I woke this morning to gray light coming in through the window. The lingerings of a dream, more a memory, resonated in my mind.
When I was attending college in my early twenties, I always made sure to sign up for a dance class. Dancing offered me a reprieve from myself and my life. At that time, my life wasn’t all that enjoyable—it was chaotic and predictably unpredictable, and not in an oh-I’m-having-fun-kind-of-way.
Sometimes I would reserve a studio in the afternoon to dance alone. This one time a friend, really an acquaintance, stopped in looking for an unoccupied piano to play. He was a phenomenal musician.
That day, when he found me dancing alone and himself looking for a piano, was a day I will never forget. He asked if he could play while I danced, and, for whatever crazy reason, I said yes. We were able to thread a connection between my dancing and his music.
At that time in my life, I was more concerned with what others thought of me than anything else. To spend time with another person as I was, to be truly open, especially dancing in front of them without others to camouflage my movements, was a spectacular demonstration of trust and risk.