(This is the first of two posts I wrote recently for my blog, documenting my return to performing.  I will post the follow up soon!)

The panic of creation.  This is something I learned about at a young age, when I would awake to find my father sitting in his study, two cups of coffee into the morning before I had even brushed my teeth.  He, being a painter, actor and, when most panic stricken, a director, was always in the throes of some inner conflict that could only be resolved by pacing or tying flies in the garage.

I’m not a fisher.  But I am most certainly a pacer.  And just like my father, I don’t do my best pacing against wooden floorboards or threads of carpet, I do my best pacing within the curvature of my brain, where the audience is comprised of judges even the Supreme Court would be intimidated by.  I’ve reacquainted myself with these powdered wig-wearing intimidators this week as I’ve taken a step back into something I know well: the dance world.  But despite my familiarity with the art form, a familiarity that dates back to the days I would tour jete into the very kitchen in which my father was brewing his coffee, nothing has ever felt as unknown or terrifying as this journey into my first piece of movement in exactly two years.

To be honest, I’m not sure how I got here to this moment, brainstorming in my bed late at night while my roommate sleeps mere feet away, just as my mother did while my father scribbled ideas on his yellow, lined notebooks.  Actually, I guess I do know.  I said yes.  I said yes to a request to perform a solo in an evening of theater put on by a friend of my sister’s.  After all of the challenges I’ve faced in the past two years, where I’ve accepted offers to do things I have no training in and have come out relatively unscathed (next up: diving horses!), accepting this offer seemed like a no brainer.

And then my brain stepped in.  Before it went into overdrive, however, I managed to procure a beautiful, original composition from my friend Nico Muhly, who, in between writing scores for Oscar-nominated movies and sending me pictures of cats, wrote a haunting piece for piano and brass that is beautiful in its simplicity.

If only I could say the same for the movement I’ve created so far.  Time in the studio has been limited, so my downstairs neighbor has had to deal with the thudding of limbs across the floor of my entryway both when I’m “dancing” and when I’m rolling around, whining on the phone to my parents about my lack of ability.  I should fix the damage to her ceiling.  Or at least send her some flowers.

But I have bigger things to worry about.  Three days away from the show and I’m contemplating scrapping all I have created and standing on stage in a dance belt with two arrows pointing at my hernias while a giant neon sign flashes the words: “Performance Art,” overhead.  (Somehow, I think Nico would approve.) There have been moments where I’ve wanted to give up. (Somehow, I think Nico would not approve.)  But of all the challenges I have faced in the past two years, this is the one I am most intent on finishing.  This is a moment for myself.  A moment to tackle some of the demons that have flown over, and within, my head every night since my dance career was cut short two years ago today, and a moment to give myself permission to be okay with not living up to every expectation in my brain.  Of course, I want this to a tour-de-force solo, but given the atrophied state of my muscles, I am attempting to give myself credit for simply taking a step back on stage.

To be honest, I have no idea what is going to happen Saturday night.  Actually, I guess I do.  I am going to stand on stage again.  I am going to dance again.  And I am going to be proud, even if I am just standing there in a dance belt beneath neon lights.  It sure beats pacing.