I Hope You Dance

It was my first memory of weightlessness, of gliding, while spinning effortlessly around the room weaving in and out to the rhythm of the music. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced and an escape and freedom that would become a staple in my toolbox of coping skills in the years that followed.

The year was 1968, and it was the annual summer barn dance at the ranch. The featured talent was “The Sopris Six,” a mix of accordion, bass, trumpet, saxophone and vocals and one of the best polka bands around. I’d watched and bopped to the beat all evening as couples sailed effortlessly across the floor. When I closed my eyes I could better feel the rhythm and hear the underlying percussion and scratch-scratch-scratch of the friction of leather soles, cornmeal and the wooden barn floor.

“Come on kid let’s dance,” he said as he grabbed my hand and led me out on the dance floor. “Stick with me and I’ll show you how we Polka.”

Ed was the young rosie-cheeked ranch-hand and some 15 to 20 years my senior — much like the big brother I’d never had. At age 7, I was game for whatever my buddy Ed had up his sleeve. He lifted me off the ground just high enough so that my small feet came to rest on top of his worn boots. He instructed me to just to relax and hang on and he’d take care of the rest! And so I did.

“A one, a two, a one two....” We sailed effortlessly across the floor, gliding and twirling to the cadence and lyrics of Roll Out the Barrel. Ed’s feet barely touched the floor and I know mine didn’t as they rested firmly atop of his; after all I was just along for the ride and what a ride it was shaping up to be! I closed my eyes leaned into (or against) the tension of the motion knowing Ed wouldn’t let me fall. It was almost like the centrifugal force on a carnival ride with the freedom of motion. I was hooked. Music, rhythm and the resulting hypnotic motion we call “dance” had won my heart while taking over motion of my small limbs and shown me a way to freedom of the toils of the day.

Dancing since has been a favorite pastime of mine. As an uncoordinated gangly teen, dance was something I could feel and didn’t have to think about. It was a form of gracefulness unnatural in my days so I gravitated toward it. In college I took all 4 semester physical education requirements as ballroom dance classes, even offering to play the male role so as to secure a spot on the class roll call. A little shallow I admit, bit I even dated a guy once for months because he was a great dancer. Granted, he had the personality of a mashed potato sandwich, but he was 6’8” and could flip me and spin me like no other. There’s value in that!

During our courtship and engagement Joe falsely represented that he was a fan of dancing. I now know it was just the secret sauce to seal our relationship, but was a complete and total misrepresentation. Joe forgiven, I transferred my dancing passion to whomever would have me. Pre-Joe it was my sisters, and since-Joe it’s been dancing with our babies to comfort them at night, two-stepping with Scruffy by moonlight, and I’ve even mastered dancing alone.

I’ll never forget watching Meg at about 5 months gyrate to the music on the radio while in her car seat. Later there were countless times I watched her (and later the boys) spin and sway to the music. Think about it.... almost all little kids twirl and spin, and I think there’s an unconscious maybe subconscious explanation. It was nothing I taught or instructed, no predetermined steps or formula with a desired outcome. Instead I was witnessing first-hand our innately human predisposition to move rhythmically in response to music, and was watching the freedoms and happiness it brought. Interestingly enough I noticed that when dancing alone Meg would extend her arms raising and lowering them as she twirled — almost like an airplane or bird wings. Her movements were more engaging and explicit than speech and words spoken. So I tried it ...... and mimicked what I saw in this little human. Amazing!! It was as though the tensions of the world were vacated through my outstretched arms, and I was able to “offer up” my pain. Like an outgoing pipeline and conduit for stress and a hypnotic therapy of movement and grace.

Fast forward to this week, and another sleepless night. Like so many, I was overcome with grief. My grief was not only for the struggles and losses I was personally experiencing, but more-so for the losses we’ve experienced in recent weeks as a country and culture, coupled with the uncertainty of the future. Let me first concede how inspiring and hopeful the goodness in people we’ve witnessed during this pandemic. The selflessness of first responders and neighbors and healing that comes with the 7 pm ovations in New York and the 8 pm howling in Colorado and Wyoming. And yet, I was approaching a darkness and a grief for the world that was hard to put into words. As my Dad would say, “the only remedy for helplessness is action,” soooo, I strapped on my oxygen concentrator, cued up my favorite playlist, closed my eyes, and at 3 am - - I danced. At first my steps were strained and restricted, but remembering lessons learned as a young mother, I unfolded my arms and let the music take me away. My arms raised and lowered and swayed as I twirled and two-stepped around my living room. The tears started to flow, my body loosened, and the unspoken grief of the day lifted. I literally danced the night away. With playlist complete, battery almost empty, but soul revived I collapsed in the recliner and dozed off for a few blissful hours.

I’m so grateful for dance and rhythm. They are gifts that are there for each of us and span decades, genre and culture. Even if you don’t have the luxury of Ed as a chaperone and introduction to fluid motion, dance and rhythm are there in many forms and fashions. Whether you are a radio toe tapper, a dashboard strummer or a crazy old woman dancing the night away in her living room. Let the music and rhythm take you away and let them speak to your troubles when words can’t be found.

“I hope you dance.”