The Pointe of Dreams

by Patti

This past weekend marked a monumental milestone in S's 11-year old life. Since she was four years old, S has dreamed of this milestone, and it has finally come to fruition: She's en pointe.

She has studied countless YouTube videos in preparation for this day, and the bunions, the blood, the twisted toes - none of that scares her away.

The day she got fitted for her pointe shoes, the parents, bystanders in our kids' dreams, hovered, snapping pictures, inhaling the glee that seemed to permeate the air. There were pointe shoes spread out all over the floor, as the fitters grasped the delicate, still unmarred feet of our daughters, trying to find the perfect fit. They were Cinderella ballerinas. 

Glass slippers

S's fitter called her over the barre, and S walked over, at first clumsy, the pointe shoes a new, strange feeling on her feet. The fitter worked her hand around S's foot, eyeing for any "twist" or "scrunch" in the fabric as S looked down at her feet, unbelieving of her luck.

Then the fitter asked her to plie so that she could see how the shoes moved with her. S grasped the barre and dipped low, her legs strong and determined. 

At last, the fitter uttered the magic words. "Please go up en pointe." S held her breath, knowing she was about to go up for the very first time, feeling the air change around her. Then she did it - she grew a foot in an instant -  she was en pointe.

S smiled hard into the mirror, failing at her attempt to remain cool and casual. The fitter clapped her hands together in celebration, and then got back to work, analyzing S's feet, their position, the fit of the shoes.
The first pair was deemed unsuitable, and S was sent back to the purple velvet couch to try on another pair.

If at first you don't succeed....

 S tried on a good dozen pairs of shoes that afternoon, and every walk to the mirror and subsequent lift up on to her toes grew stronger and stronger. By the time she and her fitter found the pair that sang on her feet, she could have pirhouetted out of the store en pointe, out onto the street, and all the way home.

But first: I had to pay.

When the cashier chirped out the total to me, my stomach lurched. Really? For pointe shoes? And then, as I looked over at S proudly clutching the little purple bag that held her wishes, I realized: I wasn't paying for shoes; I was paying for a dream. And then, as I handed over my debit card, it seemed I was getting quite a deal.

The moment we got home, S put on her new pointe shoes. They were satin-y, pink champagne on her feet as she flitted on her toes across the kitchen floor. "Look, mom!" I was actually impressed at how easily she seemed to lift herself  up so high.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
"Not at all!" she answered, her arms delicately fluttering as she looked down at her vertical feet. "It feels cool!"

Remember when we dreamed? When it all seemed possible; when it was all new and fresh and we got butterflies at the thought of what was yet to come? I see that in her eyes now. Dreams keep a heart beating.


Love. Dream. Hope.