Essay: A Night of Circle Dancing
On the last Thursday evening before Halloween of 2005, I drive through the darkened streets of industrial Berkeley, past factories, foundries, and furniture showrooms, on my way to the Western Sky Dance Studio.
Most Thursday evenings, this studio is the place where the women of Sabah Ensemble teach belly-dance. Each class begins with long, contemplative stretches and warm-up exercises, with participants sitting and lying in a circle on yoga-style mats. Later, the mats are put away, and a teacher leads lines of students through fast and slow dance steps, body undulations, and arm movements. Each class starts out quietly nourishing, and usually it ends up loudly joyful.
But, tonight, there is no class. Five times a year, Circle Dancing preempts the regular Sabah Ensemble class. Circle Dancing is an occasion for teachers and student dancers to improvise, singly and in small groups, to mark the turning of the seasons, to celebrate together and form connections through personally expressive dance. There is no audience for Circle Dancing--everyone present is a participant.
Sabah Ensemble holds Circle Dancing to celebrate the Summer and Winter Solstices, the Vernal and Autumnal Equinoxes, and also Halloween, which is a traditional turning point in the year, a time to remember the dead and honor their memory.
Sabah Ensemble was founded by Jamie "Sabah" Miller, who taught and performed belly-dance and other creative dance styles until her fifties, when a quickly-progressing brain tumor ended her life. After Jamie's death, three of her senior students decided to carry on her work, collaborating to teach using Jamie's techniques, and also to preserve her emphasis on performing with emotional authenticity, on celebrating diversity, and on nourishing community through movement.
The Western Sky Dance Studio, where both the regular classes and Circle Dancing take place, is located in a converted factory building that houses many studios for visual and movement artists. This particular studio has an anteroom where I leave my shoes beside those of dancers who arrived before me. Shoeless, I step into the studio's large, white-walled dance space, which has an excellent floor of varnished yellow wood, a traditional dance barre along one wall, and another wall lined with mirrors. The studio is also equipped with a small office, a dressing room, a restroom, an adequate sound system, and a mixture of fluorescent lights and theatrical gels. Many kinds of movement artists love and use this studio during any given week--it is clean, bare, and beautiful. On Thursday evenings, for me, it is a kind of home, a place with both physical and emotional room to move.
There are five women here for Circle Dancing, tonight--fewer than usual. We are missing our youngest regular (in her mid-20s), our oldest regular (in her early 60s), and one of our largest regulars (weight around 220 pounds--a supremely accomplished dancer and seamstress). Even with so few present, diversity is well-represented--our ages range from late 20s to mid-40s, our sizes from slender to opulent. All five of us were born within the USA, but our appearances reveal wide-spread ancestry: Chinese, Jewish, African, Northern European, Latino/Native American, and probably others less visible.
Our bodies reflect different physical experiences, as well--two of these five women have given birth, one is tattooed and pierced in several places, and one displays a long surgical scar when her belly is bare. Between us, we have several other surgical scars that are not usually visible, but there's no hiding (and no attempt to hide) the fact that one of the women here has only one leg--she lost the other at mid-thigh, 20 months ago, in a car accident. She is still dancing, learning which old moves she can still do in her changed body, discovering new moves not previously contemplated, and incidentally exhibiting a level of matter-of-fact and good-humored gutsiness that I find a privilege to behold. (In her place, would you acquire and wear a T-shirt that says, "You should see what happened to the car"?)
There is one area in which we undeniably lack diversity: we're all women. Sabah Ensemble occasionally teaches men, and any current student is encouraged to participate in Circle Dancing. However, few men choose to try even a single class, and very few continue studying for long enough to hear about a scheduled night of Circle Dancing. In approximately eight years of study, first with Jamie, and then with the Sabah Ensemble, I can only recall one man participating in Circle Dancing.
In a way, I find this a pity--the world needs more men who are not afraid to dance, and the one man I remember was a fine and joyous participant--but the fact is that belly-dance is practiced primarily as a women's art form. There are admittedly some advantages to this--it's easier to establish common ground and feelings of safety without including gender differences among the challenges we must face.
