Dance with me.

It does me so much good to be corrected by professors and friends at the hospital- how else to shave off that lard-like incompetence that drags one down? But I get tired, too, of that constant grating and sharpening, and sometimes, that little girl inside longs to break away, if only for a moment, to lose herself in the music, to a song where she has the freedom to move, imperfectly even, where with her eyes closed, she can sway and dance with joy, liberation and exuberance. Without a care in the world. Doesn't matter if it's not perfect.

As more and more of my chains get broken by God's amazing healing grace, I find myself breaking through wall after wall, and embarking on journeys which once gripped me with fear. First, it was overcoming the fear of cycling, and now, after months of suffering from an illness which completely destroyed my body image, I find myself taking up dance again, and feeling comfortable, happy again.

Breakthrough.

For years, I quit dance. I thought I wasn't good at it, just as I thought I wasn't good at music simply because childhood piano lessons had left indelible scars on my mind. Having flat feet didn't give me the option of ballet, so years back, hip-hop was became the dance of choice.

I passed the auditions in the university team, but hardly enjoyed it soon after. I remember our dance instructor- he with a monkey-mop of gaudy, golden hair, tied up in a ponytail, with a big American shirt and shiny bling on his fingers and around his neck, gyrating to the tunes of hit numbers like "Promiscuous girl" and egging us on to do the same.

Once, I remember him teaching us a dance sequence which, after what seemed like a whole series of slimy moves, ended in him putting both hands in the air and shouting "Wicked! I want that move to be WICKED! You hear?!"

Anyone who didn't know the meaning of the word mortified would have seen it from my face. Yellow-haired monkey dude slapping his butt and shouting the six-letter word with such orgasmic gustiness was too much for me to take. Suddenly my body froze on the dance floor. Our bodies are holy temples, bought with a price. He was medusa and on his cue, I had turned into stone.

"What's wrong with you?!" He thundered at me. "Can't memorise the dance, is it?! Stop daydreaming!"

Every bone in my body locked itself against each other. I looked around, at the pretentiousness of it all- the loud shiny jewellery everybody (including myself) was wearing, the large american print on people's shirts, the thick make-up on the girls... all in the name of "getting into the groove of hip-hop". I wondered what I was doing there. I enjoy dancing because it makes me feel free, but the poseur image of hip-hop, sexual glamour of salsa and demanding standards of ballet built a brick wall between myself and music. I can appreciate them, but they don't speak to me. Having a poor body image then didn't help either- that kind of environment was a breeding ground for anorexic-potentials.



Shortly after, I quit, and thought I'd never dance again.



But we forget, that perhaps, sometimes, all we need is some time, space to find out what we like and what we don't like, that's all. Many times, perhaps, what we like closely relates to who or what they remind us of. Like the way Macdonald's ice-cream brings me back to my father and twelve-year-old-me with Simon and Garfunkel in the car, just the two of us; like the way I don't like salsa- because of a memory (it shall forever be defiled for me now); like the way I don't like America or Australia, for whom they've taken away from me, too.

With me bearing memories of my constant crying at my piano teacher's house when I was little, I thought I was un-musical, and then I discovered the flute, a patient and honest teacher, and tunes, rhythms, scales, octaves, and fingerings flooded back; With hip-hop, and the haunting chant of "Wicked!" ringing through my head, I felt my body giving up on me, freezing, stalling, shutting down... and then I discovered lindy-hop and all its silliness, the people there and their similarly exuberant and simple personalities, and my pulse returned to me.

Straightforward, giggly, silly and funny all at once- a dance you can dance with your chin up and hair down, making little mistakes alone the way and just, laughing through it all... I've found so much liberty and joy in learning lindy-hop. It's comical, athletic, involving aerial jumps and stunts- something which I've done before and find rather much fun doing (though an 80-kilo dance partner with rippling biceps really does make a difference). I thought I'd be especially adverse to partner-dancing in lindy-hop, what with all that body contact. But the black, swing songs are so happy, the tunes so liberating and sometimes funny and silly that it's hardly possible to to imagine lust in any way. It's not erotic, or suggestive like hip-hop, salsa or street jazz can be. It's sensual of course- all dance is sensual and beautiful, but sensual only in the way gorgeous sunshine-filled strawberries are, between the lips of a messy child with a bowl of snow-white whipped cream.


Absolutely delectable. Simple. And most of all, crazy-fun.


I love the way the man always takes the lead, always initiates. And I all I have to do is follow and bring out the best in myself, for the both of us. Isn't that what a relationship is like? It is he who should lead, he who should provide some sense of direction. It's not that I have no voice, I do- in my style, and the way I choose to respond. But the beauty of it all is enhanced only because we each play our part, know our role in the dance. And together, in sync, we dance together. And yes, if the man doesn't lead well, you're pretty much done for. Maybe that's why dad told me last night when we were talking, " It's not about age sometimes, but whether it's the right person. Wrong one, and you're finished. Biggest mistake of your life, you know?"


And I thank God for bringing me thus far, for helping me love and respect my body again, and be comfortable with the way I am, was made, and will grow to become. In that music, I can smile, laugh, giggle and be free. In that music, I can relax and be happy to take cues from the lead, feel secure, safe, not taken advantage of. In that music, I can move, just move to the beat and finally... be me.

I love this dance- how it's simply passionate. Happy. And always looking for a bit of fun, on the sunny-side of the street.

I love how it's so much fun discovering what you like and what you don't- it feels like tasting the world for the first time again. I never knew I liked bossa nova music, or cycling, or gerberas that much. Didn't realise till lately how much I no longer like hip-hop.


Perhaps that's when you know you've found something you like, when it brings you deeper, closer to the real you. Closer to you, closer to God, maybe that's when you really know.