and now's our moment

I never danced at weddings. I always sat at my table, wept over the sweet slow dances, laughed at the babies dancing like drunks, and smiled to myself. I always pretended that I would much rather take the time to visit with my tablemates, rather than make a fool of myself in the middle of the floor. I always drank tea, and studied the bride and groom, and kept my back straight and proud. I never told anyone what my wistful smile really meant, how very much I wished I had the courage to step out onto the floor and spin and laugh and not care what anyone else thought.

But at that wedding, completely unexpected, a random stranger, one who I knew vaguely as a friend from the groom's church, came up and asked, "Do you want to dance?" It was a slightly horrific moment. The music, and the lights, and his eyes, and his extended hand—that unsettling and insistent invitation—burned into my memory as I stood there, mouth slightly agape and eyes frozen wide. A million excuses flitted through my mind, and finally, desperately, I threw out the best defense I had. "Yes, but I don't know how to," I confessed, expecting him to roll his eyes and move on. Instead, he shocked me by laughing and shrugging. "It's okay; I'll show you." With all my excuses exhausted and rebutted, I was forced to put my hand in his and step out onto the floor.

Predictably, it was absolutely terrifying. I twisted up my feet and nearly caused multiple collisions. My shoes were all wrong, as were my elbows and knees and, well, everything else about me. I made stupid conversation and sporadic eye contact. I had no idea what the hell I was doing, and everything in me screamed for me to escape. I flushed with exertion and embarrassment. 

But as the song progressed, as his hand on my back didn't waver, his fingers didn't twitch away from my shaking hand, he persistently showed me how to move my feet, I found it easier and easier to let the music trickle into my bloodstream, down my spine, into my limbs. By the end of the song I was still flushed, not with shame, but with triumph.

It wasn't that I magically became a good dancer; no, I was still very very bad.

The value of dancing suddenly wasn't that it was a chance to flirt, or show off, or even just have fun. Its value was that fear, the paralyzing terror that had for so very long kept me safely at my table, away from the music and movement and possible embarrassment, was dissolved—banished, and proven powerless.

And that was a very, very precious gift.