Snowflakes, stories and ballerinas

Every little girl goes through a phase where she wants to be a ballerina. The tutus, the floaty tulle skirts, the satin ballet slippers...as children we are born into a world of imagination and High Romance. I was one of those little girls who had twice weekly ballet classes, the highlight of whose week was donning leotard, tights, and ballet shoes to go swoosh around the studio, pretending I was a snowflake, or Cinderella, or Clara. And I absolutely lived for The Nutcracker. Even after class, even in the middle of summer, I could put on the music and dance around, and I was a part of that story. That was a special talent I had, to read myself into a story and exist there for hours at a time. It made it hard for me to be bored. "Go play in a story," my mom would say, and I'd go to my room, put on the music, and off I would go.

Given that classical music was involved, my parents aided and abetted my obsession with ballet in general and The Nutcracker in particular. I remember that we had Baryshnikov's amazing version, and later George Balanchine's. And believe me when I say that I knew both of those performances backwards and forwards, inside and out.

I eventually moved away from ballet (an extremely strict teacher killed the joy in dancing for me). I found out early on that if the music didn't have words, it didn't interest me as much. I still love The Nutcracker, though, and watch it every year. And I am telling you all this because the Weinachtsmarks, or German Christmas Markets, opened today, onto a bright, snowless Berlin (I adore snow), and I am listening to "The Waltz of the Snowflakes" in my own version of a snow dance.