I Have A Dream: The Day I Danced Again, Part One

Post Nia Workout

My heart thumped and bumped and leapt and shivered.

“It’s just a workout,” I reminded myself. It’s not like I’m performing in front of people or anything like that anyway.

I nervously parked my Matrix and tried to find my footing as I walked inside a red brick building that used to be a school.

How many children lost their childhood dreams here? I wondered, as I stepped into the hallway, now adorned with all sorts of beautiful things. The school has become a neighborhood center for the Arts. How fittingly redemptive, I thought.

Slowly, I made my way to the studio where a slender woman in her 50′s greeted me warmly. I carefully took off my shoes, remembering that this was a dance workout done barefoot, and my feet slightly trembled at the touch of the cold yet inviting dance floor. There were mirrors everywhere, and immediately I remembered the one and only formal dance training I had in my life as part of the Highland Dancing team in high school.

A flashback, if you don’t mind.

I just left my hometown with my family, thousands of miles away in the Philippines to forge a new way of life for us in the Pacific Northwest. The very first friend I made at my new high school, Birgit, an exchange student from Norway, wanted to try out for the Highland Dance Team and successfully coaxed me into trying out with her.

Throughout my grade school years in the Philippines, we always had some kind of dance performance at school, which I always loved but I never gave it any serious thought. I had gone to a special Science high school where academics (in the sciences most especially) was the focus and I don’t think I ever danced during those three years before I moved to Seattle my senior year. Needless to say, I just wanted to be a good friend so I showed up for tryouts. And this little Asian girl, who had never worn a kilt in her life, became a Highland Dancer that one autumn day.

And so there I was, looking at myself in the mirror, remembering all those days I learned how to dance with swords, flings and jigs. Highland Dancing has a lot in common with ballet, and it was the closest I came to dancing like a ballerina. I enjoyed myself immensely but after my repeat junior year (and why I had to repeat it is still unknown me – I suppose they thought my English wasn’t good enough?), I found myself dancing to hip hop tunes with The Other Dance Team and competing for a spot in the Seattle Sonics halftime show instead.

That was a good fifteen years ago and I had never danced since then. Oh sure, there were the occasional jazz, swing and salsa classes I took here and there when my body cried out for some kind of expressive movement in my life. But I never really listened closely, deeply to what those cries meant. I never took any class seriously and they were mostly short-term half-hearted commitments that never brought the healing I never knew my body needed.

It was a free class for those new to Nia and I found myself surrounded by mostly middle-aged women who didn’t appear to be dancers in my mind. Relieved that I didn’t have to prove myself worthy to be there, I relaxed a little. The music came on and at first, I was merely imitating my instructor go through the motions, acutely aware of how my body felt awkward and self-conscious dancing again. Am I doing this right? Does it look good?  I would catch sight of myself in the mirror with a sort of judgment and criticism you only saved for your worst of enemies.

But a good half hour later, I started to melt into the music and the movement. And just then, our lovely instructor gave us permission to move freely and follow our body’s lead. Dance your way, she said. And just like that, something happened.

I woke up. And I started dancing. Like crazy. Like a free woman. In front of all these strangers who are also dancing their way to freedom.  In front of a big unforgiving wall of mirrors that reflected my every move.  In front of who knows what else but I didn’t care. I danced my joy away for 15 minutes. And it spelled P-R-E-S-E-N-C-E and P-L-E-A-S-U-R-E.

And that was the day I danced again.

Up Next: How I’m slowly making my dream of dancing for a living come a true.

Your Turn: What are YOUR dreams? Do you even know what they are?  Or perhaps you are a fellow dancer dying to be reborn? I’d love to hear your journey in making your dreams come alive.