---Confessions of a Woman who can Dance---Nina Picard

I always said I could never marry a man who didn’t dance. Stuff that. I’ve since decided that I’ll dance enough for the both of us, as if there’s some quota of which we must all dance in our lifetime in order for the Earth to keep spinning. So yes I’ve decided to dance his share and mine therefore restoring the natural order of things, yet again. What is it they say? Oh yes, a woman’s job is never done.

My mother always said I had the feet of a dancer and I always responded that I didn’t have the heart. Or the discipline. Or the patience to stop talking long enough to let movement explain anything words can’t. I am learning that words aren’t everything, but it’s a slow process. Much longer and much more painful than ripping off a band aid in one pull. In fact, it’s like cementing your mouth closed and then digging at the cement with a spoon until your mouth can move again. If I’m only around for so long, I don’t want to waste my words.

I have a confession to make. I think I’m a really good dancer. Not as in classically trained or sensually inspiring or a salsa class whore or anything like that, but as in I can lose myself completely in the music. This relationship between music and dancing is sublime, unnecessary and indulgent, as movement exists without music and music without movement. Bu all the same, how lucky I am if I can get inside of it and move exactly how the music makes me feel. Sure everyone feels like this at 3am on a Saturday, but I also feel like this at 10am on Sunday mornings in the kitchen; 2pm on Tuesday afternoons at work; and always around 8:30pm on Thursdays. I come from a long line of women who move where the spirit takes them, often having to quiet our desires to leap through the streets. But what I like most is that we often don’t stifle these desires; we shout and leap and high kick just as often as we gracefully walk with well turned out feet. So even if we marry a man who can’t dance, even if we didn’t have the heart or the discipline or the patience to classically train, we can still think we’re pretty good dancers. This is a revolution of the hips my friend, so move them in time to the music playing and hope for the best.

Let’s Take our Skin Off and Dance in our Souls---Katrina Heyde

Despite years of dance classes, recitals followed by competitions, followed by more classes, I didn’t really learn to dance until I was 18 and traveling in South East Asia. Having landed a job in Bangkok, I stuck around the city for much longer than I originally intended, and after three months I felt the noise and pollution weighing heavily on my soul. On a whim, I bought a train ticket to the South and after several days of travel and other adventures, ended up on Kho Phangan, the island that hosts the famous Full Moon Parties. I had heard wild stories of this epic party, and spent a good week enjoying the sun with new friends and eagerly awaiting the slowly changing phases of the moon. On the night of the party, we arrived at dusk, just in time to watch the moon come over the horizon and start to rise slowly. Within the hour, the enormous stretch of beach was transformed into a throbbing mass of tourists tripping on every imaginable drug, fire throwers, tricksters and those enterprising young men selling unmarked liquor in clear plastic bottles…

It surprised me greatly how quickly I grew bored with the scenario before me. Not too long after this realization, I wandered away from the beach with one thought before me. Where were the locals? At home in bed? Doubtful, the pulsing beat of the trance music coming from the beach reverberated through your body and could be felt in running through your bones and into your fingertips. I approached a street vendor, and asked in my halting Thai if he knew where I could get a quiet drink. He appraised me for a good minute before silently pointing me down a dark alley, indicating a closed red door. Was this a really bad idea?

Nevertheless, I followed my instinct and approached the red door. Ah, I thought upon entering, here are the locals. My white skin instantly marked me as a stranger, but I hoped my friendly face and open disposition would be enough to perhaps keep me safe. I hoped with a sudden and rather desperate abandon that I wasn’t committing a terrible cultural faux pas, and settled in. As it turned out, these men and women of the island, ranging from their early twenties to late seventies, were mostly affable and peaceful people, happy to share their stories. With a mix of translators, hand drawn pictures and my back pocket dictionary, they explained to me that although the tourists think they have invented the full moon party, the people Indigenous to the island have been celebrating the phases of the moon for as long as their stories go back. When the moon is full is when the spirit is at its wildest and most open and they dance to express this. They do not require the huge speakers or colorful lights. Quite literally, as translated to me, they “dance to the music they hear in their souls”.

