This I believe

Dance is an art. Every art form needs an inspiration to make it beautiful; without inspiration or meaning, there is nothing but a blank canvas. To some, a dancer is beautiful by virtue of her technique and experience. To me, it is the emotion and story behind her dancing. The challenge however, is honoring that muse while dancing, and not getting caught up in the chaos of the dance world. This happened to me; I lost my muse. Thankfully, I rediscovered it in a very stirring and poetic way.

I put my bags down on the floor that Saturday morning, expecting my regular class. I’d start off with some pliées, tendus and ab workouts, followed by choreography. But this class was different. We had a substitute teacher who took an unusual approach to class. She had us spread out across the room. Then she turned off all the lights and gave us one instruction: “As soon as the music starts,” she said, “just dance, dance like no one is watching, and dance for someone, dance and remember why you started dancing.” As soon as I began dancing, the power of the exercise overwhelmed me. I let the music and movements take control. Suddenly, I felt transported, and soon after, I began to cry. It was such a beautiful moment, nobody could see you, no judgment, just yourself and your movements. I was transported. I did not understand why I cried in the middle of a warm-up. Then it hit me. I wept for Safta.

My Safta, my grandmother, is my biggest inspiration when I dance. Dance has always been the window to my relationship with her. This began roughly 10 years ago when she was diagnosed with progressive supranuclear palsy, a degenerative disease that causes the body to deteriorate from the inside out. Everyday we take for granted what we are able to do. When Safta fell ill, she was not able to dance anymore, and I began to dance for her. I never realized what I was missing from my dance, or how much I was missing until that exercise. I had gotten so caught up in the chaos of everything and forgot the sole purpose to why I dance. Without that day, without that teacher I would still be lost and I could not be more thankful for her. Dancing in her honor makes me feel free. Without her, my dancing would have no story to tell.

When I dance I feel her presence. The flowing music and the seamless movements feel like a warm embrace from my Safta. Feeling her there gives me strength and courage. When I stumble over tough choreography, I think of her. This calms me down and allows me to work through the moves. I feel, and hope, I am making her proud: she is watching me and is elated to see me dance. This empowers and liberates my dancing. Her presence pulls me back from distraction and helps me regain my focus and drive. She loved dance just as much as I do, and I honor her when I dance.

Dancing in the darkness that morning brought tears for one reason. I did not cry because she was gone; I cried because she was there, with me, in the dark, while I did something I love more than anything in honor of someone I love more than anyone.