I entered the #dancehappy class with one intention: to move my body and get out of my head. An attempt to reignite some creative fire, which had gotten all muted and clogged up after a summer sitting behind a desk.
I can't lie. It was a struggle to actually show up for #dancehappy. Joining a dance class involves this whole process of stuffing down my self-conscious bits. I have no trouble signing up, but the self-conscious bits stop me from actually showing up. To dance is to be vulnerable in front of strangers. Which sucks because I so badly want to be a great dancer. I love, love, love watching dance on a stage – but rarely acknowledge the bitter attached to the sweet – a touch of sadness and a hint of regret.
My parents stopped paying for dance lessons after a ballet teacher told my mom I’d reached the limits of my potential and a future in dance just wasn’t in my cards. After all, dance classes must have a purpose. Which doesn't exist if there isn’t a future. And that future must somehow justify the current expense. Such Protestant logic.
Years later when I was in my early twenties, I became totally obsessed with salsa dancing – going out to do it four or five nights a week. The purpose here was a killer cardio workout and a community with a shared love of a good party. As my body and connection to the music grew stronger, so too did a growing sense of power and freedom. Like learning a language, it’s a bit of a struggle to grasp the basics but once that's done, possibilities to explore subtler nuances – how to play, joke, manipulate even dream in that new language becomes the real payoff. Again, I misinterpreted bumping up against physical and technical limits with failure. Then after a shattering experience with a home invader who’d followed me home from a salsa club one night, I gave up salsa dancing cold turkey. I mourned the hole an absence of dance left in my life until now, twenty-five years later.
I think it was the name, #dancehappy, that warmed me up to the idea of going to a class again after all these years. #dancehappy sounds like a number of things: light-hearted, no barrier invitation to freedom and laughing and moving a body that doesn’t look or feel like it’s danced for a long, long time.
Turns out I’m totally right. And the other great thing is that Amber leads a class less like a teacher, who will emphasize body position or choreography – and more like a collaborator. Who offers a starter movement, but who then creates a safe, welcoming space to just do whatever wants to happen. She respectfully steps back and observes and somehow intuits what music or exercise will help (or allow) the group to build through exercises designed to warm up our bodies and to free up our minds – giving us permission to explore how we move and how we respond to a pretty rad play list. For an hour I danced and my body sucked it up like a thirsty plant.
The following Friday, I went to a salsa club.
Dance is powerful medicine.