My dance teacher said tonight that flying is actually falling. To watch the wings and chests of birds. They are like dancers: the body falls from its second centre of gravity, even as the wings rise. The chest is still. When Nureyev leapt, and seemed to stay suspended for ever, his body was soft, falling. It is the only way humans can fly: by gently giving to gravity.

Not the jump, but the descent, the floating, the supple fall. It’s like everything she teaches, that the centre is not where it seems. Moving backwards, the body may be forward; the arms thrown up are an illusion, as the knees, hips, and centre of gravity drop to hold steady.

I try to feel these things, as we repeat the motions over and over, rhythmic with a pattern of breath. My mind can rarely follow. I hope my body is learning something, and that it sticks.