To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: ... a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down,
and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance. . . 
Ecclesiastes 3:1-3

     I never could dance. Never went to prom, or homecoming, never been out dancing at a bar. My background is martial arts; my practices are disciplined. Tournament judo was sanctioned mayhem, rigidly controlled. I achieved my black belt subsequent to fractured ribs, dislocated fingers, a concussion. A torn retina ended my fighting. Months of inactivity left me sluggish and depressed.
      "Everyone Can Dance! Experience the Joy of Movement!" The poster, with an appealing picture of a dancer, was right next to the phone at my favorite coffeehouse. I dialed; Elisa was positive and encouraging in response to my dance phobia. I went to my first class in September. I told my lover I was going to a 12-step recovery meeting; I was embarrassed. I was afraid, too, though I could not have articulated why. Now I know: this isn't just movement.  Dance uses your body to excavate your soul.
      For judo I would bow into the room, and bow again at the edge of the mat. The dojo is the gymnasium of an elementary school, but bowing shows respect for tradition and authority. I got there early, so that I could warm up before class.
      Dance class is held in the large meeting hall of a church. I don't bow into the room, but I always think about it. I arrive there early, as well, to avoid walking into a room full of dancers. I remove my coat and shoes, sit on the shiny wood floor.  My place is in front, so I'll have an unobstructed view of Elisa. I stretch my legs before me, breathe and pray, seeking the power that will take me through this class. I find myself in church twice a week for dance, once for recovery. Either way I pray.
     
      My grandma takes me to church when I visit. Her perfume's too strong; she holds my hand hard. Got my dress on, stiff as construction paper.
      "This is your granddaughter? Isn't she a little doll?"
      "Smile," she hisses at me. "Stand up straight. You need to look people in the eye when they speak to you."

     I stretch toes, ankles, calves, hamstrings, back, shoulders. Women enter, flushed with cold; they hug and exclaim, voices pitched high. From the back, Elisa and the drummers file in from their preparation in the sanctuary. A drumhead whispers psalms; I nod to David, to Elizabeth. A smile from Jess warms the room, a fine economy of movement as she plays.
      Elisa starts class on the floor. We move in gentle intimacy with the rhythmic pulse: respect the body, settle into the safety of the class. Rock and stretch, warming from the center. On to the haunches, work the hips till they are supple.
      Elisa moves before me, lithe and golden. She's slender, blond and tanned, clear aqua eyes. We're on our feet now; it's not too hard and she is happy. "Do you like this? I could stay here all day. It's a moving meditation." She likes to bring us to the places she knows well. I stay in front and concentrate, the structure my asylum.
      The other dancers seem adept, courageous. I envy their ease. If I look away I'm lost. This is progress, though; at first I was lost even watching. Elisa said: "The thing I like about you is that you try so hard."
      The dance changes; Elisa counts out loud until my feet remember what to do. She counts and gives us cues, points right or left, signals us and smiles-we are keeping up. She guides us with her voice, dances water, wind, or wings. She's elated that we're dancing. She smiles at me. I find I'm having fun.
     Elisa's found a move she likes; my body remembers it from prior classes. I unchain my gaze and watch the hands on drums. Drummers, bound by volume and attention, watch Elisa, focus into space. Build a rhythm, break it down, pull the piece apart and build again. 
      Jess picks up her flute. Her music enchants me; I'm captivated by the dark hair, blue eyes and smooth skin. So many here, so attractive. This beauty can be such a distraction. I look at Elisa and see eloquence implicit in her grace. See breath bring spirit open as a channel to traverse. We raise a field of exalted energy for all to imbibe with their dance. Then I see the deltoids of a drummer, someone tosses back her hair, sweat runs down a thigh and I'm dancing on the outside looking in. Distracted.
      "Point your toes," Elisa says. "Your knees should be over your feet."
     
      "She's clumsy. Her feet turn out."
      "Maybe if we put her in dance -"
      "Look at her; she can't dance. But I don't want her wearing leg braces. She could walk straight, if she paid attention."
     "Doctor says it's not that bad; maybe she'll outgrow it." 
      "I'm not paying money for braces, or for dance."
     My father steps on my feet when I walk, to remind me. I'm clumsy, I fall down. My feet turn out.
     
      I turn my feet the way they want to go. I don't fall down. I dance.
     Elisa steps forward. "Go where your body takes you. Always feel free to find your own dance." She does, and so do others, intoxicated by the motion. Positions are abandoned, dancers flow across the floor.
     Drums direct a mounting evanescent detonation, wanton yelling punctuates the cadence. Frenetic steps derange a break, flinging droplets of cascading sweat. Caper into chaos, turn out inspired impulse. A visionary reverie reclaims the sliding spirit. Embellish the distractions, they evolve. Everlasting twirl and lift, soaring through the avid birth and death. Find your movement. Find connection, intimate as breath.
     This is where I fall apart. Listen to the drums, keep moving. I dance another minute, until I realize I can't. Elisa could teach my feet to dance if I could teach my head to let me.
     This dance calls every moment of my festering history. Dancers in procession past my pageantry of failure; bodies move around me, my impulse is to duck. Pierced by shards of memory, I'm scared. Don't touch me-please-don't touch me. Confusion comes and next I fear the punishment. I can't do this- I can't-I don't know how. After the punishment, the pain.
     "Put your hands down," he says. "Don't move. You're only making it worse." I try not to harden my body against the blows. Relax, absorb the shock. Harden myself inside. If I fall to the floor, get back up. Never cry, and never duck. Body of clay, mind of stone.
     
      Edging through the whirling bodies, I don't turn my back. A dance, it's just a dance. Peripheral, I stop, hating my inadequacy. Addicted to the struggle, I need to let it be. This is where the learning happens; seize the opportunity. I take myself away and go sit down. Confront my hatred, fear and criticism. Greet them by their names, then let them pass.
     The drums thrash, I slip into a haven of sound. Find myself, here in a church, sitting on this glossy wooden floor. Dancers play before me, rapturous, exultant.
     "Come back," Elisa says. She's moving to the front. The women yield, claim discrete spaces. I take my place in front and dance again. Find some connection, some joy. Find some fun in my body. Elisa smiles at me, pleased I'm back. The thing I like about me is that I try so hard.
     Elisa ebbs and flows, ethereal. "Find a figure eight," she says. It sways her body, sweeping from her hands. Ripples through the room-we become a colony of dance. Transcribing infinity, infinite praise, communion of movement as fervent as prayer. The dance evolves and integrates, breath heats and strengthens.
     Deeper in the body, we find some tenderness. The drums sound passion and exhilaration. We dance through trance and ecstasy, toward calm.
     My own dance still eludes me, but I'm learning some moves, claiming the movement, discovering what is authentically mine. If I'd beseech just once, in perfect faith, for healing to occur, perhaps it might.
     Elisa's looking at me and I go to say good-bye. I look her in the eye. I stand up straight. I smile.

Bridget Bufford is an Amherst Writers & Artists affiliated workshop leader. Her poetry and stories appear in several journals, as well as the anthology Pillow Talk II. She has personal essays upcoming in Life Stories: Casework in the First Person and in A Continuing Passion. Another of Bridget's essays, "Sacrifice" is featured in The Use of Personal Narratives in the Helping Professions: A Teaching Casebook. (Hayworth Press).

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