As a girl in South India, my sister and I had the incredible good fortune to study with one of the prima bharatanatyam dancers in the country, as she was on maternity leave for two years. We were told that this was an extraordinary ‘serious’ honor, but little did we know what this meant at the time.
Devotion was required to be at the center of every dance. We learned a sequence, which became our ritual, to thank the earth for letting us dance on her, before we began each lesson. This particular dance form is known for its grace and tenderness and statuesque poses, but the dancer’s essence must resemble a dancing flame, this is what we were taught. Our dance was to be a celebration of the universe through the celebration of the beauty of the body. But while all of this was going on, prayer, at the very center. Prayer and surrender.
Morning is a sacred time for me and this morning sadness.
After sitting with this for awhile, I turned to music. The music of the moment was meditative Indian music that I hadn’t visited in quite awhile, and out of me, from my supremely distant past and cellular memory, dance came. My bharata natyam streamed up, through and out of me. Did my soul conjure this because it needed to be recognized? Or because it needed to be recharged and lit? Or because I needed a serious lesson in surrender?
Yes. All three.