From the audience she looks rock-solid, balancing en pointe in arabesque after a series of precariously difficult one-armed promenades with her partner. But from the wings, just a few feet away, we see the edges of her tutu quivering. The effect of vulnerability is both true and misleading, since her strength is real, but the intensity of her effort is too. Every single fiber of every muscle in her body is engaged—not stiffly rigid, but called into play with calculated, modulated precision. Up close, a nearby watcher can see the constant recalibration required to maintain her arabesque, and even lift it higher and higher when human nature would tell it to droop. The determination reverberates to the edges of tulle spanning out from the basque of her tutu. Her effort has been overtaken by some power she did not have when she woke up that morning. Yes, the physicality of her poses and movements is human. They are HER legs, arms, torso, neck, fingertips. But the surge that fuels them comes from somewhere else. She's calculating every split-second maneuver, but there is also an unseen manipulator—an internal god, maybe?—who guides and powers her to the end. It's electrifying for both dancer and audience—when the promenade is at its ultimate climax, as the ballerina releases her partner's hand for an impossibly long balance alone, on one pointe, leg at a full 90 degree arabesque—some man from the back of the house ROARS, and the rest of the crowd erupts in turn —she is jolted, startled, shocked and stunned with realization: There are people out there! And, they like what I just did? But it's not over—there is a lift, a pirouette, a toss in the air and a fish dive to finish, the audience's thunder nearly drowning out the music. As her partner lifts her with compassionate strength (he's on fire from the response as well), gently placing her en pointe in a piqué arabesque and sweeping her into their agreed-upon pose for their bow, she gives him a secret “oh my God” look. (Recovering from the lift brings them into a momentary embrace, their faces inches apart, giving them a second of privacy in front of 1,000 people). They move to center stage with a shared glee, disbelief, and gratitude. They bow for each other more than for the audience. And then, as she exits stage left, he walks upstage alone, takes a deep, deep breath—and then another—to begin his coda. It's not over.

I have just spent an hour and a half leading thirteen women and two men in a classical ballet class, working them through a series of dance exercises that have been practiced around the world for centuries. As “elitist” as ballet may be considered, this particular class (which I teach bright and early every Monday) is a “drop-in”, meaning that anyone who has the urge to dance and $15 can walk in off the street and take a place at the barre. It's billed as Ballet 1, but all that means is you're on your own if you don't know the five positions and some other basics, but also that I won't be asking anyone to do triple fouettes. Naturally, then, there's a wide range of ages, abilities, body types, and personal motivations for dropping in on a Monday morning. Some who come to class danced as children and some only started as adults, but for everyone, wading into ballet in middle age takes guts, healthy senses of humor and realism, and a willingness to set pride aside. Realities like stiffness and thinning cartilage are prevalent, but the natural coordination and instincts of childhood—the compulsion to spin around, jump, and be fearless—have also gone away. Coaxing adult students past inhibitions built up over the years is fun, though: no one comes to these classes unless they want to work, think, be brave and fly. Douglas, in his fifties, is tall, lean and proud. He trained in jazz and theater dance as a kid and even danced in production shows for several years. He's in every class, standing front and center and attacking the exercises with confidence. He prides himself on being a sort of ringleader of the adult dancer community, welcoming all newcomers warmly, generally being the alpha male in the room. One of my favorites is Josh, a forty-ish, small, wiry and muscle-bound guy with an impish grin. He thinks about ballet just as hard as he works at it (although his body is so tight it resists balletic shapes). He likes to analyze why steps are done a certain way. His questions force me to find ways to explain concepts verbally that I have always understood intuitively. Why do you press down into the floor in order to pull up out of it? If you truly stretch your arm or leg, as I'm always cueing the students to do, how do you keep it from looking stiff? I love teaching him because he's so chipper, laughing off his own wobbles and tumbles, but he doesn't trivialize the magnitude of ballet training. He understands, appreciates, and respects it and has a kind of fascinated awe for people who've devoted their lives to it. After all, this may be the equivalent of a recreational cooking class for non-chefs, but he and the other students are still working with sharp knives and real ingredients that shouldn't be wasted. Today, Genevieve was in class as usual. She's a warm, lovely woman and, like Josh, tightly muscled. She quivers with effort to mold herself into ballet's positions, straining and taking short puffs of breath although we're only five minutes into barre and just doing simple tendus. I always pass by, giving her arm a gentle shake to help her relax her elbows while still holding on tight to her center. She resists me, as if she's gripping a handrail for dear life. I am on an endless quest to get students to avoid over-tensing their muscles, except for the ever-necessary “tush squeeze”. She understands, but letting go is scary. I remind her that we're just doing ballet, not brain surgery. Laughter throughout the studio brings an immediate release. Most weeks in class, several small goals are achieved only to be washed away moments later like waves lapping up on the beach, receding, and then reaching a few inches further to achieve more with each new surge of water. This process happens quietly inside each individual. Everyone's pace is different, as is their starting point. It feels like a beautiful miracle to see fifteen people's faces light up with understanding, and then, best of all, watch them translate that realization to their bodies. Today, as usual, we were doing a pirouette exercise. “Reach your right arm, leading with your pinky, resist slightly in your shoulder as if you're pushing through water, and keep your elbows lifted like you don't want to touch the tabletop in front of you,” I coached them. “Make your arms perfectly round, time your relevé as methodically as a metronome.” The room got hushed—that's when I know I've said something that might be sinking in—“Let's all try it together.” We practice each element separately: just the arms, then just the feet, then coordinating the arms and legs but without a turn, and then we add it all together. I had been doing the step with the class, standing in front of the group with my back to them, but now I stopped and turned around to watch. I saw a mismatched assortment of people of all shapes and sizes and in outfits of every type, all reaching with their pinky fingers to the right and sailing around with the smoothness of soft butter.