I love dancing.
I love it. Like many women, I look at myself and see a lot of flaws. Character flaws certainly, but also physical flaws. I don’t much like my body. I know what Scripture says about that, yes. But it’s a work in process to train my mind and heart to honestly believe it, and not just spit out the right answer when people jump on my case, since having low self-esteem is apparently ungodly and means I am in need of some serious correction. But when I dance, I don’t feel that. I don’t feel self-conscious, and my hyper self-awareness that is usually present in social situations tends to fade a bit. When I dance, I don’t think; I move, and I love that God made me with a body that absolutely loves to dance. I feel the strain in my calf muscles after bouncing around on my toes for four hours straight and it’s wonderful. I get incredibly, disgustingly sweaty and it’s wonderful. I am utterly exhausted, but I laugh with whoever is around me. I dance skillfully, I dance poorly, I dance absurdly, and it’s wonderful. Sometimes I look pretty good when I dance. Other times I look stupid because I fall or run into something or trip over a cord or crash into a pole or get dropped on my head and concussed in front of everybody (Author’s note: these have all happened). But the craziest thing is, when I’m dancing, I don’t care how I look. Because, let’s face it, there’s a ton of pressure on women to look a certain way. Obviously, in our culture you can’t really look anywhere without seeing an idealized picture of what a woman should look like. Even within the church, there’s a heck of a lot of emphasis on a girl’s appearance. We talk about how “modest is hottest,” a saying whose sentiment I understand, yet it still ties a woman’s worth to her appearance. On top of the list of things referenced when people talk about women finding their identity in Christ is celebrating our appearance as good. Pretty much every women’s retreat or group about anything has a section where they tell us how beautiful God created us to be and how we should believe that. Even when discussing character, we talk about “inner beauty,” a term whose language automatically calls up thoughts of outer appearance. Suddenly, it’s hard to believe you’re any good on the inside when you don’t’ feel good on the outside. And I’m not saying that the church is wrong to encourage women, or to talk about body image. It would be foolish to ignore it. I know I still don’t really have the proper perspective, and could probably use all the help I could get. But in a slight paradox, I learned I feel most beautiful when I dance because I’m not thinking about how beautiful I look. For me, dancing has absolutely nothing to do with how anyone looks or how good they are at it. It’s fun. It’s celebratory. I think being “good” at dancing is being good at letting go of yourself. My least favorite people to dance with are often (though certainly not always) those that are the most skilled, because they can’t let go of themselves. It’s all about doing the right combination, not because it’s fun, but because they have to be good at it or else they think they’ll look dumb. Dancing is all about them and how they look, and I’m an accessory to making them look good. And I’m not necessarily angry about it, because letting go of yourself is scary and I understand that. But it certainly isn’t enjoyable to dance with someone like that. My favorite people to dance with are sometimes really skilled, because I like doing fancy things too. But often they're not. Sometimes they only know a basic step and a turn. Sometimes they’re not even on beat. But they’re there, and they’re letting go of themselves. And we have so much fun because we aren’t focused on ourselves. Maybe I’m teaching them a new move, and we’re focusing on learning it, but not because we’re trying to impress anyone or look particularly cool. Just because it’s fun, and pure. So that’s why I’m thankful for dancing, I guess: Because dancing better allows me to let go of myself and focus on God. I think that’s why I’m a dance worshipper—it helps me make sure my worship is all about God. And I can always use practice in letting go of myself. Rachel Fruit and Labor
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