June. The dancing season is over, my lectures here are all wrapping up, and I have one exam left in a couple days. Then, less than 24 hours after the last exam, I'll be on my way home.
I look at the city around me and can't believe it's the same place as it was in November. I think back to the winter days, and recall waking up in darkness, walking to class before the sun had risen, coming home to an afternoon already dimming to dusk.
Now the days seem hardly ever to end, stretching on and on into an arctic sunset at 10:30pm. It never gets properly dark. Rather, clouds gather moodily over the cityscape to form a smoky frown lingering over the horizon line, a small window of light sky eternally glowing between earth and clouds.
When I was younger, some of my favourite books were those in C.S. Lewis's Narnia series (to this day they are still dear to me). In one of the books, the Pevensie children find themselves on a quest to the "edge of the world". The world of Narnia is described as being not a round planet, but a flat land with the oceans cascading off either side - as the earth was thought to be in old folk tales. On their journey aboard the great ship "The Dawn Treader", the children approach nearer and nearer to the utter east and the rising sun. As I sit at my desk studying well into the night with no need for a lamp, my books and notes well lit by the light coming in from my windows, there is a quote from that book that keeps coming to mind:
"...they began to feel that they had already sailed beyond the world. All was different. For one thing they all found that they were needing less sleep. One did not want to go to bed nor to eat much, nor even to talk except in low voices. Another thing was the light. There was too much of it. The sun when it came up each morning looked twice, if not three times, its usual size...
"...the sun too large (though not too hot), the sea too bright, the air too shining. Now, the light grew no less – if anything, it increased – but they could bear it. They could look straight up at the sun without blinking. They could see more light than they had ever seen before. And the deck and the sail and their own faces and bodies became brighter and brighter and every rope shone."
The transformation that St Petersburg undergoes each and every year, from winter to this summer, is rivaled in intensity only by the extremity of the lifestyle that all dancers here seem to lead.
I count myself one of the lucky ones. I don't have to work, and consequently I can enjoy the luxury of focusing all my energy on my studies at the conservatory. But most of the others here, namely the Russians, do not have that privilege.
They must balance their studying with exhausting, endless rehearsals and draining daily commutes from the edges of the city where cheaper housing is available. They have to arrange to take their exams earlier or later than the scheduled date in order to accommodate their tour schedule, frequently flying with their troupes to perform in China, Scandinavia, Germany, the US.
There is one woman in my year who has a small daughter. On her single day off from the theatre this week, this woman only got to spend a handful of hours with her little girl and husband at their dacha. And all because our senile professor stretched our final exam on that day into a four hour long torture. The mother smiled in resignation. Apparently, they often call her in on her day off, so, as she said, at least this time she got a few hours with her child.
One of my closer friends at the conservatory often goes nonstop from waking at 6:30am until collapsing at 11pm - studying, dancing, working as a coach at a local ballet company. "I forgot to change, yesterday, I just fell on the bed and slept in my clothes. Then I woke up at 2am because I'd forgotten to eat, so I was starving, and I didn't know who I was or what was going on!" She told me once, laughing sheepishly. I tried to force out a chuckle, masking my horror.
Just yesterday, another friend of mine told me that she'd gone to the doctor for a hip pain that had been bothering her for some time. The results of the MRI revealed a series of hip problems that may require surgery to properly heal. But there is no time for her to rest, she simply can't afford to give up 6 months or a year. For us, in our profession, no money could tempt us to part with a year of our fleeting youth.
I was deeply affected by the news, feeling almost as much grief as though it were I, not her, that had received the diagnosis. Recovery from such a surgery not only means a lack of income, but it could mark the end of a career just blossoming into its prime. A sudden frost in late spring is enough to kill a rosy bud. We can only hold out hope for a sudden ray of sun to fall upon it, bringing a swift, but gentle, thaw.
I feel a horrible guilt, a sense of responsibility brought on by the burden of knowing that I am the fortunate one. "It isn't fair!", cries the little girl in me. But what can I do? I can't solve all their problems. I can't give back stolen hours, or ease the yoke of endless work. I can't pass a healing hand over a wound and cause it to heal.
I know that we are each given challenges in life, which are ours to bear and try to overcome. I honour that. I respect that there are things that are beyond my control. But I cannot fight off this gnawing anxiety. I cannot stifle the feeling that I have no right to be so at ease in my life when they suffer - albeit quietly, and with such dignity.
I can offer comforting words during a difficult time. And humour, especially, helps. I don't mind acting the fool, if it comes to it, to bring forth a few laughs and lighten the mood.
I've cooked meals and put them in containers for a friend who didn't have any time to eat, let alone cook for herself. I've been jester, cook, translator, coach, physical therapist; all falling under the mantle of "friend", an all-encompassing term.
I don't know if a deed can be considered altruistic if it gives me some relief in doing it. If it brings me joy, if it eases some of the burden of my self-imposed guilt, then can it be truly considered a "selfless" act?
But I suppose what matters most is to have done it, and not to think much more about it. If the deed itself helped someone, and was well-meant, then I like to think it was a good one. And yet it still doesn't feel like it's enough.