take for a mood disorder.
Doing this exam at 62 proves that ballet isn’t elitist and can be learned irrespective of age, body type or mental health.
Ballet’s called me in from bipolar episodes. Ballet’s hovered above depression and anxiety, a radiance in the dark. When I’m upended by mental illness, ballet insists I sideline the sorrow and just show up for class.
Attendance is an anchor, ushering me through disappointment and grief, paying me back in joy.
At my exam, I’ll stand at the barre and perform pliés, tendus, glissés and grands battements. I’ll dance to a Welsh lullaby and part of the famous ballet Don Quixote.
I’ll do my best with stately steps, tricky balances and jumps that make me breathless.
My arms will begin in fourth position, one stretched sideways, the other forming a “C” like a stretched bow. I’ll look out with my head held high, confident and poised.
And I’ll begin the port de bras (carriage of the arms) as if nothing else matters.
• Debbie Lustig is a Melbourne writer, birdwatcher and occasional wildlife rescuer
