But, that accomplished, life seemed to go on semi-normally for the next few days. Though I canceled my weekend self-run adult ballet class because of a combination of student worries and an abundance of caution on my part, I still taught a full children's class that weekend for a studio, and I hoped to get my own class back up the following week. I even went to a crafting get-together that Sunday. Sunday night, the order came that gyms had to run at 50% capacity and, at mine, members had to sign up ahead of time to ensure that. With a text off to my boxing gym to ensure my place in class the following evening, my predominant feeling going to bed Sunday night was one of relief that my gym was staying open.
Then, near noon Monday morning, gyms were ordered to shut down by three that afternoon. That's when things got real to me. Being forced to scavenge for toilet paper is one thing, but not being able to go to a gym (or teach ballet, as the "gym" order included all exercise studios) dissolved me into tears. Even my apartment complex's fitness room, with its single treadmill, bike, and elliptical, shut down immediately. Just over a week after I had gotten the OK from my orthopedic surgeon to use the elliptical, ditch the knee crutch for boxing, and start intensely rehabbing my foot, ankle, and leg, I was back to being limited to exercises I could do at home and walking.
And yet now, a little over a week later, it is with some guilt that I admit I am perhaps in the highest spirits I've been in since we moved—and that is because of the creativity and generosity of artists around the country. I have taken live ballet class from New York City every single day, sometimes twice a day, in the last week. Every day, new artists add themselves to the ever-growing list of those giving their talents to bring dancers together to maintain both their physical and mental health in this time. Most of them ask in return only for a donation to a charity from those with the means to do so. They profit nothing from their time but the sense of bringing sunshine and a sense of togetherness to a community that relies on space and movement to feel whole.
The gift of art and sharing isn't limited to the dance community. Every night when he finishes work, my husband sits on the couch and loads the daily video from one of his favorite musical artists, Ray Wilson. Tom Chapin and the Chapin Sisters stream daily live concerts from their living room, and Esther the Wonder Pig and her family read story books once a week. Even I got to teach an online ballet class and hope to do more.
While talking to my mom this morning, I told her it feels weird and makes me feel guilty that I don't feel like much has been taken away from me personally with the quarantine. To the contrary, during this time, I've gained use of my broken foot, gained back much of the muscle and balance I had lost, gained back my daily ballet classes, gained back one of my favorite NYC ballet teachers, and gained back a sense of belonging to the dance community (not to mention actually gaining a job teaching when this is all over). But today in ballet class (streamed from the apartments of ABT principal dancers Isabella Boylston and James Whiteside), Boylston said something along the lines of how we should all be grateful that we are able to be here moving today, sharing this with each other, because not everyone has this; not everyone can do this.
So for right now, I'm going to let go of my guilt and just feel grateful. I can move. I can share the gift of dance, whether as a teacher, student, or just fellow dance community member. It's not money, or masks, or ventilators, but art keeps us sane, and if I can give back what I've gotten out of it, then maybe that's the way I can make a difference.
Plus, it's been sunny outside all week. In Grand Rapids. So I feel like I've seen Bigfoot.
