Rebirth

From the time that I can remember, I danced. Some of my favorite childhood memories involve dancing - practices, costumes, recitals where I felt like the most beautiful girl in the world and my family would greet me with flowers afterwards, parades.

I loved each and every ridiculous minute of it.

I wasn't a great dancer. Even as a four year old I was quite chubby and uncoordinated and couldn't quite keep up with the lithe professional ballerina types or with my rival, Erica Evans, who was a fantastic dancer and was always cast in the leading roles. I was the girl in the videos who always seemed to be looking at the other girls to see what we were supposed to be doing, trailing just a minute or two behind.

But I didn't care.

When my parents got divorced, the dancing stopped. I think it was a matter of practicality, really. Mom had to get a job and logistically how was she going to get me to dance three times a week while working full time and raising us? And then there was the money - dance wasn't cheap. At the time I didn't take it as a value statement or think it would have deep implications. We couldn't afford it. So the dancing stopped.

Physically I started to gain weight - and lots of it - and within time I'd be too big to dance even if I wanted to.... Which I didn't, in case you are wondering. I didn't care about dance anymore.

I hated my body. So instead I focused on school and relationships with friends and tried as best as I knew how to completely detach my mind and heart from my pathetic shell of a body. And for the most part, it worked. The vessel was obviously flawed and broken and disproportionate - but inside I always knew there was something worth loving... so I chose to focus on that.

When I was nineteen and struggling with a deep depression, an acquaintance from church extended an odd invitation to me. She told me that God told her to ask me if I wanted to dance. She had recently started a "praise dance" group of women and wanted to know if I'd like to join. I sure did.

But after the first practice and dancing to Mercy Seat I didn't go back. I thoroughly enjoyed the practice - running, jumping, flailing my arms uncontrollably, feeling my blood pumping through my legs, feeling the sweat at the nape of my neck. But I was just too damn cool to dance to that music.

So after the one night stand, the dancing stopped again.

And since that time, I could count on my fingers the times that I've danced -- with Matt, dancing in the living room, slow dancing in jest to True by Spandau Ballet, or contra-dancing at an occasional barn dance.

And exercise, well, I actually love exercise. I love working out. I love running. I love swimming. I love walking. I love climbing. I love yoga. But it is a daily struggle to allow myself the permission to take an hour and a quarter of a tank of gas to move my body. It just doesn't seem worth it when there are so many other things begging for my time and attention. That's the lie I tell myself most days, at least. Other days I just want to sleep instead.

It took me 21 years and therapeutic sessions with The Urban Goddess to realize that when I stopped dancing something within me died. My 10-year-old soul took the message that I wasn't worth the sacrifice. I couldn't do what I enjoy. I didn't deserve to do what I enjoyed. And it took me 21 years and Let the Bones Dance and Katie Dahlaw, a very good friend and professional dancer, to realize that being disconnected from my body, finding scant pleasure in my body, in my physical existence, in my presence inside this skin,  has wound me tight in graveclothes.

Last year around this time I called back my spirit. That's a woo-woo New Age way of saying that I got really still and really quiet and listened to my heart. Listened for what my heart was saying about who I was, what my soul was saying about what I wanted to make reality.

The first words?

"Come back, dancer.
     move your body to music and words
     and nothing
     feel the rhythm and flow of the Eternal
     shake your broad hips and big belly with joy
Come back, dancer."

The graveclothes started to loosen.

I'd love to say that since last year I've been dancing. Not true. What is true is that I hurt my knee and have been in pretty bad pain since December, had knee surgery in March, have had repeated treatments for the knee... and nothing so far has really helped.... Sigh and more sigh.

But every once and again I'll get the inspiration and courage to circle my hips and move my arms and twirl and fail about like a wild woman...motivated by something I read or see or sense or hear. Something like this .

This morning the inspiration came to me through my guilty pleasure - Heather Armstrong. I've been reading her blog since 2003. Now, well, she's well sponsored and has about 4 million followers and she's a bit too professional and polished for my daily-reading-pleasure taste, but yet, I read. I lurk. This morning (which, for the record, was a CRAPtastic morning), I found a great song posted on her blog from Damon Albarn.

 Hallo (featuring Tout Puissant Mukalo and Nelly Liyemge) by DRC Music

So I got up, drew the curtains shut, pushed in the chair at my desk and danced like only a crazy woman with a bum knee can do.

Clumsily.

4 minutes 48 seconds of freedom and joy.

4 minutes and 48 seconds of being born again.