Dreams, Destiny, and Dance
Part 2
I was astounded at how quickly the Night and Day approach to dancing released what had been held secret in me after the age of nine or ten. Up to that age, I had been not only unselfconsciously responsive to music and opportunities to dance, but also fascinated by ballet, dance performance as part of film and theatre, and the lavish balls that in my early world marked the seasons in certain cities, castles and country houses around me. As time passed, however, so did my confidence and my assumption that I would simply be joining in with all that. Since this is not an exercise in Proustian recollection, the only individual reasons for this abandonment of fun worth noting are a leg injury that labeled me as Limpy at school, frequently–voiced parental regret that I appeared to be more of a duck than a swan, and a guerrilla campaign waged relentlessly into adulthood by one sibling to ensure that everyone would indeed think “duck” of me and “swan” of her in as many facets of life as possible.
“ … here I was in my very first dance lesson, moving with the music as if there were no separation between it and me.”
But here I was in my very first dance lesson, moving with the music as if there were no separation between it and me. It seemed that all the music for dancing I had ever fallen in love with and yearned to follow had been captured in cell memory for release at this moment. Expecting only a minimal sense of accomplishment–surely my nerves would get in the way of my feet and stop me remembering the sequence of any steps–I was instead moved smoothly along by a method that was all about encouraging and allowing whatever was in there to come out happily.
Here were David and Diane showing me through their movements what I was doing naturally before they had even shown me how to do it. Here was I actually dancing to the kind of Latin music that had hitherto been like brilliant snapshots of some exotic, unexplored inner region. Here was an unquenchable feeling of rising above one’s everyday self, simply by letting the music be the guide. Wait a minute–surely this was meant to be one’s everyday self? Why not?
And that is a question I’m still pondering. Learning to dance may have made a particularly deep impression because it coincided with my final rejection of the “normal” working environment as in any way normal at all, largely because of the way it keeps one tied to a chair for hours and hours, five days a week. Then people go (drive) home and plonk themselves in front of television or another computer. We live our lives in the strangest of ways, given the intention of movement which is built into every part of us.
I think my conscious rebellion against universal torpidity has its roots in the day more than twenty–five years ago when I first thought about the cramped, unnatural place to which natural movement was relegated in most lives. In the company of a dog, I was squelching across a damp English meadow behind a line of dairy cows. Their slow, swinging gait emphasized the clear articulation of each bony prominence in their hindquarters. I was preoccupied with my thoughts, which were essentially the first of periodic glooms about being stuck behind a desk in a room with people I didn’t much care for, doing something that managed to exhaust me though I sat all day. Suddenly, the cows ahead appeared as exceedingly graceful creatures, simply because they were moving as nature had intended they should. And there was the dog making elegant bounds and swerves from one intriguing scent to another. At that moment, humans presented themselves to me as bizarre creatures for the way they so readily abandoned movement. They were the only creatures I could think of who did not move consistently in harmony with the way they were built. Most of the time, they weren’t moving at all.
“Not only are humans the only creatures who choose to restrict or contort their movement so grievously (think high heels, for a start), they are also the only ones who can create music and thus inspiration for specific, harmonized movements.”
I never forgot that thought. It always returned—kicked in—whenever I got fed up with office life. Dancing has added another dimension to it. Not only are humans the only creatures who choose to restrict or contort their movement so grievously (think high heels, for a start), they are also the only ones who can create music and thus inspiration for specific, harmonized movements. Looked at in this way, dance is a unique, amazing gift to human beings. The thought I ponder now is how we have regrettably underused our other uniquely human attribute, the ability to reflect on ourselves, our free will and range of choice in life, in choosing en masse to plonk ourselves in front of television and computers for hours and hours instead of getting up to dance. Such inaction becomes inactivation of humans’ real, varied connections with the world, and that brings us rather dangerously close to the world of the zoo.
As for the Texan gentleman, the divine message that he kindly delivered to me was absolutely valid and has been corroborated by events. Learning to dance has brought out a part of me that feels both exhilarated and comforted by the exposure—comforted because I feel I’m reunited with a dear friend who has been away for far too long. It has led to a rapid assessment of all the other things I’ve secretly longed to do or have not continued to respect as passions and therefore connections. I am laying plans.
“Only connect,” said E. M. Forster. That could be rephrased less obliquely. On hearing my excitement at learning to dance, someone tells me about their dancing friend, a Harley Street physician who advises all his patients to “Eat less, dance more.” Or again, “Y’all git up and dance.” For the greater good of all concerned.
