I have a theory that every little girl is born with an innate desire to dance.
I suppose I am constrained to modify that. There are exceptions, I'm sure. It's possible that there are some women who do not feel any desire to dance, nor can remember a time when they did.
Certainly plenty of women can, and do, claim that. And what do I know? I don't have any studies I can cite or scientific data to show. I have done no research. I could easily be wrong about this. That's why I called it a theory.
I have a sense that I am treading on very touchy ground here. I've noticed a lot of women are very defensive about this issue. Most of the women I observe would disagree with my conclusions. Yet I find something fishy about the immediate defensiveness of these ladies. If it were like any other hobby, say, knitting or (for another extreme) hunting, women tend to be pretty chill about it. "Yeah, that's not really my thing," they might say with a laugh. Perhaps toss in a joke or two. It's no big deal, and no one pretends that it is or isn't, except in playfulness (or immaturity.)
But dance...there's something about it. There's a certain polarization when it comes to dance. Some folks make no secret of how much they love to dance. But there are just as many if not more people who do. There's this embarrassment in people's response to the subject. Either they get uncomfortable and change the subject quickly, or (and this is particularly true of women) they adopt this sheepish wistfulness, as if that desire ought to be treated with guilt or ridicule.
"I only dance when I'm really drunk!"
"I don't really *dance* dance, I just kind of wiggle..."
"Oh, you do NOT want to see me dance!"
"Oh, no...I'm not a dancer...I never learned..."
There are all kinds of reasons people can feel that way. For a lot of older women, they used to dance back in their shall we say, former lives, and have tried to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their past. Also I think many women feel intimidated by the dancing they see broadcast before them constantly. They can't move like those people in the music videos. Or the television shows, etc. Those people make it look so effortless, and they feel clumsy by comparison. (But of course these ladies are not taking into account the years of practice that those seemingly perfect dancers have put in.)
Like I said before, I can't make a scientific argument about this. I'm just going to state my observations. The anecdotal evidence, I guess you could say.
I see that most (grown) women are embarrassed by the idea of dancing. Many teenage girls are too shy to try it. And yet there are many who are wistful; they'll sometimes let it slip that they wish they could before they recover themselves with a joke and a laugh.
Even in the defensive types, there's a certain ferocity about their disdain for dancing that intrigues me. If they really didn't care, they'd just shrug it off. Their immediate defensiveness indicates that they are suppressing that desire within them. Perhaps they are ashamed of it, or the idea carries a certain amount of baggage that they would rather not address. It seems to me that a lot of women these days aren't being honest about it. Which I suppose is easy to get away with. There doesn't seem to be much between "club" dancing and the formal setting of a ballroom or wedding.
And yet, look at little girls. Most of them from the instant they can toddle about instinctively bob and sway and twirl to music. They do it naturally, spontaneously. Haven't you ever seen a little girl twirling her skirt, especially if it sparkles? There's this incandescent light in her face, her eyes just glow. She is a picture of innocence, a little girl radiant in her beauty, in her femininity. There's a time when a little girl dances without caring if people are watching or not. And there is usually a time, however short, when she wants people to watch her, wants to be seen and delighted in. Especially by her father. She wants to be daddy's princess.
Somewhere between childhood and maturity, that desire to dance gets muddled, and often completely lost. It's a sad loss. I suspect that it's more important than most people realize, or care to admit. It seems to be tied inextricably to that inevitable Wound that comes for every human who lives in this fallen world with its fallen people. But that is another discussion that others have written about in detail. (i.e. "Captivating," by John and Staci Eldredge, and "Wild At Heart," by John Eldredge.)
I'll be the first to admit, I have not studied ballet, jazz, or tap. So you could make the argument that I am not a "real," dancer. But I have always been a dancer in that, when I was happiest, I danced to express my emotions. Or else I was dying to, inside. Or I could hardly contain myself until I was alone to do so. I have always been aware of how innately I move to a strong rhythm in a song, whether by a discreet tap of my foot or a bob of my head. I always fail those "Try Not To Dance," challenges. It's torture until my body betrays me and involuntarily responds to a surging chorus or a drop of a beat.