Soon it was time; for what, I didn’t know. We left the bar and walked in near silence. Eventually we came upon a quiet corner of the beach where the noise of the party was dulled by the distance, water and lush vegetation between us. And then they started to dance.

I had never before seen anything quite like it, and probably never will again. The fifty odd people gathered before me danced to a beat I couldn’t hear, and I stood awkwardly on the edge, feeling like an intrusive observer. Suddenly, a woman with white hair and a face weathered from decades of both laughter and sadness approached and took me in hand. She led me to the center of the group and indicated I should move my arms, my legs, my entire body. I followed her lead and slowly, hesitantly, like a small child taking its first steps, began to feel what I had been missing. Expressions of sorrow and frustration poured forth, commingling with release, joy and outright ecstasy. These people I barely knew accepted me into their fold, and showed me how to dance with everything I had in me. Through a haze of exhaustion I watched the sun come up. Without ceremony, people quietly disappeared in groups of twos and threes. When I finally made my way back to my bungalow, the now dried sweat that covered my entire body was a sticky reminder of the nights events.

I still love to dance, and will do so with any opportunity. Dancing with friends or strangers, I have learned that we can build communication, strengthen ties and create bonds where before there were none. Although I dearly love music and jive off the feel of a good song flowing through my veins, I try to find my own beat whenever I’m moving my body. When I dance now, I look hard for the place within me where that inexhaustible energy is stored.

--- Shake a Leg Young Fella! ---connor timmons

A couple of years ago I spent a couple of hours discussing the difference between a hootenanny, a hoe down, a clambake, and a shindig with a good friend. I remember we both left the conversation exhausted and completely perplexed at our inability to create some kind of taxonomy of festive gatherings. For years I let the question fiddle and fidget on the corner of one of the slower intersections of my neural pathways.

Only recently have I taken it up again and even then it only came up because I found a place that successfully straddles any and all classifications of hootin' hollerin' good times. This place is a lovely little spot where line dancing is ok and hipsters and spinsters link arms to do-si-do till the wee hours of the morn'. Here are some pics from my latest visit, sorry they aren't more clear, photographing line dancing is second only to underwater welding in the "skills I don't have" department.

---The Dance Revolution--- connor timmons

I don't know if its the rash of ridiculous dance parties that I've found myself part of but I've been feeling the need to start a dance revolution. Its hard to deny that learning to dance is so much more than physical coordination.

You start out with timid steps across the kitchen floor clumsily stumbling through the stunned silence from your parents, aunts and grandparents. By the time you've reached elementary school your limbs have decided to express themselves independently whenever you're excited. Your teenage years bring you both dexterity and a painful sense of conformity, these twisted sisters conspire to pull you in opposite directions; effectively turning your body into soap opera love triangle. But out of the rubble your feet have the tenacity to drag your stumbling psyche to the dance floor once more and if you're lucky, you let them teach you. Jitterbug, Tango, Salsa, Charleston, Foxtrot and if you dare...Fandango.

Dancing isn't a passion for everyone...but darned if it isn't there when we need it most. A lot of people dance to communicate things to the public that would otherwise be lost. There are plenty of people that dance to express their carnal intentions without words. A host of others enter the world of dance like a cold pool on a not so warm day, one toe at a time. I've had political histories, religious ceremonies and cultural intricacies explained to me through the power of dance and I imagine I am not alone. No matter which of these you might be, chances are you have some thoughts, theories, musings or elementary school dance recitals that are worth representing or recreating in your favourite medium.

Consider this post a welcoming hand extended from the exhibitionist in all of us to the wallflower in all of us. Lace up you tap shoes and take the floor, it may take two to tango and last time I checked there are about 40 people who check the site, so whether you're dancing your personal pain away or staring deeply into the eyes of your Meringue instructor...we want to know about it! Share your stories of dance revolution soon, May has arrived and the dancefloor awaits!