Getting It Out of the Body
And into the healing realm
I’ve had different dance teachers in my life consistently for about 57 years now. It’s what I do for fun. I dance. I’m not professional. I’m not even that good at it, but I love dance. Any kind of dance.
My musicality is at a pretty high level by now though with all the decades of counting and beats stacked up. I count in phrases of 8 as a default.
My current dance teacher Gulya is from Belarus. She grew up there and was trained as a professional dancer of folkloric dances. All classes were taught in Russian by Russians, leaving nothing to chance or misinterpretation.
But they love and use American music often for warmups.
Back in Minsk at the turn of the century, she was in her 20’s, dancing and enjoying her life with her husband and two young children when her husband was tragically killed in a car accident one October.
What’s a young mother to do in an impoverished country struggling with new government twenty years ago?
She jumped on a plane, visited a cousin in Philadelphia and made a life for herself teaching dance. She saved every dime and after a few years she could afford to bring over her mother and children.
And two decades later, what a lovely life she has built. She recently remarried and has an adorable toddler now.
I’ve been taking her classes since 2014, so she’s the longest lasting dance teacher through the years for me. And I consider her a large part of my life and an anchor for some kind of emotional wellbeing.
In 2016 I nursed my beloved poodle in and out of health for months on end until she died on Valentine’s day. I was devastated.
But my first inclination was to go to Gulya’s class, not out of celebration, but to expend the sorrowful energy piled up in my body.
And it helped somehow. It seemed counter-intuitive, but it helped me.
I invited Gulya to my husband’s funeral which was this past Friday, but it was the anniversary of her first husband’s death. It was actually the 20th anniversary, and as per her culture, she had visitors all day in Philadelphia to commemorate.
She told me, “Come back to dance class on Saturday.”
And so I did. I’m used to following her instructions.
And at first it felt odd to be dancing the day after the funeral.
But it was healing in some way at the same time.
And we were both grieving silently for our husbands. As we danced.
Then in the middle of class, she stopped the music and announced my news and hers from the day before. She told her story of the song she was about to play in class, that it had always reminded her of her first husband before he died, and when she remembers him now, it is through that song.
And she told the class we would dance to it to remember both husbands.
We did, and of course I bawled like a baby. We all cried as we danced together, the whole class.
And I began the heartfelt healing journey. Through dance. Dance is always there for me.
Since you’ve gone, I’ve been lost without a trace I dream at night, I can only see your face I look around, but it’s you I can’t replace I feel so cold, and I long for your embrace I keep crying, baby, baby please. The Police