DANCING QUEEN

Oh dear….where to start?  First, I keep hearing my mother's admonishment: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."   Oh well, I have usually been successful at ignoring that kind of advice and besides, I can say a few nice things.  So here goes….

Hub and I went to Dance Camp last week.  (Pause for laughter and/or puzzlement to subside).  And I am going to put this on him -- it was his idea to go and he mostly enjoyed it.  I wasn't so keen on it, but it was being held in a beautiful place and I decided it would be fine.  The location was a fairly "rustic" retreat center (part of a State Park) on the waterfront of a small island about 2 hours from us.  We took the truck camper and parked under the trees, thinking the week would be part dance, part nature, and all vacation in one of our favorite areas of the state.

On Day 1 we walked into the registration building at the camp and my eyes first went to the couple seated at the registration table -- he pushing past 60 and she on the upside of 40 on his lap, arms intertwined, nuzzling.  They didn't appear to be registering for anything, or talking to anyone, or doing anything in particular -- just hanging out.  When they saw us waiting for a seat, they got up and retired to a mat in the corner, covered with an animal print fabric, and lay down, again entwining arms and legs in repose, as if clinging to each other and napping in public was the main activity of the afternoon.  Hmmm….

We sat across from a guy named Cougar, dressed in purple velvet, who was friendly, if a bit confused, but we managed to sort out the bumps along the registration path and got our work assignments (shared community means pitching in).  We were to work in the kitchen for the first 4 meals of the week.  We liked thinking our duty would be done early with only dancing and beach-walking to worry about for the rest of our time there.

So, let's start with the kitchen:  The Dance Camp folks rented it, so it was an all-volunteer staff.  A very friendly woman greeted us; her husband was the main cook and he was nice enough too.  A surly monosyllabic man in a chef cap was also on hand to sort of berate the volunteer staff with a large cleaver in his hand.  Not friendly.  Another woman who spelled her name Anna had her panties in a knot over something or other of an organizational nature and had verbal fisticuffs with the nice woman.  Also Anna was completely disgusted with eye-rolling frustration when I mispronounced her name, as I bet you would too:  Anna is ANN'-ah, typical pronunciation, right?  Nope.  "It's AH'-nah!" she informed me and turned quickly away so as not to look upon me again, ignorant scullery maid that I was.

We were totally confused, there was little direction as to our tasks, and even less idea of how those in charge were to supervise volunteers.  Lots of roaming around, bumping into each other, and guessing what we were to do ensued.  We got enough direction to finally complete a few tasks, then the hoards (about 100 participants) arrived for their supper of watery soup, a mostly greens salad, a scoop of some nondescript veggie mixture and a biscuit.  Everything was vegetarian and gluten-free, which is actually just fine with me.  But there were also dizzying other options: soy/ no soy; diary/no dairy; rice flour or corn flour; no onions (?)…on and on.  Little signs printed with all the ingredients stood in front of the serving pans where we stood behind at the ready with our serving spoons to offer a dollop of food ("Not too much..we might run out; no seconds until everyone is served").

Everyone had to read the signs to be sure they weren't ingesting some poisonous concoction of eggs and flours and then came the demands:  "Can I have just the top of the casserole; I don't eat carrots (the under layer)."  Or "just from the bottom, please, no cheese topping."  Or "Could I have a larger scoop?…Oh! Not that much!"  Or "Just a little, please.  Well…more than that!"  People and their food issues!  And rude issues!  I wasn't having fun yet -- and never did with the kitchen experience, which went on like that for all 4 of our work-commitment meals, except that we did eventually find things more easily and developed a sense of humor about the whole craziness.  By dinner the next day (our last meal to serve) Hub and I were tempted to dump every lasagna option together in a big pan, mix it up, divvy it out again with a variety of random ingredient signs and see if anyone noticed or cared since it all looked exactly alike anyway!  But we didn't.  That would just be mean….like AH'nah.

Then we went to the first dance, which was sort of fun/interesting/weird/OK/familiar/unfamiliar.  We've been facilitators of a small Ecstatic Dance group at our UU Fellowship loosely based on Gabrielle Roth's 5-Rhythms Dance.  It's a cool, internal, meditative practice.   A clip below will give you an idea, but bear in mind, we don't look like these groovy dancers:  We are mostly over 40, or 50, or 60, or 70; wearing regular clothes, and not so intensely tranced or comfortable in their skin as these accomplished dancers.  We're "just folks", dancing in meditative movement, not making eye contact, sometimes hiding in the back -- just learning to love our own internal rhythms, our bodies, and ourselves in spite of our years, weight, and arthritis.  But anyway, here's Gabrielle Roth and her crew:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cYYzcTzm6Y

So we get to the dance and find something very different.  Many are wearing colorful, flowing pants and skirts, tiny tops, dreadlocks.  Many are doing Contact Improv dance.  Now, I knew going in what this was and I warned Hub that there might be a lot of this going on.  There was.  We decided we would not participate.  We didn't.  Still….this was what we saw (Check out the couples at about the 3-5 minute mark for the full-on effect, but at Dance Camp there were often 3-4 dancers together):  https://www.youtube.com/watch?  v=kQDZT6vfEyQ

Still, even that wasn't the problem with the Dance Camp.  But let me say the nice things first:  I loved just doing our own thing at the dances, although I felt like a voyeur with all the "contact" threesomes going on around us;  I loved the women-only circle and learning about/doing Sacred Tantra Dance (not sexual at all -- very beautiful and soulful); I loved the Kirtan (sacred chant); I loved the voice classes with instantaneous harmonies; I (mostly) enjoyed a couple of sessions of "small group time", with six of us meeting for a "sharing circle".  Hub liked the Breath Work class (I thought it was weird and refused to participate -- bad attitude?) and we tried the Massage and Bodywork class, but it didn't meet our expectations, mostly due to the instructor's style.

No, the real problem with Dance Camp was the campers.  Most were parts of large dance communities in the Northwest and California.  Most perhaps knew each other, or of each other, before arriving.  Most were into the Contact Improv or Zipper Dance (similar), and many struck me as an unfriendly, unwelcoming, insular clique who were so focused on "creating meaningful connection through community" that their style of dress, speech, near constant eye-gazing and stroking each other ended up feeling like such an orgy of sensuous exhibitionism that any sense of true community was virtually impossible.

So I basically dropped out after Day 2 (of 6).   Hub went to a few more sessions than I, but we also both escaped to a small town we love in the area, walked on the beach, watched sunsets, ate in restaurants that served food actually seasoned with interesting flavors, visited with a friend, explored.  Dance Camp became a place that more creeped me out than  delighted me and I plan never to return.  And I feel sort of badly about that.  I think there were a number well-meaning people there, people who I might have liked but who were so caught up in the group "dance" of Ego and even some neuroses, that the whole scene felt like a place to flee from rather than embrace.

That said, I'm sure their closing circle (which we skipped) was one of prolonged hugs, misty eye-gazing, promises to meet again, and declarations of "best ever" experiences.  So, maybe it was just me.

Had we stayed up late for the "Sultry Cafe" from 10 p.m. - 1 a.m., I might have come home with a new attitude. When we asked what that was, we were told:  "Oh it's the best!  It's where you can really strut your stuff!  Wear something sexy!!!"

Or, I might have come to the same conclusion about Dance Camp after all.

At least, that's the view from here….

P.S.  There were two serious sprains and one broken foot at the camp; Hub and I both came home with a gastrointestinal "bug" that may or may not be related to the well-intentioned, but lax kitchen cleanliness standards.  Just sayin'. ©