Did you know that I love to dance? I love music and I love to dance. And if by chance I get to dance to music that I love? Well, you might as well buckle up sugar, cuz I’m about to rock you and your ancestors right on down to the root of redemption. Dancing, in a club or at a party, is one of the best forms of therapy I have ever experienced. Now, you know I’m a fan of meds. I’m a proud popper of psychotropics since 2009, baby. However, the dance floor has an uncanny ability to break right into the middle of a shit storm and make way for the funky beat to mend all wounds. What’s even better is the dance floor’s ability to remind us that we are all connected. How many times have given a “I see you, girl!” or “Okay, then!” to a virtual stranger who was in the throws of a major groove. We roll up on the sexy to engage in mutual swerve and sway, we give boogie battle cries like, “The roof, the roof, the roof is on fi-yaaaahhhhh…” and answer the age old question of “Do the ladies run this muthafuckah?!” without the least bit of trepidation.
Heads and necks bob out the week’s worry.
Hips grind down the well earned chips on our shoulders.
It is a meeting place for all God’s little tore up chillun to lose themselves in the potential and energy of collective cool. Skinny jeans or slacks, bad weaves, locs, or mullets, 22 days sober or three sheets to the wind; we ALL make our way to the sacred space of the dance floor to build our boogie wonderland.
It is escapism and release at its finest. Some use the dance floor as their church, their museum, their meeting room and watering hole.
When my dear friend, Mr. Melanin spins once a month at the New Frontier (1st Saturdays, baby…get there), I take some of my week’s worst shit in there, and stomp the dog shit out of it on that tiny, worn out , sloped-to-the-right dance floor. Those turntables crank out soul food and for a brief episode, introversion takes a back seat to brave.
I dare to wonder, though…what would happen if I took that sense of abandon and life-loving into every aspect of my life? If I didn’t overthink parenting; didn’t fret the impacts of my decisions? What if I didn’t even acknowlege the possibility of failure and defined success as a step in the right direction vs. arriving at an arbitrary destination I based on someone else’s journey?
What if it didn’t even occur to me to compare myself to anyone else? I wish I could say I was evolved and actualized enough that I am soley focused on my journey without regard for anyone else. But I did say I was going to be honest with you, so I must admit that I allow the judgement, criticisms, and happenings of others distract me as I move through this life. I desperately want to report otherwise, but it just wouldn’t be true.
However, this is SO not the case on the dance floor. On the dance floor, confidence abounds. I am doing the damn thing, and I simply invite all those with a pulse to do the same. I allow myself to feel, absorb, and reciprocate the energy of those around me. And I don’t sweat what’s coming next. Rather, I welcome the next key change, the shift in tempo that waits around the corner. I don’t just ride the expressway to Funkytown, I drive that bitch like Danica Patrick.
Cherish the day when I am brave in both worlds and can rock risk as hard as I rock the party.