I am surrounded by dance.
Strange rhythmic sounds echo from the upstairs of our house.
Spins occur in our kitchen.
Spontaneous taps break out during random lulls.
Terms foreign to me are thrown around during cookouts.
Pottaburray? Pleeaaayyy? Kickball steps? Kickball chains?
For two decades this foreign culture has invaded my land.
But I am learning.
I learned about the teacher who drives three hours each night after work just to be part of a tribe.
I learned about the young person who was shy and now beams with confidence.
I learned about the mom who started again despite injury and now spins with ease.
(I just learned that the term is turn, not spin!)
I learned about the owner, the instructor, the master-stylist, the sibling, the financial analyst, the consultant, the student, the teacher, the bartender, the business owner, and the parent (and soon to be parent).
I learned about the struggle, the pain, the work, the practice, the goals, the frustration, the ambition, the need, the sorrow, and the joy.
I learned that dancers have different stories.
I learned that dancers have different backgrounds.
I learned that dancers have different reasons.
Most of all I learned that Dancers Dance.