A Pilates Story

The old man stood in the back of the studio looking out the window.  There seemed to be something missing in the moment, but it was not apparent until what was missing became present, breathing.  It was subconscious on his part, from a life time of paying attention to how he breathed.  He called it intentionally triggering instinctual response, but that just meant you exhaled so completely that the autonomous nervous system kicked in and caused the need to breathe in begin.  Slowing at first, air came in through the nose, and then down the throat like chocolate being poured over two scoops of ice cream that lifted up and stretched out the give more surface area for the chocolate to flow around.  Such was the expansion of the old man’s chest.

“She’s here,” the woman said, empty of emotion, as though she were trying only to state the fact without adding any emotional tinge.  She walked away as gracefully as she appeared, and the whole while the old man never changed his expression, or altered the rhythm of his breath, until finally, with more intention behind the inhale his head turned and he looked down, a change of focus, a different subject now held in his mind’s eye.

He left the new girl standing, once she stood before him, not out of discourtesy, but because he felt that standing was the best posture in which to carry on a business conversation.

She stood before him in silence, waiting for the old man to speak. She was standing in the Pilates V, heels together, toes apart, about 6 inches.  Not the turn out that most dancers assume, but the turn out that allows the femurs to sit in the acetabulums in neutral.  Her arms were as ease by her sides, sculpted and defined, but with soft contours, not the kind that you would get in body building, but the kind of arms you get from doing Pilates. Her hair was pulled back to a simple pony tale that reached just past her shoulder blades and was a color of autumn leaves.  The set of her shoulders and the position of her head spoke volumes about her experience with Pilates. The leotard gently expanded and contracted from her breath, but if you looked closely you could she there was an effort to keep the breath smooth in spite of a racing heart.

The old man’s gaze met hers and a long moment passed before he inhaled.

“No” he said, and went back to looking out the window.

She never moved, never flinched, only continued standing there, breathing to calm her heart beat.

“You are too old, I am too old, and I have nothing left in me to give.” He said this more to himself than to her, and he said it with a finality that carried with it a heavy resignation.

He looked at her again, dismissing her with his eyes, but she stood firm.  A slight glaze overcame her eyes, then was replaced by the resolve that had brought her this far.  It wasn’t easy getting this interview.  She had been told no all along the way.  Phone calls ignored, appearances dismissed, letters returned unopened.  Only after she had stood outside the studio for three weeks, not saying anything, not moving, only standing there like a soldier returning to the fort, waiting for the  gates to open, had the old man told Martha that he would speak with her.

So she continued to stand, saying nothing, making her presence be the insistence she felt throughout the depth of her being.