The first time someone ever asked me to dance was after a group lesson of ballroom dancing. This man old enough to be my grandfather with slicked-back hair walked right up to me holding out his hands with a kind smile on his face. I remember being nervous, but also curious and rather pleased. I knew that I'd always longed to be asked to dance. But I was scared too, no doubt about it. I was so new to it.
He walked up to my table and asked me if I wanted to dance this song with him. He held out his hand. I had to place my hand in his to accept. I don't hold hands with men, certainly not strangers. And this man was a stranger to me. But in this room, different rules applied. Here it didn't mean what it meant out there. It was a formal invitation. I looked up at his face. I couldn't tell how old he was, but there was an unaffected kindness in his smile that made me want to smile back. I knew he was a good dancer. So I placed my hand in his, accepted with a smile, and stood up.
He led me out onto the floor. When I told him I didn't know how this step went, he immediately began to demonstrate. After a few tries, he pulled me toward him with his right hand, offering me his left. The next thing I knew, I was standing with his right hand firmly placed on my shoulderblade, my left arm draped over his right. I was standing in his personal space. I felt uncomfortable. But he led, and I followed. We were gliding in a simple step. If I focused hard, I could remember which way to move my next foot. When I wasn't sure, he directed me, I couldn't tell how.
By the middle of the song, I began to smile a little, to myself. My feet were falling into the rhythm of the song's beat. We were in sync. This wasn't so bad. He was so sure of himself, so completely in his element, that it didn't feel awkward or threatening anymore. His arms were a firm framework. His hands stayed steady and still. We were standing quite close to each other, but it was respectful. There were certain rules and boundaries, and they were both understood and practiced.
When the song ended, he thanked me and escorted me back to my seat.
Once I had a taste of ballroom dancing, I wanted more. At first I had to coax myself to go, but once I was there, I was glad I had come. There were so many different dances! The Foxtrot, Rumba, Bolero, Salsa, Cha-Cha, Swing, the bold Tango, the Waltz, and my personal favorite, the Viennese Waltz. That's the fast kind of waltz that you see in movies, where the dancers whirl, skimming the outer reaches of the ballroom's edge. When I got home, I scribbled down the name of every dance I could remember, and put it where I could see it. When I glanced at the list, I tried to remember the basic step for each. Some were easy to remember, others I continually confused with another. But once I knew one of them, I practiced it in my room. As the weeks passed, I was foxtrotting across the halls, waltzing in the kitchen, and cha-cha-ing back and forth in my room.
I started recognizing dance patterns in songs I heard. The DJs at the ballroom played all sorts of music. They spanned anywhere between Sinatra-era swing to hit songs played over the radio. They also played world music, songs from other decades, instrumental pieces, and sometimes haunting scores from movies.
I had to work at it, but once I got the basic steps differentiated from each other, it got easier and easier to fall into the rhythm of a song I was hearing. When I went back, I could see how much I had improved. Some people began to teach me new steps to build on top of the basic. The group lessons were helpful in that, too.
I began to see a strange change in myself. As I continued to go, confidence was building in me. As I began to learn and abide by the rules of the Ballroom and of the Dance, I found I was no longer afraid to be right up in people's personal space. I began to even be able to make eye-contact and converse cordially as I danced. I was losing my fear.
What's more, I began to be more physiologically aware. I became more coordinated, more graceful, more light on my feet. My feet didn't get tangled up as much. My reflexes improved. I learned to keep my knees bent for fluidity in my movements and to keep my center of gravity low. I learned control. It was like I was acquainting myself with my body in ways I'd never known before. I was inhabiting my body in a new way. And naturally, my muscles strengthened from the new exercise. It was good all around for me.
Not all dancers are the same, of course. Some just bounce as they walk in the proper rhythm. Some are--not as young as they once were--and could not lead with strength or fluidity anymore. Some were far more interested in holding a conversation than the actual dance.
The young boys were stiff and awkward, and obviously scared. I was always kind, and tried to be reassuring. But most of them stuck to their friend group and wouldn't ask me.
