Incremental

During the last year, something has changed in me. There are a few things I could name, but mostly, some part of me stopped being afraid. Something in me stopped feeling small and weak. I feel stronger in myself. And I’ve become stronger physically, too.

Rebuilding my strength has been a slow process. There was pain to push through at the start, and lots of weird sensations like numbness, and fatigue. First, I started standing at work briefly whenever I could, pushing through the tiredness, and then at home, too. I started walking a bit further, carrying a bit more, sitting a bit less.

And then I started to dance again.

I don’t remember exactly when that was, probably about a year ago. What I do remember is dancing – badly – in the kitchen one day, and reconnecting with the very deep body-hunger I had for movement, the flow of music and the expansive peace of finding the shape of it with my body. No thought required, only physical focus, the concentration of being present in the moment of the senses.

When I started, my body was weak. I was unfit. Multiple surgeries have changed how I move. My nerves were damaged by chemo, which affects my balance. I was stiff, and wary of aggravating past injuries to my pelvic and sacroiliac joints. I could do very few of the base moves needed to construct any kind of sequence, and it was exhausting.  

I couldn’t do much, so I did what I could.

Very gently, I started with short runs of the most basic components – not even whole moves, just single, small movements – drilling them for as long as I could manage. I felt locked in a tiny range of motion, with barely any lateral movement. When I finally took my practice in front of a mirror, I discovered that my dancing looked even worse than it felt. One arm was difficult to lift and the extra effort made my hand placement angular, ugly - lizard arms, not snake arms. Some of my newly reclaimed moves were too small to be visible, and others were jerky, obeying rhythms not present in the music. But I kept going. I focussed on the enjoyment of moving to music I love, savouring each tiny gain.

Incrementally, my strength is returning. My movements ceased being choppy and started to resemble their former shape and pacing. Now I’m dancing whole moves and some sequences, with simple layering. And I’m travelling with the moves, starting to give them expression in the fullness of space that surrounds me. My body seems to have a memory of its own, and surprises me sometimes with a long forgotten movement. I’m starting to see and feel some of the easy gracefulness that comes only from many hours of practice.

I can feel my body changing, replacing the dead weight of years of physical inertia with the precision and focus of muscle. I’m still a long way from having the stamina or flexibility that I’d like. But I’m a lot closer now than I was a year ago.

I have progressed and now I can work towards the small goals of the dancer, the refinements that will lead to mastery: controlling my shimmies, extending the range of my moves, stabilising my balance for travelling and turns, improving the definition and accuracy of moves against varying rhythms – the same goals I’ve worked for and conquered before. 

And woven through the lilt of the music and the undulations of the dance is a bitter-sweet appreciation for the slow toil of regaining what I’ve lost. Each step, each gesture of the dance is an expression of an achievement, the significance of which only I know.

It’s early days, and I still tire too easily. I am a long way from my previous performance standard. The wounds made by cancer have left one arm permanently heavy and clumsy. The long scar and tightened muscle across my back and side limit the arc of movement through my ribs. I need to work three times as hard to produce graceful motion on that side. Will it ever be easy? Probably not. But it will always be joyful. It will always be a celebration. And it will always be a declaration: This is who I am. This is my story. This is the way I meet the world.