This morning I had dance class. I take adult jazz and tap. I’m the youngest. The oldest ladies are late sixties or early seventies. Some of them can’t pivot-turn. Some can really cut a rug. I do not know these women well, but I adore them all. I love that we are women in every different stage of womanhood. I love that we warm up to songs by Jamie Grace and Toby Mac and Mandisa. “You’re an overcomer,” one song says. “I’m an overcomer,” I repeat to myself. My dance teacher’s the type of person who radiates. I make myself go to dance class even when I feel dark.
I have not improved much in tap since I was a five-year-old in a bumblebee costume who ran off the stage because I forgot how to paradiddle and shuffle step, but I’m a decent jazz dancer. One of the jazz dance sequences today was clever—it involved some attitude and some groove and a hop. And it required a certain joy. The movement felt good and spot-on, and so I laughed full and loud–a sound I hadn’t heard in a while, a sound my friend next to me said she loved to hear.
I felt high school dinner theater opening night-good. I felt closing ceremony of Dirty Dancing– good. I felt Susan Sarandon in Elizabethtown-good. Remember when she dances her beautiful tap dance routine during her husband’s memorial service? Remember her freely gliding across that stage? Her children don’t understand why she decided to take tap dance lessons so soon after their dad’s death, but she knew she needed to carpe diem. She allowed herself to feel good, to laugh, to dance in the middle of her grief. Through her grief. There’s a newly widowed lady in my dance class. She’s surely grieving, but she shows up every Tuesday.
She can’t pivot-turn.
I can’t tap dance.
I don’t know what I’m grieving, but I’m glad dance, movement, joy…..rescues us all.