Dancing for myself.

I always envied Billy Elliot. I envied the way he discovered dance and then spent the rest of his life rejoicing in that discovery. I envied that firm, empowering expression that spread across his face every time the music flowed through his body like electricity and his feet tapped against the ground, solidly, passionately, dictated by the rhythm.

I envied Billy Elliot until the day I realised he lives in every one of us and he certainly lives in me. The realisation took place in that precise moment when my toes were stretched; my feet above the ground and my hands were cutting through the air like a bird in flight.



I spent three hours last Saturday evening dancing for myself. There were probably about thirty other people in that room, but each of them was immersed in a dance of their own. We were together in our aloneness.

I danced openly, fluidly, creatively. I didn’t know whether I was dancing or whether the dance was me. I danced for everything that was good and everything that was bad and everything that was somewhere in between. As I danced, a thousand thoughts and feelings that had been hiding somewhere within suddenly erupted. I welcomed them all. I danced through them all.

I was flowing. I was in staccato. I was chaotic. I was lyrical. I was still.

I danced. One movement to another. One moment to another.

And in the middle of the dance, I discovered a place within me which I didn’t know existed, but a place to which I will return for a long time to come.