Hold on to your ball of energy. We're going to break it in half and shift it to our sides, so we can share with our neighbors. Are you ready? Go ahead and share. Can you feel the energy running through you?
The eight med students all nodded their heads dutifully. Slowly. Peacefully. Feeling the energy making them bob their heads up and down.
Good. Keep sharing. And then when you want to break the circle, gently, let go.
My hands dropped to my sides immediately. And trust me, there was nothing gentle about it.
I've never been big on sharing personal space. I need my bubble. Invade it and I'll viciously label you as socially awkward. Socially stupid. Socially blind. Seriously. Why are you all up in my face? My space has a three-yard radius. Respect it.
Last Monday we started the humanities component of M1 curriculum. We had a whole series of different classes and seminars to choose from. Art classes. Human rights courses. Art history classes. Sculpture. Studies of male-dominance in the workplace. Now, since my parents have never been able to tell the difference between one of my drawn apples or oranges, and I've never felt the need to burn my bras, I figured those were probably not for me. At least not while I was being graded for it. I'm sure someone somewhere out there appreciates my abstractness. And my conformity. But I digress. While those all sounded grand and possibly eye-opening, I was leaning most heavily toward a creative writing class. Or a storytelling class. I mean, hello! I can swap awkward stories with the best of them.
But then I saw a class for dance therapy. Now, remember this guy I used to spend Tuesday nights with? That super sweet kid I used to visit? He's in a wheelchair for the indeterminate future, and when I would visit him, we'd go to random "therapy events" the hospital would hold to cheer patients up about their now wheelchair-bound lives. Dog therapy - where they brought in a bunch of different dogs and just let the patients play with them. Music therapy - his favorite - where a wedding band would come and let the patients sing campy karaoke songs. I always participated. It made no difference to me if the patients found out I couldn't carry a tune to save my life (even to something as simple as Build Me Up Buttercup).
One night, they had dance therapy. And Elliot and I went down to the 2nd floor, thinking it'd just be another night full of Lawnmovers and Sprinklers and the occasional Shopping Cart.
I was so wrong. We got down there, and the patients were having the best time ever. They were swing dancing (kinda), waltzing (kinda), fox-trotting (kinda). The strangest thing is, the volunteers looked far more awkward than the patients, who were being twirled around by these fabulous Chicago dancers.
Forget dog therapy. Or baking therapy. This was what made Elliot laugh and smile.
So when I saw dance therapy on the seminar list, I put it down as my first choice. Clearly, I was ecstatic when I found out I had gotten into the class.
Except for one tiny thing.
My seminar is nothing like what I expected. I was so positive we would be working with patients. Doing what I saw that one night.
But we don't.
We sit in circles sharing touchy-feely emotions. Talk about how our bodies have betrayed us. The disconnect we feel. Share imaginary energy balls. Create safe environments. All of that in-between intervals of interpretive dance.
I've never felt so out of place in my life. This body? Me? Not a dancer. Not graceful. Sharing warm fuzzies? Seems inappropriate somehow to me. During our first class, we had to come up with a dance that "expressed" us. I shared dorky dance #72 - the Shower. I am so in over my head.
Five more meetings. We'll see if my childhood dreams of being a dancer are realized.
Somehow I doubt it. But stay tuned!
3 years ago
