... and a five, six, seven, eight...

Have you ever loved something, needed something, lived and breathed something so much, that it feels like this something has literally come to life as a supplemental organ in your body, requiring you to breathe for it? Like this Something is so much a part of you, that it feels like it has actually and officially set up shop, and is sorta just nestled in there now, living right alongside your heart and your lungs and your liver?

I am certainly not alone in this, but do happen to be painstakingly aware of this phenomenon at the moment.

A year ago, after about a ten or twelve year hiatus, out of the seemingly clear blue sky one day, I needed to dance again. Not "dance," like at a club or out with friends, or even in our living room, though all of those ideas sound just fine and dandy. But really, honestly, truly dance again. I mean like, four and five hours a day, every day of my life, for the rest of my life. My heart wants it, my soul wants it, my body wants it. I want to be pushed and trained and coached and then pushed and trained and coached all over again. Until I get it perfect. And then start all over. I want to sweat and ache and feel like I just can't go on... and then go on. I want to feel the music in my bones, in my muscles, in my heart, in my head, in my feet through the floor. I want to somehow anticipate the next steps in choreography, before I have even seen it.

Not for the fame, though performing on stage is a right proper culmination, as any dancer will tell you. The applause and recognition are undoubtedly appreciated. Not for the money. Dancers don't make much to talk about. Dancers dance to dance. Just to dance. Because they have to.  And, I completely and utterly, fantastically in my core, understand that. It's food. It's air. It's love. It's all the components that one truly needs to survive. And I miss it.

I need it.

My solace, my lifeline, has arrived in the form of an aerobics class, of all things, in the last six months. A few times a week, I now eagerly walk into a Latin-infused, funky, raw, and sometimes exhausting shakeyo'groovethang sort of class, complete with gyrating hips, shimmying shoulders, fast footwork and arms hurling in the air, where much proverbial caution is encouraged to be thrown to the wind. Inhibition and modesty should be checked at the door, as there is no judgment within the four walls. It is decidedly the best part of any dance class; warm up and cool down take a total of about ten minutes, and there is no time to be spent on technique or "across the floor" training... which leaves just the dancing, for one hour, just for fun, as many times a week as you can find a class. The better the teacher, the better the class, and the better the class, the more fulfilled this particular writer is.

Like I've profoundly and properly fed the aforementioned Something.

The problem with the better the class, however, is that the better the class, the more I want it, and the more I need it. The more I need it, the more I do it, and the more I do it, the stronger I get, and the stronger I get, the more I need it... do you see where this is going?

It really is a most fascinating phenomenon.

I know in my soul that dance has a place in my world. I've always known that, I think. And it probably holds a place more prominently than just in taking these classes, as fulfilling and as fun as they are. I don't yet know exactly what form all this will take, but I am eager to find out. I truly believe that if Something comes back to you time and time again, lovingly reminding you that it's there... and probably more accurately, that it actually never left... then that Something is an honest meant-to-be in your life, and that you should probably listen to that, or it'll keep knocking on your door, distracting you, until you do.

And of course, that door will be answered in time, one way or another, and I'm gonna guess it'll be most fun on our terms, and while we're young enough to dance through life anyway.