There were the men who liked to dance, but did not lead. They just sort of swung you about and expected you to know what to do. Or who twirled relentlessly or who mixed up different dances with no discernible pattern. And there were those poor fools who pretended they knew what they were doing when they clearly didn't; who corrected you for not following them, even when you couldn't have known what they wanted you to do.
There was a couple who came frequently. They were stunning when they danced together. Long practice and well-practiced romance and friendship made them a delight to watch. Once I had the luck to dance with this gentleman in a Foxtrot mixer. I could tell from his stance just how professional he was. The song was a cover of "Singin' in the Rain," and this man bore a lovely resemblance to Gene Kelley. His smile had the same melting quality, and I was delighted. Once, when I accidentally miscalculated and stepped on his toe, he apologized for not leading the step well enough. He told me when a lady made a mistake it was the man's fault.
There was the man there who walked like a king, and led with the skill of an instructor. His ability to lead was astonishing. He could whirl me into steps I'd never done before and whirl me right back to normal again before I knew what had happened. His smile was kind and joyous. He told me it was the man's job to show off the lady, and he did. When he danced with me, I felt as graceful as a bird.
And then there was the silent, solemn one who taught me many, many steps. He was a patient teacher. He was strong, but graceful; he reminded me of some great cat with padded paws. When he invited me to a dance, he took me on a journey.
There's something about the Art of dancing that reflects deep, deep realities.
Marriage is like a dance. Someone has to lead, and someone has to follow. Leading takes sacrifice and responsibility. Following takes as much strength as leading, only of a different kind. And just as when a couple dances, everyone's eyes are fixed on the lady, so everyone is entranced with the Feminine's grace and poise as she submits, yes,---yet transcends that submission with joy and love. It's give and take, it's lead and be led, the roles change continually. It's a game, a riot, it's spontaneity wedded to teamwork. It takes absolute trust. It takes courage.
The Christian life is like a dance, too. I don't know where He's leading me or how to follow Him. He doesn't give me step-by-step instructions. He leads, He nudges, He's always there. He teaches, and I do my best to heed Him. When I stumble, His arm is there to steady me. When I am weak, He is my strength. When I am angry and try to run away, His love never lets me go. And He spins me through each moment with an undercurrent of joy. There's a promise of better things coming. It's an adventure. And He's there, taking me into His joy and His love.
Dance reflects the reality of romance. The game of pursuit, the subtlety, the fire. The passion, the vulnerability, the trust.
Now that I know the archetypal realities that Dance reflects, I can't help but wonder why we try so hard to suppress our natural yearnings for it. Is it because we're afraid to let ourselves feel those yearnings?
I can't help but think it would make a vast improvement in our lives if children and teenagers were taught ballroom dancing. It would help young men and women to feel more comfortable in their own bodies. It would build confidence. Young men would learn how to touch a girl with respect; to be neither grasping or terrified. It would build strength, grace, and trust. A young man needs to learn grace to pair with his strength. To wed romance with his masculine soul. A woman needs to learn how to follow, even (dare I say it!) to obey. (Gasp!) She needs to learn not to fear, nor to resent him for his strength, but rather to learn the difference between competence and corruption. To recognize each when she sees it in the world; to respect the one and reject the other. To be so confident in her beauty and her strength that she gives life, nurtures, and brings forth beauty in everything her life touches.
I am personally convinced that within the vast majority of woman there's still that deep desire for dance. It's denied and suppressed, but not quite dead. Oh, if men only understood this about us! If only men were taught how masculine it is to lead with grace and power! If they only knew how irresistibly attractive that makes them to us! If they only knew how we yearn to be led, to be made to feel graceful, to feel that we matter! If they had any idea how it thrills our hearts to be chosen for a dance! If men only could glimpse how deeply tied romance is to dance--to know one is truly to understand the other. Maybe they wouldn't be so reluctant to learn. I wish they knew how we long to be swept up in the music, to be--for a moment--taken, led into the music itself! It's rather like being caught in the current of a river. Inside a song, inside the beauty, reflecting it, sharing its loveliness...and not to be in that place alone. To share that reality, that experience, with another.
Dance reflects archetypal realities. We deprive ourselves grievously to suppress it.