In any case, it is five women who are present, here, tonight. One is already in belly-dance costume when I arrive: she is wearing a tight black stretch-velvet choli (a midriff-baring top) and a long, flowing red satin skirt, worn low. The skirt is encircled by a silver coin belt and red and black scarves that accentuate the hips--the most important part of the body for this dance style. This dancer is also wearing a silver necklace and dangling silver filigree earrings.
With the exceptions of the choli and the necklace, all the parts of this costume are designed to move, highlighting and amplifying the movements of the dancer's body. Costumes are important in belly-dance--they are celebratory and decorative (as many dance costumes are), and they help define the look of the dance (as most dance costumes do). What may be less obvious is that a good costume can be an emotional inspiration to the dancer, and a good belly-dance costume also makes it physically easier for a dancer to dance well--the weight and movement of the costume provides the dancer with a satisfying and helpful form of kinesthetic feedback. By comparison, belly-dancing in jeans and a T-shirt feels muffled, constricted, and too light--something important is missing.
But the rule for Circle Dancing is to wear anything you'd like to dance in, and any kind of dance is welcome, not just belly-dance. The woman who will do some of her dancing in and around her wheelchair, tonight, is wearing snug black pants that are shortened and fitted on one side to follow the shape of her amputated leg. The pants cling to her remaining leg on the other side, except for a slight flare at her single ankle. This dancer is also wearing a filmy but fairly close-fitting blouse with a pattern of swirling dark and tan stripes--the fabric will show movement without much hazard of catching on her wheelchair. As I enter the dressing room, she is already dressed and is concentrating on applying her makeup. Later, she will drape a gold lamé dance veil around herself, as well.
The other three of us must still change out of our workday clothes into costume. Tonight, I am choosing to dance in brown and white--a snakeskin-patterned choli, dark burnout-velvet harem pants, and a white hipscarf with fringe under a brown hipscarf with copper coin edging. There are also a few gold accents here and there. This is a comfortable and easy costume for me--the only challenging thing about it is properly aligning and centering the two hipscarves.
The two remaining women have both chosen to wear purple and turquoise, tonight--it sometimes happens that dancers' costumes coordinate without advance planning, and that is what has happened here. The smaller, gently curved woman changes into turquoise velvet harem pants, a silver fish-scale hipscarf, and a purple choli; the larger, richly curved woman changes into a long, full purple satin skirt, a fringed vintage ribbon-macramé hipscarf in pastel turquoise, and a deep turquoise tank top knotted to bare her belly.
One by one, the costumes are settled into place, and we move from the dressing room to the dance floor, where we form a circle and take hands. For moments, we just breathe together, coming into awareness, centering ourselves. Then, one by one, we speak, sharing how we are feeling, mentioning dead friends and loved ones who we want to remember tonight, telling our wishes for the months ahead.
This time of circling, this way of connecting and checking in with each other is an important part of Circle Dancing, even though we are not dancing yet. No time limit is set for speaking. The purpose of the speaking is to serve our ability to connect with each other, particularly but not exclusively in the dancing to come, and to honor the emotions we bring to the dancing. That focus keeps the speaking shorter than it might be in a therapeutic context, though our bare feet may still grow cold as we turn our attention to each other's words and states of being.
When the speaking is done, we release each other's hands, widen the circle, and put on the music we will dance to, tonight--fourteen CD cuts adding up to eighty minutes of music from around the world. Some of the music will be fast, some slow; some cooing and some jangling, some percussive and some trance-like--a large slice of the range of sounds and feelings that human beings make. The fourteen chosen pieces are centered around the traditional sounds of the Middle East, but they also venture into East Asian territory and into Rock; one piece flounces into a Rumba; another roars using an Australian didgeridoo. Together, these pieces provide a very rich dance soundtrack.
