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.