~Cadenza
I suppose I am constrained to modify that. There are exceptions, I'm sure. It's possible that there are some women who do not feel any desire to dance, nor can remember a time when they did.
Certainly plenty of women can, and do, claim that. And what do I know? I don't have any studies I can cite or scientific data to show. I have done no research. I could easily be wrong about this. That's why I called it a theory.
I have a sense that I am treading on very touchy ground here. I've noticed a lot of women are very defensive about this issue. Most of the women I observe would disagree with my conclusions. Yet I find something fishy about the immediate defensiveness of these ladies. If it were like any other hobby, say, knitting or (for another extreme) hunting, women tend to be pretty chill about it. "Yeah, that's not really my thing," they might say with a laugh. Perhaps toss in a joke or two. It's no big deal, and no one pretends that it is or isn't, except in playfulness (or immaturity.)
But dance...there's something about it. There's a certain polarization when it comes to dance. Some folks make no secret of how much they love to dance. But there are just as many if not more people who do. There's this embarrassment in people's response to the subject. Either they get uncomfortable and change the subject quickly, or (and this is particularly true of women) they adopt this sheepish wistfulness, as if that desire ought to be treated with guilt or ridicule.
"I only dance when I'm really drunk!"
"I don't really *dance* dance, I just kind of wiggle..."
"Oh, you do NOT want to see me dance!"
"Oh, no...I'm not a dancer...I never learned..."
There are all kinds of reasons people can feel that way. For a lot of older women, they used to dance back in their shall we say, former lives, and have tried to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their past. Also I think many women feel intimidated by the dancing they see broadcast before them constantly. They can't move like those people in the music videos. Or the television shows, etc. Those people make it look so effortless, and they feel clumsy by comparison. (But of course these ladies are not taking into account the years of practice that those seemingly perfect dancers have put in.)
Like I said before, I can't make a scientific argument about this. I'm just going to state my observations. The anecdotal evidence, I guess you could say.
I see that most (grown) women are embarrassed by the idea of dancing. Many teenage girls are too shy to try it. And yet there are many who are wistful; they'll sometimes let it slip that they wish they could before they recover themselves with a joke and a laugh.
Even in the defensive types, there's a certain ferocity about their disdain for dancing that intrigues me. If they really didn't care, they'd just shrug it off. Their immediate defensiveness indicates that they are suppressing that desire within them. Perhaps they are ashamed of it, or the idea carries a certain amount of baggage that they would rather not address. It seems to me that a lot of women these days aren't being honest about it. Which I suppose is easy to get away with. There doesn't seem to be much between "club" dancing and the formal setting of a ballroom or wedding.
And yet, look at little girls. Most of them from the instant they can toddle about instinctively bob and sway and twirl to music. They do it naturally, spontaneously. Haven't you ever seen a little girl twirling her skirt, especially if it sparkles? There's this incandescent light in her face, her eyes just glow. She is a picture of innocence, a little girl radiant in her beauty, in her femininity. There's a time when a little girl dances without caring if people are watching or not. And there is usually a time, however short, when she wants people to watch her, wants to be seen and delighted in. Especially by her father. She wants to be daddy's princess.
Somewhere between childhood and maturity, that desire to dance gets muddled, and often completely lost. It's a sad loss. I suspect that it's more important than most people realize, or care to admit. It seems to be tied inextricably to that inevitable Wound that comes for every human who lives in this fallen world with its fallen people. But that is another discussion that others have written about in detail. (i.e. "Captivating," by John and Staci Eldredge, and "Wild At Heart," by John Eldredge.)
I'll be the first to admit, I have not studied ballet, jazz, or tap. So you could make the argument that I am not a "real," dancer. But I have always been a dancer in that, when I was happiest, I danced to express my emotions. Or else I was dying to, inside. Or I could hardly contain myself until I was alone to do so. I have always been aware of how innately I move to a strong rhythm in a song, whether by a discreet tap of my foot or a bob of my head. I always fail those "Try Not To Dance," challenges. It's torture until my body betrays me and involuntarily responds to a surging chorus or a drop of a beat.
