Ten Years From Now

And why the ballet is the perfect metaphor for a life in two parts.

Ten years from now, what will you regret if you don’t learn it or do it now?

This question is one that my friend Chip Conley, founder of The Modern Elder Academy asks of all his workshop attendees… and it’s a doozy. It’s like holding a crystal ball up to your future regrets. Part premonition, part providence. And I’d encourage everyone to ask it of themselves.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking not just about my answer to this question but also about why it’s suddenly become so front and centre of my thoughts. And I think I’ve sussed out why that is. Bear with me as I attempt to unravel ‘the why’ and answer ‘the what.’

A while back, I went to a performance by the Australian Ballet that was promoted as a double bill of classical and contemporary works. The first half was Swan Lake. Full of tradition and tulle’ and Tchaikovsky. The story, the choreography, the music and the costumes all made my heart sing… beautifully familiar, safe and sacred.

I felt sad when the curtain came down, and during interval, instead of reflecting on act one and looking forward to act two, I was consumed by a general sense of unease and a gnawing discontent that the second half would not live up to the first. I considered calling it quits and if I’m honest, I wasn’t open to a new experience that might challenge what I’d come to love about the ballet.

It probably comes as no surprise that this ‘prediction’ became a self-fulfilling prophecy, and the second act was as disappointing as I feared it would be. Lycra replaced tulle and dissonant harmonies replaced the soaring, emotive melodies. It felt jarring and un-ballet(y) and I was relieved when it was over, telling myself that contemporary ballet was not my vibe and I’d stick with what I knew and loved from hereon in.

SPOILER ALERT… Never has there ever been a better metaphor for a life in two parts.

My own first act (which ended around 49), adhered to conventional choreography and was accompanied by a soundtrack so familiar, I could sing it by heart. I devoted all my energy to perfecting act one. I wore the costumes. I mastered the steps… and even though my dance morphed from a Pas de deux to a solo mid performance …. I still loved every second. But when the curtain fell, my euphoria was short-lived, as it struck me that I’d given little thought to act two. I had no choreography or costumes, not even a soundtrack to accompany me through the next half of my dance with life.

My ‘intermission’ was both messy and magical. I took off the tutu and stripped back the layers of life while I sat on an empty stage, and for the first time, really thought about what I wanted from act two. Not what I thought my audience wanted to see.

It took close to 5 years to choreograph the beginnings of a dance for act two that feels right for me and I’m the first to admit that it’s a work in progress. It’s less traditional than act one. A bit of a mash up of styles… with room for some ad-libbing and plenty of ‘mini intermissions’ to reflect, reappraise and re-imagine new steps that will keep me dancing joyously and without regret, until the curtain falls.

Which leads me back to the where I started, and the question; “What might I regret, ten years from now, if I don’t learn it or do it now? I’ll share some of my thoughts around this question next week. Perhaps you might give some thought to your answers too?

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”  - Seneca

Ang xx