dance class.

Post college I found myself in the Sunshine State feeling less than sunshiney. Friends were hard to come by, my running was sporadic, I watched an excessive amount of films, and ate an excessive amount of ice cream. Sometimes I watched films while eating ice cream and popcorn at the same exact time. Something inside of me was aching to break free.

I remember sitting outside on the hood of my car sharing all of this with my oldest friend over the telephone, and also telling her how much I wanted to know how to hip hop dance. My love for NSYNC (yes, you read that right) had morphed into an adoration for Justin Timberlake's beats. A taste of movement to this music left the tiniest flavor of freedom on my palette, and I wanted more.


Around the same time my brother and I had found a church we both seemed to enjoy. The air was clear, and I seemed to concur with a lot of what came from the pastor's mouth, which was becoming a rarity. I've always been a note taker, a journaler, a documenter. When something is said that I question, agree with, or am inspired by, I write it down. One Sunday during this time of inspiration, Gee was speaking about dancing, which was most timely. I'd grown up in an environment that was traditionally opposed to this activity, and Gee began to break down that myth. He praised dancing as an expression of love and said, most eloquently, "people who are free dance."


When I left Florida that year, I basically took with me my belongings, and those five words. I freed myself from that place, and decidedly claimed those words as truth long before I actually lived them out.


I'd heard all those sayings about one's early twenties, the one's that lament the fact that it's this time when you may think you're comfortable with yourself but really, you're not. You're actually working tirelessly through the muck of insecurity and doubt and attempting to unlearn all the false stuff you've held to be true, and also find out what it is you really think to be truth, and that all of this stuff is scary, even though you may not consciously feel afraid, because you're plowing through uncharted territory. I plowed, and sought out people with this characteristic I craved. I looked for people that moved, be it to music or travel or life; I surrounded myself with dancers, and then I began to dance.


I found the intellectual dancers that helped me move gracefully through doubt, making life weight lighter. I befriended the travelers that danced over continents and state lines, and I followed them. The lonely and beautiful travel dance broke me down and built me up, inviting in the elusive comfortability with oneself that's necessary to let go. I listened to the musicians and followed them to musical shows that inspired and loosened the strings of tension. I started to sway, side to side, surrounded by people that somehow managed to completely let go. I saw the statement, "people who are free dance," being lived out by real people.

A week ago today I found myself in a carpenter's warehouse surrounded by friends and strangers looking above to musicians rested up high above the crowd in what's otherwise used as a storage space, strumming wash boards and banjos and guitars and their own beautiful voices. I stood still for mere moments, until I couldn't be still any longer, and then that freedom I'd so long sought after came without warning. It does that quite often nowadays.