I finally went back to a dance class!
Dancing is a sure-fire way to inject joy into my day—on my own, with the children, with friends, anywhere. As a kid, you could often find me dancing in the aisles of Carrefour, my dad singing along as we put groceries in the trolley 🛒💃🏽.
I stopped gradually, and it’s taken me years to make time for dancing again. The reasons why I stopped are banal and legitimate enough. The reasons why I did go back to a dance a studio last week are a bit more meaningful:
An unexpected perk of creating this newsletter: I’m starting to try out new things more often, thinking If anything, I’ll get some writing material out of it ✍🏽🗒️
I met a dance teacher in my local group of freelancers. She invited us to her class, with assurances that women of all ages and abilities were welcome, so it felt easier and safer (and cheaper!) than trying out a random class, and also a kind thing to do to honour her invitation and get to know her work.
That’s because social relationships are a big deal to me. If achievement had been my priority, I would probably have sought a dance studio with a more competitive streak, or a group labelled “Advanced”.
I went without knowing about the class’s specific style, and it turns out that there was none. No technique or steps! Just invitations to follow what our body needs at that moment, time to dance with our eyes closed, space to connect with other dancers, to play.
What a gift! I felt fortunate to be able to make time for it.
It reminded me of the wisdom of my favourite scene from George of the Jungle: “No people here to feel stupid for. Just George.”
-“Wanna dance?
-Oh no, thanks. I’d be too embarrassed.
-What mean ‘embarrassed’?
-That’s when you feel stupid in front of other people. You know, like they’re judging you. You’ve never felt that?
-There are no other people.”
Only after the class did I realise what I had been craving: time for selfish dancing + fleeting connections with other people who don’t worry about correctness. I’ve joined too many classes where (I felt that) people in the room—some teachers included—were sizing each other up, judging the other dancers’ physique or technique as much as their own.
I’ve been guilty of that, too. I recall teenage classes where my outfit had to look just so; feeling smug when I got a routine quickly; on harder days, feeling lost or wrong; looking enviously at others whom I thought stronger / more flexible / less whatever than I am.
The teacher, Mònica Rincón, told me afterwards: “After so many years seeking [specific] results, comparison, and our reflection in the mirror... I wanted to experiment with another way.” (She created her own “Dansaflow” classes after taking a master’s in dance therapy when the pandemic hit.)
Still, at the end of the session, when she asked me: “You’ve danced before, haven’t you?” I felt that familiar tinge of smugness. I try not to give it too much importance, and to just keep dancing.
Aquest escrit em fa reflexionar de com es d'important la busqueda de un mateix i la importancia de deixar a banda el que la vergonya no ens deixa expresar.