I have been doing some research on Native American Indian populations in our area and came across a blog on the Internet that offered some pertinent information to the topic I am researching and was also applicable to a state of mind that I have found myself in recently. Oral history tells that when a person within the tribe became depressed, disquieted, or disillusioned that the individual would be asked four questions by the shaman, or healer of the tribe. They were asked, “When did you stop dancing?” “When did you stop singing?” “When did you stop being enchanted by stories?” and “When did you stop finding comfort in the sweet territory of silence?”
I felt my heart clutch when I read those words. I have stopped dancing. I have stopped singing, and while I am still enchanted by stories and the “sweet territory of silence,” there is a certain part of me that recognizes the half-heartedness of my current position in life. I used to dance. I used to sing. What made the fancy feet and the songbird flee? I think I know.
Most of you do not know that I suffer from a rather curious muscular and skeletal disorder called fibromyalgia. It is a debilitating condition and a depressing diagnosis, for no one knows what causes it, and the measures to help you live life to the fullest are often feeble in response to the daily pain and discomfort. I liken it to a snake, a sneaky snake that awakens in different parts of the body, hibernates and gives false hope, and then rears its ugly head again just when you thought you had kissed renewal once again. Weather changes are dreaded, and a constant awareness of hurt taints even the most pleasurable of days. When I stopped to think about the cessation of dance and song, I had to pinpoint their absence coinciding with the abiding ache I feel.
There is no prescription for song and dance in my doctor’s repertoire, but it might be worth a try to reconfigure life and allow for time for both of those since I am keenly adept at the art of stories and silence. Perhaps, and I am thinking out loud on paper, there is merely an imbalance within me that has dishonored the exuberance of life when it became harder to do so because of chronic pain. Maybe, there is just too much introspection and not enough outward manifestation of meaning through dance and song in my life.
When I was young, I took ballet for ten years. I can remember how it felt to become the music. I can remember pushing myself to learn the choreography and the way by which complex steps became a thing of beauty. I also remember throwing my head back and singing like no one was listening. I sang all sorts of songs from every genre, and I lived inside of those lyrics.
Who knows if my renewed attempts will help me recover that part of myself that seems to be missing, but I think it might be worth a try. Who cares who sees or hears me? I’m much too old to care what others think of me. I live a good life, and should I stumble during the dance or miss a note, then I’ll just have to be forgiven.
Life is certainly not without pain. Pain can make, or break, a spirit. It comes in all shapes and sizes from the tiny boo-boo to the soul-rocking, life-changing pain that makes you question your very existence. There is solace to be had, however, in our healing, our friendships, and the love of those who know us better than anyone, and perhaps, in dance, song, enchanted stories, and silence.
May we tend ourselves in the ways that facilitate our healing, and should we see someone struggling to dance or sing; share your own dance, extend your hand, and throw back your head and sing as only you can sing. I’ll be listening for the sound of your little feet and the melody of your voice. You be listening for mine!
