The summer before my sixth birthday, my mother asked whether I’d be interested in taking a ballet class. And so began a decade marked by black leotards and pink tights, tutus, moleskin, lambs wool, and pointe shoes.

And the custom-welded ballet barre that resided in my family’s living room.

I was struck dumb the first time I took my daughter to a dance shop, and that familiar smell uniquely associated with those years swirled round me. Is it the leather of the shoes? I’m not sure, but it is distinct, familiar, and nostalgic.

This time of year, as dance schools prepare for spring recitals and performances, I’m reminded of my love for classical ballet that began in a large Victorian home converted into a YWCA. Continue reading →