When I dance, I know exactly who I am. The chaotic world orders itself, and I know where I fit. There will be no auditions or rejections. I’m not in training anymore. In my genres, I’m a master now. So when I step into the studio every week, my heavy invisible backpack slides off my back and gets dropped at the door. I am fully alive, wide awake and comfortable in the present moment. I am ready to create.
When I dance, I am wild and authentically, uniquely me. I’ve certainly got other passions like writing and Spanish, but when I do these things I still feel encumbered. If only by threads, I am tethered.
But when I dance, I am light. Buoyant. Free. If you don’t know me, you might assume I am one of the chosen few: an up and coming dancer with her whole bright career stretched out ahead of her, or perhaps a famous industry leader with reels of credits. You’d probably never guess I could lose a few pounds, and I’m approaching middle age. If you could join me in the studio and we could move together, I’d surprise you again; you’d believe I was a much younger, more beautiful woman.
Because when I dance, I wear my soul on the outside of my body. In my everyday life, I persevere through new pursuits that pose major struggles for me, like 5am workouts and CrossFit training, and many times I fail. I can’t climb the rope. I can’t complete the “real” pull-up. I CANNOT do one more burpee. I pause and limp along, gasping for breath when I am supposed to be running faster, going harder. I employ the help of experts to lead me and I often glimpse myself through their eyes, pathetic and stumbling. Weak. I catch myself thinking, If only these people could see me dance.
