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I’m standing in the kitchen, mixing together the ingredients for pecan butterscotch cookies. I am wearing my work clothes still – torn jeans and one of Rasmus’ old t-shirts – from earlier in the afternoon when I was painting our newly-built desk. My hair is in desperate need of a wash and I realise I have not been outside since the trip to the supermarket yesterday.
But then a favourite song starts playing and I turn up the music and start bobbing my head as I stir in chocolate chips. And then my feet are tapping and my hips and swinging and in no time I am dancing around the kitchen with full enthusiasm.
It is not good dancing. I am fulfilling every stereotype of white people who can’t dance. I am using every horrendous dance move known to man. Moves I would be embarrassed seeing my parents make at a wedding reception.
But I am shimmying and shaking with everything I’ve got and it makes me laugh out loud to be enjoying myself so much. On my own, in our kitchen, with my unwashed hair and paint-stained fingers.
Dancing is joy-bringing. I am certain it is impossible to be sad when you really start dancing, when you let go of all the inhibitions and the embarrassment about people seeing you and just dance. Dance like little children dance or like you aunt Ethel when she’s had a few too many glasses of champagne.
Dancing chases away the blues, and the mean reds. Dancing does not allow self-pity or depression to cut in. Dancing says there is still so much to celebrate.
Will you join me on the dance floor today?
I would believe only in a God that knows how to dance. ~Friedrich Nietzsche