The Irish Dancers in Daily Writing

Stepping into the convention center struck me. From a world of ugg boots, center parts, and debating whether skinny jeans were still in style, I landed in a world of sparkle with hair bigger than a beauty pageant contender in the 80s. Bouncing blonde curls filled the space, as girls bounded around, hopping through their steps, jumping, and kicking high into the air. The costumes sparkled like vampires in a Twilight book, dazzling to a degree that seemed excessive. At the far end of the room dancers pranced about on stage, arms stiff at their side, looking like they were in a fued to block each other from the judges or to push the other off the stage. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

When I saw my first Irish dancers, years back, I admired them. In their full skirts they bounded on stage with such energy, joyous smiles on their face, almost seeming like they would burst with laughter at any moment. The dancers flew with every leap and bound in costumes washed in colors and spiraled with Celtic knotwork. They were beautiful, spritely, and seemed like their hearts were filled with love for what they danced.

The dancers in this room, however, had fake smiles plastered on or none at all, a stern look we called “concentration constipation” in belly dance classes. It looked like they weren’t having any fun, and though they leaped and bounded across the stage, they looked stiff and stern, as though their bodies were bound fast and they were trying to flee some invisible captor attempting to tie them to the railroad tracks, like some outdated cartoon villain. The life went out of the space as the dancers focused in and watched each other with eagle eyes, smiling when they saw a flaw.

Once I aspired to be a dancer like that. The very idea filled my heart with joy. I started taking classes as an adult, in spite of the injuries I constantly fight through, in order to capture some of that sense of life. I loved skipping clumsily through the steps, trying my best, but knowing I hadn’t yet developed the skill to fly as I hoped I would. Some day I would fly like the dancers in my dreams, perhaps lower, but still flying. If I could only capture that, my heart could soar.

Watching these dancers, my dreams were crushed. The love had gone from the art leaving only a flat affect and a lack of any inspiration. The dancers were athletic, yes, but they lacked any heart, any love for what they did. Watching them showed the competitive streak and their hopes to land on the podeum, with very little more across their face. They walked from the stage with a mother or dance instructor at their side, complaining about everything they messed up and talking of how awful they did while their companion tried to bolster them up and turn the reflection on the good.

I lost my heart for it the second day. Instead of watching the dancers I volunteered to run for coffee. I was told the Starbucks in the hotel had a line out the door and up the stairs, so I offered to go to the one down the street. Realizing it was closed, I walked on, wandering aimlessly through the city, looking at the beautiful cemetary I found from the 1640s, a beautiful playground that looked like it was modeled for a mosque, and an indoor carosel that was likely as old as the park itself. Even at the coffee shop I was met with a smile and a compliment on my style. The world shifted from stern and rigid to freeing and full of heart.

It was upon my return to the world of big hair and sparkle that I realized where my heart could truly be found. As I walked into the convention center for the team competitions, I found where my heart truly lay. Yes, I will always love dance, but it isn’t dance that makes me happy. Flying across the floor, skipping and leaping, does fill my heart with joy, but the true happiness comes at the end of it all, when I finish my dance and smile at the dance beside me, and laugh about the mistakes we made, or cry with joy at finally getting that one step that keeps tripping me up. The dance makes my heart soar, but it’s all empty without the community the dances were made for.

Once more I was reminded that competition takes the love away for me. I’ve never been destined for competition. I need the community, the family, and the love to find the joy.