Sergeant Kale
The dancing adventures continue
“Get that shoulder back.”
“Elbow!”
“Don’t you dare step off our train track. I will get out of the way. If I don’t, I’m the instructor, so it’s all on me.”
And “I am the boat. You are the tube. Follow me.”
Thus declared the young blonde who had a scar on her cheek and a red shawl tied around her hips. I was trying another dancing lesson—this time West Coast Swing, and she was my partner.
My last dance experience was all speakeasy & gin. This one was Sergeant Kale. With her, I was going to do it right or not at all.
The yoga teacher in me was startled by the commands. While some gurujis used to hit their students until they got a pose right, I’d been taught to invite students to explore, get curious.
Which can be wonderful—and a bit woo woo. What does that mean, exactly?
Which is why this young woman’s no-bullshit directives were appealing. There was no kinda sorta. I was literally being told what to do, and even though it wasn’t in the sonorous voice of Morgan Freeman, the clarity was refreshing.
My body, however, was having a harder time being delighted by her directness.
“Are you a dancer?” she asked me at one point.
“No, but I am a yoga teacher,” I said.
“That explains it. You are very concerned about balance.”
You have no idea, I wanted to tell her.
And as we moved and practiced, as she hit my wrist again and again to get it to relax, I thought about how an unending seeking of a balanced state can create its own stress and strain, a kind of eternal bracing.
I have to be balanced! Easy-going! I have got to find the effing flow!
Maybe I wasn’t so willow and magic wand after all.
But telling myself to relax is about as helpful as trying to tell myself to go to sleep when the last thing I can do is go to sleep.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
“Chin up!” she commanded. “Get some confidence!”
My nostrils might have flared, but okay. Fine. Chin up, shoulders back, wrist soft—step, step, triple step. Step, step, triple step.
“Better!” she said, delighted. “Could you feel it?”
I nodded, proud because I knew this was not some kind of verbal participation trophy. I had no doubt that I’d actually earned this praise.
“Okay, now we do the Sugar Push. You come in, and I push you back.”
Ah, the classical will they/won’t they, come hither/go away dance.
When I tried it the first time, she said, “Too light! You have to come in with enough energy that I have something to work with.”
I tried it again and again, finally finding the Goldilocks of Just Right—effort, trust, flow.
“The Sugar Push was based on the Sugar Step,” the instructor explained as we took a break, and she began to swish side to side, all smooth and easy.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, recognizing the move. “My grandma and her sisters taught me that one when I was five. It was a summer night, and we were on our back patio. They were all in their 80’s, but there they were, feet shushing on the cement bricks, hips swishing. I think a couple of them were flappers, and you could see it all come back.”
I could still hear their laughter, could still see the light in their eyes.
“Isn’t dancing great?” the instructor asked, pulling me out of my reverie. “It’s like it’s what our bodies are meant to do. Shall we?”
I slipped my right hand into her left and as we moved, I smiled.
“That’s it,” she murmured, as I followed, chin up, eyes bright.