The first time someone ever asked me to dance was after a group lesson of ballroom dancing. This man old enough to be my grandfather with slicked-back hair walked right up to me holding out his hands with a kind smile on his face. I remember being nervous, but also curious and rather pleased. I knew that I'd always longed to be asked to dance. But I was scared too, no doubt about it. I was so new to it.
He walked up to my table and asked me if I wanted to dance this song with him. He held out his hand. I had to place my hand in his to accept. I don't hold hands with men, certainly not strangers. And this man was a stranger to me. But in this room, different rules applied. Here it didn't mean what it meant out there. It was a formal invitation. I looked up at his face. I couldn't tell how old he was, but there was an unaffected kindness in his smile that made me want to smile back. I knew he was a good dancer. So I placed my hand in his, accepted with a smile, and stood up.
He led me out onto the floor. When I told him I didn't know how this step went, he immediately began to demonstrate. After a few tries, he pulled me toward him with his right hand, offering me his left. The next thing I knew, I was standing with his right hand firmly placed on my shoulderblade, my left arm draped over his right. I was standing in his personal space. I felt uncomfortable. But he led, and I followed. We were gliding in a simple step. If I focused hard, I could remember which way to move my next foot. When I wasn't sure, he directed me, I couldn't tell how.
By the middle of the song, I began to smile a little, to myself. My feet were falling into the rhythm of the song's beat. We were in sync. This wasn't so bad. He was so sure of himself, so completely in his element, that it didn't feel awkward or threatening anymore. His arms were a firm framework. His hands stayed steady and still. We were standing quite close to each other, but it was respectful. There were certain rules and boundaries, and they were both understood and practiced.
When the song ended, he thanked me and escorted me back to my seat.
Once I had a taste of ballroom dancing, I wanted more. At first I had to coax myself to go, but once I was there, I was glad I had come. There were so many different dances! The Foxtrot, Rumba, Bolero, Salsa, Cha-Cha, Swing, the bold Tango, the Waltz, and my personal favorite, the Viennese Waltz. That's the fast kind of waltz that you see in movies, where the dancers whirl, skimming the outer reaches of the ballroom's edge. When I got home, I scribbled down the name of every dance I could remember, and put it where I could see it. When I glanced at the list, I tried to remember the basic step for each. Some were easy to remember, others I continually confused with another. But once I knew one of them, I practiced it in my room. As the weeks passed, I was foxtrotting across the halls, waltzing in the kitchen, and cha-cha-ing back and forth in my room.
I started recognizing dance patterns in songs I heard. The DJs at the ballroom played all sorts of music. They spanned anywhere between Sinatra-era swing to hit songs played over the radio. They also played world music, songs from other decades, instrumental pieces, and sometimes haunting scores from movies.
I had to work at it, but once I got the basic steps differentiated from each other, it got easier and easier to fall into the rhythm of a song I was hearing. When I went back, I could see how much I had improved. Some people began to teach me new steps to build on top of the basic. The group lessons were helpful in that, too.
I began to see a strange change in myself. As I continued to go, confidence was building in me. As I began to learn and abide by the rules of the Ballroom and of the Dance, I found I was no longer afraid to be right up in people's personal space. I began to even be able to make eye-contact and converse cordially as I danced. I was losing my fear.
What's more, I began to be more physiologically aware. I became more coordinated, more graceful, more light on my feet. My feet didn't get tangled up as much. My reflexes improved. I learned to keep my knees bent for fluidity in my movements and to keep my center of gravity low. I learned control. It was like I was acquainting myself with my body in ways I'd never known before. I was inhabiting my body in a new way. And naturally, my muscles strengthened from the new exercise. It was good all around for me.
Not all dancers are the same, of course. Some just bounce as they walk in the proper rhythm. Some are--not as young as they once were--and could not lead with strength or fluidity anymore. Some were far more interested in holding a conversation than the actual dance.
The young boys were stiff and awkward, and obviously scared. I was always kind, and tried to be reassuring. But most of them stuck to their friend group and wouldn't ask me.
