A slight turn, touch, gaze and the movement alters, adjusts.
It’s the most intimate type of communication. No words. No rules. A few guidelines. The flow is counterclockwise. The count is 1, 2, 3. Leads begin on their left foot, follows on their right, just slightly behind, not to be subservient, but to hear the request and then give a response.
I look at the dancers, waltzing to live music. Silent conversations accentuate the grace of each step, each turn, each touch. As the gentleness of the flow fills me I wonder, what do people mean when they say they can’t dance? What is it they do not hear, feel, signal?
To learn I needed to be intentional. To combine the rhythm with movement. There was, initially, a disjointed flow, yet with practice and encouragement, the music and movement have united.
What about this basic communication would frighten someone? Cause them to state, believe, proclaim, they can not dance?
The question is a request, the response, “What is needed for someone to overcome their fear of dancing?
If this was a thesis question, I would need to define dancing. Is it is a formalized set of steps, to a structured music? Can it include children playing ‘Dancing with the Stars’? What about the time I walked out of the grocery store, balancing a bag in each hand, twirling to the rhythm of the street musician? Or the subway rider moving and swaying to the jerks and sputters of the train? Or the rich flow of a potluck, spoons, forks, drumming a beat, people moving around the table?
I know dance.
Shift of balance.
It can happen walking down the street, smiling at a stranger.
Receiving a response “you are an angel.”
Receiving a hug from a child, commenting that they were the first one to hug me that day.
Leaving a small gift for a friend, watching their face light up.
I know dance.
It’s an invitation to joy, to move with grace, to give and take, balance.
Tell me, please, what does it mean to believe you can not dance?