Words by Neridah Waters // photo by Joel Devereux
It’s the afternoon, and I feel The Slump. I’m energetically and emotionally flat. I feel anxious about getting up in front of 60 people in a leotard to teach another dance routine that I may or may not remember. I’ve spent the day at home stressing over what song choice and devising dance moves that are simple and clear enough for people of all ages and abilities to pick up, but also challenging enough for those that have more dance experience to find engaging.
I’ve spent the day surfing the internet for song ideas, become distracted by emails, news and social media, and start to feel depressed about the world and humanity in general.
I load up the car with my sound equipment and tubs of costumes and drive across town, fighting to get to class on time in peak time traffic.
Then I’m alone in the hall.
I take a deep breath and start setting up my speaker, unravelling cords, laying out costumes and the first dancer arrives.
She looks teary, we chat and she mentions that her 12 year old cat passed away on the weekend. We hugged.
Liz, the 87 year old, arrives and hands me a $20 note and says this is for the next two classes. I shove it down my leotard, we laugh.
Another dancer arrives and apologises for not having been to class lately as she’s been suffering from the perimenopause and asks if she can anonymously pay for someone else’s fees who is going through a horrible divorce.
A dad in thongs walks in with his teenage daughter and her friend. He asks if he can join in too as he wants to spend time doing an activity with his 14 year old daughter and not just be her driver.
More dancers start arriving, including a group of middle aged women in leotards wheeling their electric bikes to the back of the hall.
I’ve got to finish plugging in my cords and setting up.
A new person asks if they can check out the class tonight. They’ve just moved up from Melbourne and don’t know anyone in Brisbane.
A regular lets me know quietly that they are 4 months pregnant and asks if they can dance this term, but not perform in the Eisteddfod as that is around their due date.
One woman hands me a bunch of beautiful flowers saying these are from my garden and another hands me a gloriously hideous sequin leotard, saying she found it in her local op shop.
It’s time, I need to start class.
I feel frazzled. I don’t feel ready. I speak into my headset mic.
“Alrighty everyone, find some space and let’s dance”.
I don’t fight the chatter. I turn up the volume and play David Bowie and begin shaking my hand. I lead the team of dancers in a regular warm up. A series of sways, turns, stretches and grapevines, all choreographed to the lyrics. I look out across the hall and see all these beautiful smiling faces copying my moves. I start processing all the things that they have just told me, the different days that they have had and the different lives and experiences that they are all going through and see the dad in his thongs trying to slide across the floor and laugh. I hear David Bowie singing:
“(Let’s Dance) put on your Red shoes and dance the Blues.”
I think about David Bowie up in the sky looking down at this random group of people in a hall in suburban Brisbane and I hear the song is about to hit a dramatic moment:
Because my love for you would break my heart in two
And only half-jokingly, I yell over the music:
“Feel it! Feel it!”
As we all slowly open our chests and passionately stretch out our arms and lift them up to the sky.
Because, I actually do feel it.
I feel the passion in David Bowie’s voice and think what a gift this song is.
I feel teary thinking about all the different people in the class and what they are going through.
I feel full of utter joy, that I get to dance and laugh in a leotard and leg warmers and call it my job.
And I’m reminded that the world is full of beautiful people.
