Self On The Dance Floor

Three weeks ago Saturday, I finally went back to the African dance class. Summer camp was in session, so the class was me and four eight-year-olds.

They had so much energy. In the pause between dances, while I caught my breath, they did cartwheels.

In the second dance, the one about planting seeds, the one I have done before, I got completely confused. We were stepping forward with our right foot landing on the heel with the toe up, spinning the toe outward as we stepped forward with the left foot, while doing something with our arms that was like the breaststroke.

I kept stroking at the wrong time and my arms felt like strips of licorice, wiggling outside my control.

The teacher turned to me and suggested I give up on my arms and just place them at the small of my back. That worked.

At the end of the dance, as I was sitting on one of the metal chairs and the kids were again doing cartwheels, the teacher came over to me and said something like,

“Relax. Enjoy the dance. You have come this far. You did it. This is your time to enjoy.”

We bring whoever we are wherever we go. It shows in whatever we do. This desire to perform well isn’t new. It was with me in school, at work, in my relationships. Sometimes it served me, sometimes it did not.

If I want to relax and enjoy on the dance floor, I will  need to relax and enjoy in the rest of my life.


Chewing the Cud of Good

Black converse sneakers with white laces and toes on a train, the floor black and speckled with white.
These are not my feet. I just liked the way they looked.

Thankful for a body that moves.

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