Circle Dancing is a form of structured improvisation that directs the number of dancers who move within the circle at any given time, beginning with an empty circle, then cycling through a pattern of one dancer, two dancers, three dancers, two dancers, one dancer, and back to an empty, waiting circle.
During the first piece of music, each dancer moves gently in her place in the circle, stretching and warming up--the center of the circle remains empty. As soon as the second piece of music starts, any dancer can step into the interior of the circle and begin an improvised dance solo.
After a time, when it feels right, another dancer comes forward, and the two dancers create an improvised duet. The dancers may choose to mirror each others' movements, or they may choose movements that complement or contrast. Movement patterns evolve, wordlessly, in the moment. Eye contact, posture, gesture, and touch interweave to build a kind of communication: movement carries statements, suggestions, and questions, sometimes laments, and often wordless jokes and laughter.
When the duet reaches a point where a new influence seems welcome or right, a third dancer comes forward, to form a trio. The dynamics shift as the dancers experiment together. Three dancers can form a tiny circle, a large or small triangle, or a curved or straight line. One dancer can orbit two, or two can orbit one--the possibilities are nearly infinite.
The dancers who hold to the circle while others are in the interior may stand or sit, moving gently, occasionally playing finger cymbals, or clapping hands, or voicing encouraging cries. But attention is focused on whoever is dancing in the center.
After a time, one of the dancers--any one of the three--returns to the circle, leaving two dancing. Then another retreats, leaving just one. Then the last dancer returns to the circle, leaving the interior empty and waiting for a different combination of dancers to repeat the 1-2-3-2-1 pattern.
Inexperienced students are often intimidated by the idea of Circle Dancing, which is always announced and briefly explained in class several weeks ahead of time. It's notable how often the newer students choose not to attend on a night when Circle Dancing is held. I don't know exactly why this is. I would guess that it's a phenomenon related to stage fright--fear of being watched and being expected to perform, and possibly fear of performing badly and reaping bad consequences. For those who feel stage-fright strongly, or who are accustomed to competitive or judgmental environments, I can see how Circle Dancing could sound like an emotionally risky undertaking.
In actuality, there's always smilingly cooperative movement during dancing and warm praise afterward for a new dancer who dares to step into the circle and experiment, no matter how inexperienced, awkward, or frightened she may be. Bravery and willingness to learn are valued here--there's no set skill level anyone must rise to, only hopes and intentions that every dancer present will continue to learn at her own level--including the teachers. Perhaps there are ways this could be communicated more reassuringly beforehand. It would be good to have more new participants, and to make it easier for stage-fright to transform into anticipation.
I will admit, however, that there can be a bit of tension as we wait to see who will step into the circle first, even for those of us who have participated in Circle Dancing many times. Tonight, it is KC who does step forward, wearing her red and black, her movements graceful and sensual--and also deeply introspective.
In the USA, most people encounter belly-dance in an entertainment context where the audience expects a slightly naughty spectacle. Something quite different is happening in KC's dancing, and will continue to happen, here, tonight. KC has no audience she must please, only sister dancers, who will all, to some extent, understand and appreciate her process and her experience. She can let all her feelings be present as she dances. She knows that the Sabah tradition encourages dancers to express a wide range of emotions. Those emotions can include pain and sorrow, as well as sensuality, joy, spiritual seeking, fear, personal power, vulnerability, anger, isolation, connection, friendship, and love. The dancing can be as personal as the dancer's inclinations and skills can deliver. KC is greatly skilled--she has been belly-dancing for more than 20 years--and her emotions are as subtly expressed as her movements are graceful. In our places in the circle, we watch her, mesmerized.
Eventually, a second dancer steps into the circle, and the pattern slowly takes shape: solo, duet, trio, duet, solo, empty circle, though there are minor variations on that pattern, as the dancers are inspired to create them.
Over time, the dancing shifts tempo, shifts from graceful to percussive, shifts from standing to kneeling to sitting to reclining and back to standing. Dancers twirl, step, slide, stand still, lean together, lean apart, gesture with arms and hands, punctuate with hips, undulate spines, and shimmy, each dancer letting her bones hold her up and letting her flesh be soft on her bones.
