The Little Blue Key to Happiness
There was a time that I had a handful of keys on my keychain: keys to the apartment, car, office, computer, desk drawer, mailbox, and always on the silver Tiffany keychain that my parents gave me as a graduation present from business school. They keys were proof that I had Made It, with my shiny University of Chicago diploma, the possessions of a privileged adulthood, and the promise of doors of yet to be unlocked. It didn’t occur to me that handcuffs have keys too.
Over time, I shed the keys. The car was replaced by a work shuttle, my office became a hot desk, and my laptop came home with my every night. The corporate part of my life had slowly creeped beyond my physical belongings into my body, my sense of self. I hardly sensed it happening. It was strange then, when I left my last job, to realize there was barely any evidence that I was ever there. I handed my computer over to the IT station and left my badge with the security guards, and then just…walked away. I read about how the pandemic has resulted in some job-leavers missing the closure of “last day rituals” and hence directing a lot of energy into farewell emails. I didn’t do that. I’ve experienced lots of last-days in my career, ranging from being tearfully escorted from the premises during a traumatic mass layoff to being celebrated with a homemade cake from my team. This time, I just went home and hit play on “Another One Bites the Dust” as I walked through the door.
Still, a sort of emptiness had settled into my body. It didn’t feel bad, exactly. Sometimes it was rather peaceful. But as I gave myself the rest I sorely needed, the energy started to build up inside and began looking for an outlet. Some of that energy goes to this page: while I think a lot about what to write and compose posts in my head, the actual writing takes a lot of effort for me. I’m envious of people who can pour words out quickly. It takes me a long time to organize the dimensions of my experience and jumbled brain blips into coherent paragraphs. And sometimes the emotions that are stirred up are really draining (today I still feel the sting of that layoff 13 years ago). So while I enjoy the challenge of writing, I don’t love writing in and of itself (at least not yet).
What I do love is the trapeze. I arrived late to the circus arts (“very adult” as my teacher would say), taking my first class at the age of 38: Stretching with Ash Rexford at the Circus Center of San Francisco. It turned out I was naturally bendy (a collagen disorder, in fact) and achieving front splits came naturally to me with a little training and instruction. Next, I tried Introduction to Mixed Aerials, taught by Elena Panova, an internationally-recognized former swinging trapeze artist who has a true gift for teaching. I literally could not do a single thing on the apparatus in the class (I was a sedentary weakling who occasionally did pilates) and I was (am) terrified of heights, but something about the trapeze hooked me that day and kept me going back. In that beginner class, I learned to climb a rope (take that, Presidential Fitness Test!), suspend myself from the air on aerial silks, trapeze, and hoop, and to move with safety as the first priority always. I made close friends; we cheered each other on and commiserated over bruises and elusive skills. Most importantly, I learned that “impossible” is a lie. I could do pull-ups! I could hang upside down from the top of my feet!
When I left San Francisco for Basel, I wasn’t sure if or how I could continue circus classes. I had contacted the circus school in Basel but received no response. Eventually, I was lucky enough to meet another (American!) trapeze person in Basel who also was trying to break through the icy Swiss wall of communicating with the Zirkusschule. Claire and I became close friends (Hi Claire! I miss you!), we went to circus shows together, eventually got training time at the school thanks to her German skills and practically professional training level, and even got to take a few trapeze classes. Some of my happiest Swiss moments took place in that room.
Unfortunately, covid, work schedules, and my deteriorating mental health got in the way, and I lost my trapeze mojo last year. At my lowest, I didn’t want anything to do with the trapeze and even seeing aerialists on Instagram left me feeling terrible about myself. As I began climbing out of my depression pit, I started taking dance and pilates classes again, but I wasn’t sure if I’d ever want to do aerial again. Besides, I was moving to Québec and didn’t know of any classes here.
Well depression makes your brain lie to you, and once my treatments were working (thank you duloxetine and therapy!), I was ready to get back into to the swing of things, as it were. As if by magic, I found 2 classes that were starting up just after my arrival. They weren’t trapeze, but at least I could start to re-build some strength, immerse myself in French, and meet some people.
Starting again has been hard, for sure. It turns out that no amount of time away will make me love aerial silks. I hate silks like I did back in my beginner class. But aerial hoop is more fun than it used to be, and even better - I get to take class with an Instagram friend, Ana, who is (of course) super cool in real life. The classes take place at a training cooperative (co-ops are a popular model here in Québec) called Caravane Coop and membership is open to both professionals and amateurs. So this amateur became a member and bought a trapeze to train on! Membership gives me a key to the building and safe rigging points, plus camaraderie and discounts. Do I feel like a total fraud hanging up my trapeze and practicing my baby skills while people are doing awesome tricks all around me? Of course. But I remind myself that 1) In French, “amateur” means “enthusiast” and does not have the negative connotation of incompetence as it does in English, and 2) NO ONE CARES.
I hope I’ll be able to find a trapeze coach someday. But in the meantime, I am falling in love with getting to know my trapeze and learning to move with no template or expectations. It’s satisfying to feel tired after expending physical and creative energy. And I love the tingle of excitement I feel each time I swipe my little blue key on the door and see what circus magic is taking place within.