Last night I danced in the summer with a handful of women and one brave man. The music was good, the energy light and uncomplicated. I danced into, through, for and by myself for the first long while, only vaguely aware of the others. And then, as the evening sun outshone the murky clouds that had permeated the day and the light sparked red and gold through the windows, I became aware of the tribe.
Silhouetted against the soft light their forms danced, each to their own rhythm, and for a moment I was breathless with wonder.
Women. This one here, her body a willow bending in the breeze, her hands extended like delicate branches, that one in a half skip along the wall, or this one fiery and wild, fair hair flung… from 30 to 60, these women run businesses, birth and raise children, find lumps on their breasts, bleed, make the lunches, fill grocery carts, write the cheques, learn something new, drive cars, tend to their sad or sick friends, go to yoga, join a friend for lunch, clean their houses, make a garden, take their pet to the vet, watch a loved one die, recover from serious illness, get another job or start a new project, buy a house, cry so that no one is disturbed, write poems, cook dinner and clean up afterward, fix things, and then change their clothes and come to dance – with a broken foot, a broken heart, or a broken dream, they dance.
Women are playful, dutiful, outrageous, and sexy; capable, durable, resilient, and relentless. As I danced through and with them, merging and melting, an ad I’d seen flicked through my mind – a shot of women from all over the world standing together in all their colours and variations with a slogan that said something like, ‘Women are the world’s richest resource’.
It was a rich night in the truest sense.
Thank you, Beth McKean, for creating and holding space for dance and revelation; those sweet moments when the world settles into place.