It’s Friday morning .
I’m already counting down the hours.Tonight I’ll hop on my bike, ride over to Dovercourt House, climb to the second floor, flash my membership card, pay my dues, take off my shoes, and enter the space where I can be most myself: at the weekly dance event called “The Move.”
The formula for the Move seems simple: No talk, no shoes, no step-by-step instruction, no strings attached, no alcohol, no chit chat, no phones, no internet, no expected form or technique, just an oddball mix of music with an eclectic group of dancers for two solid hours.
This simple formula works. Enough structure to create safety. Opening and closing rituals are quick and to the point. I’m sure there’s more hard work behind the scenes than I’m aware, but for me the organizers got it right. The Move’s been going strong and growing in attendance for longer than the five years I’ve been attending, and is now busting at the seams.
At The Move I’ve done it all: I’ve crawled and squirmed; I’ve waltzed and tangoed. I’ve mourned and giggled: I’ve prayed and pouted. I’ve taken risks, ridden roller coasters, I’ve dived in deep. I’ve flirted and fallen in and out and in love a thousand times. I don’t feel like I have to hold back at The Move. With all the other weirdos and wild things who attend, I know I can be as weird and wild as I want to be. Without words I can speak my truth. It’s the only public place in my life where I feel that free.
And so, I just want to say to The Move and all its dancers: thank you. I can’t wait to see you in just a few short hours.
On a side note: I almost don’t want you to read all this about The Move because if you do, you might go. And if you and 90 or so other people get in line before me, the organizers might close the doors and I might not be able to get in.(This happened to me once. I’ll never be late again!)
Another side note: Wouldn’t it be great if The Move added a second night? Keeping my fingers crossed that the growing pains won’t hurt too much.