Moving Mindlessly and Mindfully
a love letter to ecstatic dance
Have you ever sat with blurred focus as the sounds of an exalting vocalist and slow rhythmic bass escalate into some ethereal, electronic intensity? Has it ever pulled you from your cushion, or propelled you from your isolated corner, calling you to move?
At the start of many Ecstatic Dances, people are in their own worlds. Stretching, meditating, swaying with closed eyes. Slow waving of their hands, circling of their hips. Personally, it takes me a few songs to ground and feel present in my body. To step out of my mind. I'm always nervous—maybe this will be the time I won't fit, the day my body won't find the rhythm, the moment my energy won't meet the music.
But no matter what emotional state I'm in or the energy level I have, this free form of dancing always opens me. It shakes loose my worries and thoughts.
"DANCING: is good for you" reads a sticker on the DJ's laptop. People are laughing, others are singing, and some are blindfolded. One man cries quietly on the sidelines, his hand held by a friend. The floor quakes with our collective stomping and spinning.
"We're just a bunch of happy monkeys," I think to myself as I look out at the sweating, beaming faces of people in their process. I smile and exhale, glad to hop and hoot along with the rest, temporarily freed from the complications of everything but movement.
Before coming to Thailand in January, I wrote down a few intentions for my stay. I don’t remember most of them: they are tucked away in some old journal, and I’m sure they were mostly vague ones about “growth” and “understanding.”
But there’s one intention that was so specific, and such a deeply held desire, that I never forgot it.
“While I’m in Thailand, I want to learn to dance.”
“Vanessa doesn’t like to do anything challenging,” my mom observed in one of her journals. I was five years old, and after months of excitement and spinning around and jabbering about tutus, I finally had my first (and only) ballet class. I came home tearfully whining about how I couldn’t do it, it wasn’t any fun, it was too hard.
It’s true. I didn’t like anything challenging. I stuck up my nose at soccer—excuse me, football—and even complained when I was asked to walk a few blocks around the neighborhood. I revolted in any sort of music lessons, and I had no patience for any activity unless I was inherently the best.
Fast forward a few years, and I’m 13 years old. Finally, hard things are more appealing. I take piano lessons and karate classes. I still quit those, but I lasted a couple of years, at least.
This time, ballet doesn’t appeal to me so much. I’ve outgrown my childhood fascination with the color pink. But my mom’s friend was teaching a dance class. There were fewer rules and you could dance barefoot. So I sign up for it: “modern dance.”
That one class cracked me open. I loved it. I could connect with the movement, with the expression of my body in combination with the music. It was technical but explorative. And, I had fun.
From there, I dove in. The next year I didn’t just take modern dance, I took tap dance classes, jazz classes, ballet, and even pointe. I loved it, I spent almost every afternoon in my week in the dance studio. But I felt like I was too late. At 13 years old, I believed I passed my prime for dancing.
I was right, in a way. Most of my peers in classes had been dancing since they were five. I was eight years behind, all because I was too quick to quit in kindergarten. At 13, if you want to dance professionally, you’re already applying to dance schools.
This touches on the biggest issue I see with American culture and all creative arts. In the US, and perhaps in most fiercely capitalist countries, the belief is that if you’re going to do something, you need to be the best. The point is not to enjoy, the point is to win.
So I gave up dancing a second time. I felt hurt and intimidated by the internal competition of instructors’ favorites and who-gets-the-solo. The point was to be the best, and I unequivocally was not. So what was the point of dancing?
I pivoted again. To theater, this time. Another creative love of my life. My beloved directors (Hi, Ms. Jackson!) would ask for bizarre forms of motion. “You’re a melting duck.” I dissolved, quacking-ly to the floor. Or, “cross the room like you’re wading through peanut butter.” Everything became sticky and slow. I felt like I’d lost dance, but I never lost movement.
Then, with live music, I was grooving again.
Even in the most tightly packed concerts, I found myself with a larger radius of space than everyone else. While everyone else nodded their heads and swayed in place, I stepped and stomped; I flicked my wrists and flipped my hair. People gave me room, or I’d take it.
Occasionally I’d cross eyes with another true mover, another dancer, encircled by foot-tappers. We’d smile and spin, kindred spirits. I was confused by the rest in the crowd… How else can you engage with the band, with the sound, if you don’t dance?
When I set the intention to rediscover dance in Thailand, I was imagining formal partner dances—waltzing, swinging, etc. But instead, I found Ecstatic.
Ecstatic Dance is a dance space, independently organized all around the world. The rules are simple: No speaking, no substances, and no phones. The DJs make a journey out of their sets. It’s usually quite dynamic, but generally, over their three hours of playing they will build energy up to a peak and then set you back down again.
Dancing without competition or discussion, dancing just as play, is my newest life love. I don’t always feel like dancing. Sometimes I feel edgy and cranky and tired and don’t want t. But I go, knowing that I can just sit and stretch and journal in the jungle if I need to. And always, if the music is right, my body goes. I almost can’t control it.
Dance is the most mindlessly mindful form of expression I have found. It interweaves the feeling of the music, the emotions swirling within me, and the cravings of my body all into one.
I move without conscious intent. I move stutteringly, smoothly, clumsily, gracefully, animalistically, demurely, rapidly, and slowly. When I’m most present, the motion comes through me, not from me. I don’t choose which style it is.
As I’ve danced more and more, the more motivated I am to take it seriously. I want to improve my technique, to explore different expression forms. The playful can be stoic.
I guess this is growing up—I do like challenges, now. If I had the chance, I would throw myself back into all the classes I took when I was young. I’ve stepped into the classes I can, I tried out a few swing dance classes, and I’ve learned to truly follow through Bachata and Zouk. And I discovered my dear, dear love for contact improvisation.
Though I know I return in a few months, leaving Koh Phangan makes me reflect on all of my love, and all of my growth since coming here in February. I’m grateful for so much. For the friends I have made on this island. For the experiences I’ve shared, both playful and profound. For the support and encouragement I’ve gotten from so many, emboldening me to come out as a professional “writer” to the world. And oh, oh, oh. I am so grateful, endlessly grateful, for dance.
Well, you know I loved this entry. Movement is central to everything. Sending love.