Dancing Through the Unknowns of Life
Read Time: 4 Minutes
Words by Emily (Hallblade) Heck
What do you do when nothing makes sense?
I dance.
For me, it’s a language. It’s something that’s been so drilled into my mind, soul, and body that at times, it’s the only way I know how to say anything. I’m a writer, but sometimes words fail me. Sometimes dance is the only thing that allows me to truly feel.
I returned to dance after a four-year hiatus one Saturday morning in the spring of 2019, walking down the familiar staircase at the church where the studio was located, wondering if my body would actually remember how to follow along with anything. I hoped this would be worth the time I could have spent sleeping in. After all, dance and I have had a complicated history.
My mom signed me up for dance classes with my best friend from church when we were little. We wore sparkly tutus and pranced around to Disney songs. My four-year-old self had a blast, so I continued on from there, becoming more and more involved through high school. But somewhere along the way, dance lost its allure. It became more about memorizing, perfecting, proving myself. It started to feel trivial. I found myself losing interest and counting down the days until I could be done. Dance didn’t make sense anymore. After graduation, I stuffed my dance shoes in the back of my closet, no longer considering myself a dancer.
As life would have it, though, my freshman year of college was a dark time. In the midst of the chaos, I made a last-minute decision to scribble my name in an audition slot for the school’s musical production of Narnia. I showed up for the audition in leggings, a band T-shirt, and hair that was stained pink from a hair-dyeing mishap, feeling out of place among the professionally dressed theatre majors. I’ll never understand why the directors gave me a callback after seeing my awkward, choppy choreography, but before I knew it, I was attending rehearsals every evening and weekend, dancing as the White Stag. Because they had no choreographer for the show, I was in charge of creating my own routines. For once in what felt like forever, I was at peace. Being involved in this show was more than just a way for me to make friends and find a community. It was a light. It was a refuge. It was what got me out of that season with a few less scars.
Flash forward again to revisiting dance on that Saturday morning in 2019. My mental health was back in a bad place, and for some reason, dance once again seemed like it could offer me a safe haven. That class had me coming back for more. I ended up joining a small dance company with the studio later that year, slowly but surely feeling more and more like myself, even when bits and pieces of my world were falling apart. Our season ended with our show in February of 2020 followed by tacos at a local restaurant—the last time I ate at a restaurant before the pandemic surged through the States.
It didn’t make sense to keep dancing through the rest of 2020. Live performances quickly became a rarity as all of us were stuck at home. I wasn’t sure if it was worth auditioning for another season with the dance company, not knowing what I could expect. But maybe when nothing is making sense in the world, including dance, you just have to dance anyway.
That’s what my grandmother is doing. She, like me, has always loved getting out on the dancefloor when a good song is playing. Even as her memory has been failing, this is one aspect of her that has remained the same. From the updates I’ve heard, she enjoys dancing during resident events at the memory care facility she recently moved to. I also learned that one of the memories she can still recall is going out dancing with my grandpa back when they were young. Dance seems to have the power to leave a lasting impact like that.
During the pandemic, dance has not always been easy. Staying six feet apart from everyone and wearing masks left most of us feeling frustrated when rehearsals started up again. For about two months, due to exposure and local shutdowns, many of us could only rehearse together over video calls. Dancing in my apartment’s small living room while trying to be careful not to disturb the neighbors below me was not how I hoped the season would go. But despite this, something about moving with others, no matter the distance, was still so powerful.
Miraculously, we were able to make a live performance happen in the winter with the help of social distancing and mask wearing. During our last dance of our final show, the lights went out while we each held up a battery-operated candle in the dark auditorium. Out of breath, I held back a sob, grateful no one could see my face. Grateful we were able to do what had felt impossible—keep dance alive through a pandemic.
I’m not a professional dancer. I’ve lost whatever technique and flexibility I had back in high school when I was taking classes three times a week. But I’m convinced there’s something unique and almost supernatural about dance. Whether it’s done in worship or it’s done for fun, it’s a way that connects us with others and with the world around us, both the physical and the spiritual simultaneously. It’s still a source of joy and comfort for my grandma, and I hope it will remain that way for me as well.
So, while there are a million more unknowns that will come my way, I will continue to dance. In grief, in joy, in prayer, while I’m folding laundry or putting away dishes. Whether or not the world makes sense to me.
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About the Author:
Emily (Hallblade) Heck is a writer from the Twin Cities who dreams of publishing a book in the next few years. You can find her typing away at her laptop most of the day, as well as sneaking off to play guitar or piano when she needs a break from staring at screens.
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