Opening the door to dance

Santa Fe, at the Railyard, a Thursday night, seventy or so bodies, men, women, children moving in unknown ways. That was the first time I walked onto an improvised dance floor. Where could I look? What on earth was going on? Where could I put myself?
It was so long ago, I forget the question exists these days. Here, and here, and here too are the answers that follow me around since. I’m glad to remember the first time, my lostness amidst a sea of movement before my body began to curiously answer its own question, ‘Where am I?’
I danced that first night facing a wall, an english woman’s back to a whirl of desert-dwelling american artists. I returned twice every week for my 3 months in the town. I begged to know where to dance on the other nights. As I moved on, the first question I asked in every town I landed was, ‘Where is the dance?’ 
The question travels in my shadow, and answers in lungs, in gravity, in motion. That night in Santa Fe changed my life. Her name was Frances, she invited me that night, I have no idea where or how to thank her.

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