Several months ago I took my daughters to a creative dance concert. What is creative dance? I guess one could say it's a form of modern dance. It is what dance should be, with no overwhelming sequins or inappropriately shaking body parts. The performers were mostly children. My girls were enrolled in dance classes through the same program and were anxious and excited to watch the performance.
I was excited, too. It felt a little funny. I was back in a theater I had performed in several times, this theater that doubles as a dance studio when the stadium style chairs are pushed back into the wall, like at a high school gymnasium. Just nicer chairs. I have spent countless hours in that room dancing and rehearsing. And it was weird to be back there with my children.
All of the pieces were charming and some were quite good. Towards the end there were some pieces by high school students, and then one from a group from the university. And suddenly, out of no where, I felt a surge of emotion that swept around my heart, and I felt it would burst if not for the tears that started streaming down my face, releasing the pressure. It was a cathartic release. Here I was in sacred space, watching something I love and, I think, mourning it's loss, once more. I felt a little silly crying at a children's dance performance, but there I was, looking for a kleenex in the dark theater. The performance ended. I wiped my eyes and gathered up the hands of my daughters in my own hands and navigated our way out.
I have loved dance for as long as I can remember. But just because you love something doesn't mean you get to keep it forever. I wrote about it some time ago, and recently reworked my essay for Just an Orange. You can read it here.