Survivor's Guilt

Tonight S. and I saw the Petaluma School of Ballet's Nutcracker.

It was the first time in 7 years that S. was not dancing, and the first time in perhaps 6 years that I was not in charge of the eighty or so dancers backstage and the moms that help them. It was surreal, and I felt a little bit of survivor's guilt mixed in with my admiration for the massive semi-professional endeavor and my relief at not having to dedicate weeks of my life to all things Nutcracker. It was weird for S., too, who says that being in two orchestras (three, if you count school ensemble) is both less work and just as much work at the same time.

Some of the principals I have seen dance as seven-year old Gingerbreads. They are now Snow, Rose, and Sugarplum, as well as Mothers in the party scene, waltzing around in their elegant Victorian gowns, so very grown-up. Two of them are off to college next year. Several more, the year after that. But they have more poise than most adults I know, and far more discipline. I was very proud of them all, although the pride was laced with a heart-sickness. In August, the mother of one of the most gifted dancers of all passed away after fighting cancer for years with more fierce focus and grace than the best ballerina in the world might have at hand. She was an amazing person. The news of Mandela's death only makes me think that now two incredibly bright lights have left us this year. Who could ever rise to take their places? And how could I ever, ever complain about any hardship or struggle in my life compared to what they endured with such elegant purpose?