On Dancing

 I've always been obsessed with dance. My favorite TV program of my entire childhood was the Riverdance VHS we owned. I'd often check out ballet instructional videos from the library and follow along, using the back of a chair to act as my barre. Musicals with lots of dancing were some of my favorite movies (I loved Singin' in the Rain and White Christmas for this reason). A visit to see a community-theater production of The Nightingale is one of my most vivid memories. I was always fascinated by the way people could just get their bodies to move in ways that looked so effortless. 

But of course, my own efforts never quite lived up to the lithe people I saw on the screen and the stage. I've always been tall for my age, and inflexible, with weak arms that I never found the motivation to strengthen. Still, I followed the VHS videos. As I got older and joined drama class, I learned some basic jazz-square-and-stomp musical theater choreography. In rare moments alone in my room as a teenager, I'd listen to The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack and dance to it, often melodramatically and with a bit of self-consciousness. But it felt so good to move my body in time to the music, to dramatically change my expression or choreography to fit the mood of the music. I was glad we didn't have mirrors, though. I didn't have any interest in seeing myself.

When I was 16, I got the chance to visit Disney World with my two best friends at the time, and at the exhausting and exuberant end to one of our days, as the three of us waited for the final fireworks show to begin, we began tapping our feet in time to the pop music playing over the loudspeakers, and within a few minutes, we were dancing our hearts out. I don't think I've ever felt that un-self-conscious in a public place, just absolutely going wild and not worrying about whether anyone was staring. It was freedom.

As I got older, chances to dance— homeschool prom, homeschool Christmas ball, weddings, social dance events at parties— trickled away, and so I mostly stopped. I was still tall, and clunky, and inflexible, and weak-armed, and now I was gaining weight, too. Dance faded into the background for a while.

Recently, I've started reconnecting with it. I've been out salsa-dancing with my sister a few times, putting aside my self-consciousness to try to learn the steps and at least not completely embarrass myself. 

But less formally, I've been closing the curtains and dancing to my music at home, like I used to when I was a teenager. I dance like I'm a performer in front of an audience who absolutely adores me, and part of the fantasy is pretending that I'm good. 

I've even gone to my old stand-by— checking out a video from the library— to start to learn belly-dancing. I spent most of my life thinking belly-dancing was inappropriate (the "don't show your midriff" mantra of 90s purity culture dies hard, not to mention the conservative discomfort with anything sexy), but I have also always felt drawn to it, especially after seeing a belly-dancer at a Renn Faire who performed while balancing a pole with two flaming ends atop her head. Years later, I'm giving it a try. So far, my inflexible body looks like some sort of awkward heron while I'm trying to do the moves, but every time I feel myself getting self-conscious, I say out loud, "What, are the belly-dancing police gonna come arrest you?" 

Trying out new dances makes me interested in exploring others. What about poi (swinging tethered weights around) or hula or tango? What's keeping me from trying out everything that catches my interest?

Dancing makes me feel at home in my body. It's a way to celebrate this body that helps me move and walk and express my emotion. It's a way to push myself and get exercise that's focused on artistic expression rather than mathematical goals. And it's fun. 

So I guess this is all to say, if there's something that you enjoyed doing that you don't do anymore, it can be very freeing to pick it up again and practice it, for yourself. I highly recommend it.

~~~