B, who has one leg, dances seated on the floor, or seated in her wheelchair, or standing on one leg, using the braked wheelchair to stabilize herself. We are all still learning how the wheelchair fits into the pattern of the dancing, but it is no longer strange. B's accident nearly cost her her life--having her here in a changed form, with changed abilities, is infinitely better than not having her here. Besides having the pleasure of her company and the benefits of her considerable dance experience, we are finding that her accident has also brought us opportunities to change how we understand and practice dance. The accident itself was truly horrific, so it's a very good thing that we can enjoy the way in which B is using it to expand her repertoire and share her learnings with us.
Learnings about dance can be complicated and wide-ranging and hard to put into words. In class, one can learn physical skills, through instruction and practice and experimentation. If one participates in Circle Dancing, one also tends to learn quite a lot about the inner spirit of each dancer--what kind of heart each has, and what kinds of heart-connections each can form while dancing.
One of the best parts of tonight's dancing is watching MS and MG dance together--small and large, both dressed in purple and turquoise. The evening is filled with moments of connection, but the coincidence of their similar costume colors seems to heighten the connection that they forge with movement and energy--at least for those of us who watch. (Later, MS and MG both tell us that the colors were irrelevant to them, while they danced together.) It is profoundly clear that these two women take joy in each other's presence, dancing, movement, and power. They bridge a gap in age and experience so easily that it looks effortless, so happily that any one of us might envy it, were we not amply provided with our own opportunities for equally fine connections, equally potent joy.
Tonight, for me, a kind of high point of joy comes with the eleventh piece of music, a rocked-out remix of a Pakistani devotional song. This is a piece of music that I loved on first hearing and that continues to move me powerfully. I almost always dance within the circle during this piece, usually along with one or two other dancers, but tonight it becomes my solo--it is challenging, driving, high-energy ecstasy, and it is also an exercise in managing breath and physical balance, and in flowing between connecting with the watching dancers and staying aware of how I feel within myself.
By the end of the piece, I am panting, happy, ready to relinquish the circle's interior to other dancers--that is, for the two pieces of music that remain before the last piece, the finale. On that last piece of music, a tradition has evolved that we abandon the 1-2-3-2-1 format of Circle Dancing, that we break the circle and all dance in the center, interweaving with each other, singly and in groups, celebrating what we have created together. The music for the finale is Egyptian, with a jazzy arrangement and an unrestrained vocalist who sounds slightly intoxicated--B calls it 'the Party Music,' and its bittersweet bedlam is a fitting end to the night's dancing. Our movements during the finale always seem to me to say, "It was wonderful! We loved it! It's almost over--grasp that last little bit of joy!"
And then it is over. We re-form our small circle, taking hands and telling each other about the thoughts and feelings we've had during the dancing. There is much praise, all round, and a good deal of wondering joy about the changes we have seen in each other and felt in ourselves. When we come to the end of what we feel impelled to say, we sit down and drink juice cut with mineral water--cherry cider, tonight. Talk becomes more casual. Mostly, this time, we brainstorm possibilities for decorating the wheelchair with its own dance "costume."
But soon it is time to go home--the hour is late, and tomorrow is another work day. We peel off our sweaty costumes and pack up. We exchange hugs and good wishes for the coming week. One by one, we go out into the cool October night, each heading for a different home.
Next week, the studio will hold the regular Sabah Ensemble class again--the next occasion for Circle Dancing won't be until the Winter Solstice, when we'll look forward to days beginning to lengthen. For now, the days are still shortening, and the night is dark.
I drive home in solitude and enter in silence. I hang up my harem pants and toss my choli into a heap of clothes to be washed. I eat a little, and prepare for bed. Then it's time--past time--to turn off the lights. My muscles are relaxed from dancing. My mind is quiet. I lie down between flannel sheets, and, in the warm darkness, I sleep and sleep.
--by Karen Summerly