I mentioned a while back that I had recently read some books about ballroom dancing. I've had them sitting on top of my syllabus study materials, waiting for a good block of time.
I know a lot of dancers who don't study. They don't take regular classes, or private lessons; they don't watch dance programs on TV, or go to see dance movies; they don't really listen to music; they don't try to put together their own dances. This is fine: there is a whole big world of dancing, and everyone lives in their own little country. It should be abundantly clear that I am a person who wants to explore my world, and my particular country has been - I think as a rather predictable result - one with very elastic borders. Part of pushing them back is learning about others' experiences.
The first of the three books I have to discuss is done by a lady who took up ballroom dancing fairly late in life and over the course of a year, facilitated by a close and friendly relationship between herself and her partner and her teacher, developed into a top pro-am competitor. The book is "A Year of Dancing Dangerously," by Lydia Raurell. It's a nicely produced hardcover with plentiful photographs. Because the author's experience is almost exclusively of dancing in the pro-am circuit, social dancers, professionals, and amateur competitors might judge the story irrelevant to *their* experience. However, just because someone approaches an activity from a different point of motivation does not mean their observations have no value.
Ms. Raurell, for example, writes early on about the importance of taking risks - hence "dancing dangerously". In her case, a physical challenge was a major motivation. (Coincidentally, the most recent issue of the USA Dance magazine featured an interview with a gentleman who got into ballroom dancing as therapy after suffering a ruptured disc. He is now part of a top amateur American Smooth couple.) Ms. Raurell writes:
"There is always danger when you dare to make your dream into a reality. Most of us are secretly comfortable with letting our dreams remain in a private and comforting fantasy land of make believe. If you decide to live your fantasy you may lose your sense of sanctuary, or even of hope. But if you don't try - well, you will never know if you could actually be that person you imagine."
Which reminded me of a note I copied down, years ago, from literary critic Leon Wieseltier: "Fantasies ... squander the energy that is required for a change and thereby tighten the grip of reality." If you spend a lot of time and energy spinning daydreams, that is time and energy that could put you over the edge into actual achievement, if you employed it in action. The danger of acting on a dream is that things might not pan out. The danger of not acting is that things definitely won't pan out. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. When you shake yourself out of that daydream, real life has just solidified around you a little more. But if you take the daydream and turn it into an action plan, real life often expands to accommodate it.
The second passage from Ms. Raurell's book that I'd like to highlight is this:
Dancing, and particularly dancing for competition, is a never-ending process of re-education and re-discovery. It involves a level of commitment that people who don't dance can't really appreciate. Dancing in competition is not quite like any other sport, because of the judgement sometimes associated with it. No one looks at a fifty-year-old woman doing a doubles tennis tournament and thinks "she's pathetic." But there are some who would look at the same woman in a ballgown and be inclined to laugh.
If anyone out there is dealing with fear, disability, illness, family pressure, or anything else that makes you not want to dance, I recommend "A Year of Dancing Dangerously." It's available on Amazon.
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