Dance

I was seven.
We were dancing.
Actually, I was…bobbing.
I was happy but a bit self conscious.
It would have been 1976. We were in the Trollhaugen chalet. A traditionally inspired ski lodge with rosemaling along the roof line. This was my home away from home. My parents were ski patrol there. People were done skiing for the day and the bar was packed. There was a band playing. My friends were dancing unabashedly.
I was on the sidelines, bobbing.
It was then that I saw two pretty blonde women with long straight hair likely in their thirties pointing at me…
Laughing.
In hind sight, I’m sure they thought I was just a cute kid.
But, in that moment, I was mortified.
I thought they were laughing at me.
Sheepishly, I slipped away.

I didn’t dance for years.

It was at the school dances in junior high that friends re-inspired me.
They were jumping around wildly and jamming on air guitars.
Within minutes, I was too.

It wasn’t long before I’d gained some confidence.
Not much, but some.

In high school, I loved punk rock and new wave music.
With my newly found music, there was new dancing.
Slam dancing!
It answered the needs of my of my male adolescent angst.
It was wild and fun…and easy.
This loosened me up.

It was shortly after high school that the rave culture emerged.
I was at home.
I was feeling it…in every pore of my body.
There was no shame.
Whether it was deserved or not, people actually complimented me on my dancing. It was a revolutionary time. A time of discovery and exploration. I got to the point that I was going out four, sometimes five nights a week.
I loved it.

I was twenty-two when I went on a blind date with my friend’s girlfriend’s friend.
We started out at a graduation party.
It wasn’t going well.
Hours later, we all went dancing.
By that time, I’d dismissed any notion of this date working out.
At the club, I was in my zone, dancing.
In hind sight, I’m sure that’s what was alluring to her.
Towards the end of the night, the tide had shifted.
She was dancing with me.
A year later, we were married.

It was a few years later that things started to change.
When we’d dance, words were said.
“Don’t do that with your hands.”
“Keep your arms down.”
“Why are you doing that?”
It wasn’t long before I lost the beat.
I lost the connection.

Again, I didn’t dance for years.

We both broke each other.
Many things happened.
We weren’t good for each other in many ways.

The years preceding the divorce provided me with an opportunity.
We were together, but I was alone.
That time taught me to sit with myself.
To be introspective.
I learned to tell the truth.
I learned to tell my truth.

Fate is a funny thing.
When I fell in love again, I fell in love with a dancer.
I told her I used to love to dance.
She encouraged me to be free.
“Just feel the music.”
“Dance to what moves you.”
As kind and unassuming as she was, I couldn’t find it within me.
I couldn’t get my body to release.
I was frozen.
A piece of me broken.
A prisoner in my own mind.

She was a salsa dancer.
This was foreign territory for me.
The patterns and partner dancing were contrary to everything I knew about dancing. This was a type of dancing I’d never been comfortable with. I was struggling with just the basics.
I took lessons secretly.
Ironically, it was the mathematically repeatable patterns that drew dancing out of me again. It wasn’t natural. I was a far cry from a protege, but I felt good about stepping into the fear. I was starting to own myself, both in ways that I’d lost and in ways I’d never known.
After three months, I surprised her.
I couldn’t do much.
But it was just enough.
I found my rhythm.
I was learning to feel again.

Today, I move with a newly found freedom.
I’m not much of a dancer, but I can dance.
I will dance.
When I’m moved, I’ll move.
I feel the beat.
My pulse is back.
I’m connected again.
I’m the master of my domain.

Compassionately,
I’ve learned to love myself…