So, last night I finally did it. I’m embarrassed to say my inspiration was a reality TV talent show, but, never mind, I finally got my tush back into a modern dance class. And despite the fact that the 2½ hour class lasted way past my regular bedtime and my muscles ached with the effort of getting out of bed this morning, it was well well worth it; and has made me wonder what took me so long to find my first love again. I came home last night red-faced and sweaty and totally reconnected to my spirit.

In my decades (holy crap, it’s been decades!) of dance classes, I have experienced a range of styles. There’s the kind in which an egomaniac instructor takes a break from admiring their own image only to give corrections to those students considered advanced enough to be worth their time. As one of those students I have to admit I bought into and craved that attention. My dancing improved in these classes, but it was because yearned for and worked assiduously to gain those morsels of validation. This is the hard-knocks teaching style which results in a lot of competition among dancers and personal self doubt punctuated by moments of absolute euphoria during those rare moment of praise from your diefied instructor.

The class I took last night was at the opposite end of the spectrum. The instructor, Andy - a petite woman with a postively luminous smile and the kind of muscles that showed striations even through her clothes -was from the old-school hippie modern dancer camp. This is an approach more interested in nurturing your inner artist than perfecting your pirouette; and Andy was equally attentive to the diverse level of dancers in the class with insights into each person's unique strenghts. That's not to say it wasn't a rigorous class, only that it encouraged dancers to do their best, not better than each other.

This was a perfect climate for my returning to dance after a too long hiatus, looking to focus on the joy of dance and fight my proclivities to seek physical perfection. That judging part of myself noticed that my extensions weren't as high and my plies weren't as low as before, but in the end I danced the combination with a confidence and ease I had struggled to find as a professional. I danced really letting the music (an old bluesy tune) guide me and finding the intention in the movement, and I let go of my usual self-criticism. Maybe it was the accepting neo-hippy atmosphere. Maybe it was the fact that there were no stakes for doing well. Probably it was simply finding that 12 year old girl who first fell in love with dance. But moving through the combination, I felt exhilirated. Like flying. Like perfection.