“Loosen up!” my dance teacher commanded good-naturedly (and maybe a little discouraged, too), her hands on my shoulders, as she gently shook me back and forth. I blinked in agreement, and the class took a break. My friend Angie and I retrieved our matching, enormous thermos mugs from where we had left them, side-by-side on the floor near the mirrored wall. Our parents always stopped us by the gas station on the way to class to be sure we had plenty to drink to keep us hydrated: without fail, I always filled my giant mug with half orange pop, half cola, but Angie never got exactly the same thing: she liked to try new soda combinations every week. She smiled at me sympathetically, her curly side pony-tail bobbing, as we sipped our carbonated concoctions. I was all angles and elbows and knees while she was graceful and confident and coordinated. I was serious and quiet and timid while she was bubbly and colorful and spontaneous. When we met in sixth grade, it felt like she was taking me under her wing to show me the ropes of how to be a kid, but she never expected me to be anything I wasn’t. Every week for two years, we had been carted to and from dance class, our parents taking turns carpooling, but the dawning understanding that I was maybe not cut out for dancing would soon end our dance career together. I think of Angie occasionally as I cart my own daughter to and from ballet class. Would she be as stunned as I am at this daughter of mine who is graceful and who easily counts the beats in the music, knowing as Angie does how much of a mystery it all was for me?
I have always loved the controlled gracefulness and clean lines of ballet—perhaps because I have always been confused by the rhythm and movement of the jazz dance classes of my youth. When my daughter, Daisy,* was little, her dance class was really for me. She liked it well enough, but I am certain I was the one who thrilled at the pink tights and black leotards, the tulle skirts and sequined costumes. During her performances, the matching buns and tiny ballet slippers of the whole class moving in near-unison brought me to tears. Over the years, Daisy has grown and matured as a ballerina, and has claimed the study of ballet as her own. Alongside her classmates, she spends countless hours in the studio and practicing at home, and she has been with the same group of girls for the past seven years. If we have a conflicting family event pop up, she reminds us on no uncertain terms that she cannot miss class because her absence will adversely affect her classmates since they all depend upon one another for timing, spacing, and support. Who knew that ballet wasn’t just a pretty artform, but a physically demanding team sport? At home, we all admire her—and her classmates’—perseverance and commitment to each other and their studio.
There is something, though, that makes Daisy’s class unique—and that mirrors my own dance experience. The girls, who come from all over the valley and would otherwise not know each other, genuinely care about each other. As they arrive to class and begin the process of lacing their pointe shoes or stowing their water bottles (not mugs of soda!) and gear into their cubbies, they share their hurts and struggles, joys and triumphs with each other, bit by bit, four days a week. While they don’t have time for long and in-depth gab sessions, these little pebbles of conversation have become impressive cairns to mark their shared history and their companionship. Their moms text back and forth, checking in with each other, and offering help in all manner of forms: preparing meals, trading hand-me-downs, exchanging rides, providing bobby-pins and safety pins. Their teachers delight in their students’ comradery and are quick to offer support as well. Any new-comer is doomed to be swept up into the group because being an “outsider” is unequivocally not an option.
As our girls mature into young women, we moms are more and more aware that our time spent in one others’ company is limited. Our daughters will scatter as they graduate high school and move on. And we moms? We will keep in touch, perhaps meeting up for lunch, planning ladies’ nights, and sharing yearly Christmas cards. The ties that bind us are not those of a shared faith. As a group, we are not bound by shared interests, hobbies, or even occupations. We are bound by history, and by the shared experience of caring for our own and each others’ daughters. We compare our world views, discuss political events, and problem-solve parenting challenges or trade dinner ideas. Although Church is the place where lasting community is made, our day-to-day lives is the place where friendships are forged and the love of Christ is poured out into the world around and within us. We cannot isolate ourselves from the greater community and solely interact with those located within our parishes because that prevents us from the beauty of the diverse world in our midst. There is so much to be learned from friendships with those who have a vastly different world view because it humanizes other perspectives and belief systems. There is no more “us versus them” mentality, but an appreciation for other ideologies. These friendships allow Jesus to love us through unexpected experiences and change the way we think about His teachings and His friendship with us. It allows us to loosen up…and seek the wonderful Angies in our lives to keep us from taking ourselves too seriously.
*I have used a nickname for my daughter to protect her privacy. There’s nothing worse than being a teen and having your mother embarrass you at every turn!
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