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Dancing in the Mist

No lights! No lycra!

The hall is at the end of a passageway, behind the real estate agents and a shoe shop that seems to exclusively stock Birkenstocks and Doc Martens. The words Ahepa are inscribed above the entranceway, a tribute to the Greek history here in West End. Many Greeks settled here after the Second World War.  Eventually, the suburb earned the name Little Athens.

 

When I enter the hall, it is simultaneously bigger and smaller than I imagine. Bigger, because I never knew that there was a hall here, to begin with; and smaller, because everything seems so supersized nowadays. The frugality of space speaks of a more restrained era. 

 

It’s dark even when I enter. Not pitch-black darkness, as the light from the passageway, shines in. But dimly lit, things feel a bit fuzzy, they lack crispness around the edges. There are groups of people clumped in twos and threes, saying their hello’s, having quick catchups. At the end of the hall is a stage with one of those thick velvet curtains. I can’t quite make out the colour, it’s not the stereotypical deep red, but possibly a blue or green. The stage seems as modestly sized as the hall. A place for children to host a concert, surely not big enough for adults to walk on. To the left of the stage is an emergency exit door, with a lit exit sign hanging from the ceiling. That exit sign will soon be the only light in here.

 

The floor is wooden, real wooden planks nailed into beams beneath them, not the modern pre-finished planks that are fitted together like a puzzle. The walls are painted white and could have some embellishments, but I cannot make them out. It’s remarkable that there are no windows.  I can almost imagine this space as purpose-built. Once the lights go out, the only way for light to enter is if someone opens the door, or from the exit sign. 

 

I'm standing inside this hall, and feel as if it is blank. It has no character of its own, no smell besides the smells brought in by others, beside the stage there is no other built-in furniture and no one has bothered to decorate it. It is whatever it is filled with. An empty room in a part of the city where every square inch is utilized. The perfect place to come for healing.

 

The lights go out. I go blind. Slowly though, I begin to make out shadows. I focus on the soft glow of the emergency exit sign. I see the shapes of the people around me. There is anticipation in the air. I feel the hunger for release. These strangers and I are united in our shared desire, our energies buzzing through the silent darkness.

 

I find my spot, making sure I’m not too close to anyone and simultaneously trying to inch closer to the only air conditioning vent. Without the light, my other senses come alive. I smell shampoos, colognes, and the sourness of old sweat. I hear the hydraulic brakes of the 199-bus pass as it stops outside, snippets of whispered conversations, feet shuffling.

 

The music starts, and my hips begin to move. I’m a little stiff, this song is ok, more of a sing-along than a dance-along. I try to pace myself, there’s a whole hour and I want to save my energy for the good songs, the real ‘doof-doof’ or party anthems! Who am I kidding though? Who knows if there’ll even be any good songs? It’s the same every week. My mind tells me to pace myself, but my body decides to let go. I chase the high. The music makes me happy, and the movement makes me euphoric. Every song becomes the last song I will ever dance to.

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When I dance there is no distinction between my movements and my thoughts, my movements are my thoughts.  All the stress and strain float away as the beat goes on. I come here to feel whole again.

 

Dance can be used to help people suffering from mental illness. When we dance, we use both sides of our brain, the analytic and creative.  Therapists use dance to help people suffering from flat affect, a condition that robs people of their expressions, and their ability to recognise or feel emotions. It’s like living your life as the ‘meh’ emoji. When you’re happy, your facial expression says ‘meh’, when you’re sad ‘meh', angry ‘meh’. I feel flat a lot these days. Flat affect can be caused by a traumatic brain injury. I wonder if 2020 was the equivalent of a blow to the frontal lobe.  Anesthetizing me to the trauma I went through; am going through? 

 

When I dance, I feel myself healing, a salve for anxiety, breaking down my isolation.  When I dance in this dark space filled with strangers, we don’t feel so strange anymore. We dance in synchrony and feel connected to each other. We share our space, our energy, our love for the beat. We release our worries, our fears. With each swing of our hips, stress leaves our bodies and floats off into the universe. Our shared dancing breaks our isolation, starting to heal from the months apart. Our pasts flow into the present and we let go.

 

The hour is always over too soon. I check my smartwatch, another 8000 steps - booyah! During the day, I feel every step, my legs are like lead, sliding rather than walking through life. Not when I’m dancing though. The lights go on, I re-join the group I came in with and walk out in respectful silence. This blank space is transformed. It's become a place of worship; I am walking on sacred ground and I show my reverence. If I pay homage, maybe I will be allowed to come back next week.

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