Dancing between stories and stillness

The story begins with the Lambada. That sultry, forbidden dance that swept through the 90s, igniting awkward teen parties where everything felt loud, uncertain, and thrilling. It was my first taste of the dance floor, where confidence seemed to bloom on the sweaty brows of other kids, and I stood planted like a tree. Not just any tree—an Australian Buloke, the hardest wood nature could conjure. Movement didn’t come easily to me. Dancing was like asking a stone to float.

You can imagine the struggle. I couldn’t just move. Each step felt like an obstacle course. The Lambada was relentless—it demanded fluidity, rhythm, freedom. I had none. My limbs locked, my thoughts raced, and the voice in my head grew louder with every misstep. “They’re watching you. Don’t trip. Do something.” When I couldn’t conquer the dance with my body, I switched strategies. I danced in my mind. I became the narrator, crafting stories to survive the discomfort. If I couldn’t lose myself in the moment, I’d build a world inside my head and hide there.

Forty years later: A new dance floor

Now, forty years have passed, and life asks something new of me. The work now is to stop spinning stories and stand still. To let go of narrating every experience and just be present in the rhythm of life. No commentary. No control. Just being. It’s a dance of its own, and not an easy one. The habit of storytelling runs deep, a vine wrapped tightly around my mind. But I’m learning to untangle it, slowly, step by step.

The polarity of presence

It’s a delicate balancing act—narrate what I see, or simply be with it. Like two dance partners, these polarities tug at me. The narrator offers safety, clarity, structure. The observer? Just silence, openness, and trust. Alan Watts teaches us that we confuse the two: the way things are and the way we describe them. He reminds us that life isn’t a puzzle to solve but a melody to experience. When we stop naming every note, the music reveals itself in ways we could never expect.

This year, I’ve explored this polarity through play. Creative activities without an end goal. Engaging in the moment without an agenda, just for the joy of the dance. And slowly, the need to narrate is softening. The grip is loosening. In its place, something simpler is emerging—a quiet rhythm, flowing just beneath the surface.

Dancing without a script

I think back to the Lambada now, and it feels different. The music hasn’t changed, but I have. I don’t need to get every step right. I don’t need a story to protect me from the discomfort. The beat moves through me, and I follow it, wherever it leads. It’s not perfect. But there’s beauty in the imperfection, and joy in the letting go.

So here I am, in a new dance. One where the Lambada isn’t just a memory but a metaphor. A reminder that the rhythm of life is always playing, waiting for us to stop thinking and start moving. I’m curious—what is your dance? Where are you learning to step out of the story and into the moment?

Whatever it is, I hope you find your rhythm. And when you do, may the music sound different, sweeter, and richer than ever before.