I wrote this as the first of a series of blog posts required for a class I’m in about “sex positive spirituality”. I am very happy with it, if terrified of sharing it with you.
When I was a senior in High School, I almost got kicked out of a Catholic school dance for being too “provocative”. It wasn’t my school, and I managed to get away with only having been reprimanded, but the experience stayed with me. I think about it sometimes when I dance in public, when I wonder about the distance between how I feel and how I’m seen.
I dance with my hips. I sway, dip, shake. If I am lucky – and I am so often lucky – I get lost. I find myself inside the music, moving with it. In it. In these moments I am whole in a way the world has so tried to force me not to be. In these moments the ruptures between soul and body heal. I sweat out the pain caused by years of hate poured in to me. I am my body, and I am beyond my body. Here and also everywhere.
I guess that it is dirty. That’s what I’ve been told. I was told that my dancing – an expression of youthful sexuality only just beginning to figure itself out – was dirty, and that if I ever wanted for bodily pleasure that was probably bad too. I was taught, though less explicitly than some, not to trust this soft flesh I walk around in. Not to hear what my body said. Not to do what it moved me to do.
I guess that my dancing is dirty, but that’s ok, for mine is the god of dirt. Mine is the god of music and pleasure, of art and of dance. Dirty or not, my soul sings when I dance. Some dance just to get lost, I lose myself in dance to get found. I meet god on the dance floor. In tiny bars, and big clubs, and in my bedroom, and in my kitchen as I do the dishes. Maybe this isn’t how it is “supposed” to be. Maybe god isn’t supposed to show up in color field painting or Hip Hop or abstraction or dance or Funk or sex. But that is my god. The god of impossible things. Of people who weren’t supposed to be what they are. Of blades of grass, growing through the concrete.