There were the men who liked to dance, but did not lead. They just sort of swung you about and expected you to know what to do. Or who twirled relentlessly or who mixed up different dances with no discernible pattern. And there were those poor fools who pretended they knew what they were doing when they clearly didn't; who corrected you for not following them, even when you couldn't have known what they wanted you to do.
There was a couple who came frequently. They were stunning when they danced together. Long practice and well-practiced romance and friendship made them a delight to watch. Once I had the luck to dance with this gentleman in a Foxtrot mixer. I could tell from his stance just how professional he was. The song was a cover of "Singin' in the Rain," and this man bore a lovely resemblance to Gene Kelley. His smile had the same melting quality, and I was delighted. Once, when I accidentally miscalculated and stepped on his toe, he apologized for not leading the step well enough. He told me when a lady made a mistake it was the man's fault.
There was the man there who walked like a king, and led with the skill of an instructor. His ability to lead was astonishing. He could whirl me into steps I'd never done before and whirl me right back to normal again before I knew what had happened. His smile was kind and joyous. He told me it was the man's job to show off the lady, and he did. When he danced with me, I felt as graceful as a bird.
And then there was the silent, solemn one who taught me many, many steps. He was a patient teacher. He was strong, but graceful; he reminded me of some great cat with padded paws. When he invited me to a dance, he took me on a journey.
There's something about the Art of dancing that reflects deep, deep realities.
Marriage is like a dance. Someone has to lead, and someone has to follow. Leading takes sacrifice and responsibility. Following takes as much strength as leading, only of a different kind. And just as when a couple dances, everyone's eyes are fixed on the lady, so everyone is entranced with the Feminine's grace and poise as she submits, yes,---yet transcends that submission with joy and love. It's give and take, it's lead and be led, the roles change continually. It's a game, a riot, it's spontaneity wedded to teamwork. It takes absolute trust. It takes courage.
The Christian life is like a dance, too. I don't know where He's leading me or how to follow Him. He doesn't give me step-by-step instructions. He leads, He nudges, He's always there. He teaches, and I do my best to heed Him. When I stumble, His arm is there to steady me. When I am weak, He is my strength. When I am angry and try to run away, His love never lets me go. And He spins me through each moment with an undercurrent of joy. There's a promise of better things coming. It's an adventure. And He's there, taking me into His joy and His love.
Dance reflects the reality of romance. The game of pursuit, the subtlety, the fire. The passion, the vulnerability, the trust.
Now that I know the archetypal realities that Dance reflects, I can't help but wonder why we try so hard to suppress our natural yearnings for it. Is it because we're afraid to let ourselves feel those yearnings?
I can't help but think it would make a vast improvement in our lives if children and teenagers were taught ballroom dancing. It would help young men and women to feel more comfortable in their own bodies. It would build confidence. Young men would learn how to touch a girl with respect; to be neither grasping or terrified. It would build strength, grace, and trust. A young man needs to learn grace to pair with his strength. To wed romance with his masculine soul. A woman needs to learn how to follow, even (dare I say it!) to obey. (Gasp!) She needs to learn not to fear, nor to resent him for his strength, but rather to learn the difference between competence and corruption. To recognize each when she sees it in the world; to respect the one and reject the other. To be so confident in her beauty and her strength that she gives life, nurtures, and brings forth beauty in everything her life touches.
I am personally convinced that within the vast majority of woman there's still that deep desire for dance. It's denied and suppressed, but not quite dead. Oh, if men only understood this about us! If only men were taught how masculine it is to lead with grace and power! If they only knew how irresistibly attractive that makes them to us! If they only knew how we yearn to be led, to be made to feel graceful, to feel that we matter! If they had any idea how it thrills our hearts to be chosen for a dance! If men only could glimpse how deeply tied romance is to dance--to know one is truly to understand the other. Maybe they wouldn't be so reluctant to learn. I wish they knew how we long to be swept up in the music, to be--for a moment--taken, led into the music itself! It's rather like being caught in the current of a river. Inside a song, inside the beauty, reflecting it, sharing its loveliness...and not to be in that place alone. To share that reality, that experience, with another.
Dance reflects archetypal realities. We deprive ourselves grievously to suppress it.
~Cadenza
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