Thank you to the rave.
“Why are you here?”
A question I’ve found bouncing around in my head recently; in a crowd, at a duff, in the club, at a festival. Scanning the faces of those around me, watching the movements and murmurs that ripple out from huddles.
“Why are you here?”
Is it a social thing, because this is where your friends gather? Is it the distraction it allows from everyday life? The stories to share the next day? Because it’s the only place you feel free? Is this your favourite DJ? Is it the lights, the sound? Is it the way the music makes you feel? The way the bass hits your core? That this appears to be the only place in your life where you’re permitted to move freely, to feel (express) deeply, to dance?
For whatever reason, thousands of people gather on sweaty dance floors, to, well, dance.
Across all time and space and culture, humans have danced. Moved in time, out of time, in groups or solo. Pirouetted across stages, 2-stepped in barns, waltzed in ballrooms, spun under disco balls.
I did ballet for a little while, like we all did, and danced a bit at school. I grew up in a household full of music with a dad who loves to dance (shout out Raymond). But it wasn't until my very early twenties that I discovered my deep, embodied love of dancing. Not in a formal way, no choreo or teachers, but on R&B floors in a town’s only club, DJ events hosted by friends at University or bush-duffs deep in the Aussie outback.
I am not going to pretend to be an expert in this field. Countless professionals have dedicated their lives to explore the world of dance; the why’s and where’s and who’s. This is (a personal piece, from my own perspective) just a note from someone who is thankful for dancing, because of everything it gifts me, because it brought me back to my body.
Dance is the act of moving to a rhythm, and for a moment (or song's worth, or set worth for that matter) we step out of our minds, and into our bodies. Dance calls for us, no it insists, that we become embodied. Something many of us are not well versed in, spending 99% of our time disconnected from what the hell goes on there.
Disembodied: the state of being disconnected or dissociated from one's body or physical form.
Our bodies are our original homes, the place we will reside for the entirety of our existence - the only permanent housing we will know. But many of us spend little time there. Lack of use, work, stress, anxiety, avoidance, shame or embarrassment and trauma are all factors that may contribute to displacement from our bodies, and therefore our homes.
Disembodiment is not a new concept. Recently, there has been a real resurgence encouraging us to re-engage with the physical matter we are built of (think yoga, mindfulness, Wim Hof-ing).
Reasons we have become so disembodied? I’m not sure. Jobs these days are much more taxing on the mind than on the body (think desk-sitting and computer centred). We no longer need to be physical to get our needs met. We turn on a machine rather than washing by hand. We click and collect rather than pull from the ground. Stepping into our bodies is saved for the 30 rushed minutes we spend at the gym, even then, are we actually very present with ourselves? We navigate the world in our heads, neglecting 90% of what makes us human.
Discomfort or illness may also trigger dissociation. Cultural or societal narratives may encourage us to spend less time checking in, or listening to our bodies. A dis-like, or dis-trust is built. There are countless causes.
At the age of 12 I fell down my own dis-embodied rabbit hole. It was decided that I didn’t like my body - it did not do what I needed, look how ‘it should.’ I felt out of control of how it behaved, and how others viewed it. It felt different, and difference is not often celebrated when you’re 12, and especially not desirable when you’re 14. Filled with anxieties and pressures, my body began to change, growing in ways I didn’t want it to, bringing me attention I did not want, becoming yet another thing that did not do what I wanted it to.
In a desperate attempt to claim some small sense of order amidst the chaos, I turned to food and exercise. Spiralling into obsessions, the more I shrunk my body, the more I despised it, and everything it carried. I became increasingly ‘body blind’. Attempts to make myself smaller, less seen, take up less space, to hide, resulted in full disconnection. And maybe that’s what I wanted? I thought my body was the issue, and if only I controlled and changed it, I would change, and the world around me might change too.
Eventually, I was diagnosed with an eating disorder and spent much of my teens in and out of various treatments. These years of neglect and pain left me unable to know what I, and more importantly, my body needed. And boy oh boy has it been a long old road back. In the subsequent years, I have repeatedly lost touch with my body. Fully detached, it had become a completely separate entity, and I was very skilled at ignoring it.
And why am I telling you all this? Because the rave saves. I can’t pin my whole recovery on nights out and bush duffs. I would not be where I am today without my family, friends, therapists, health professionals. Talking, learning, disassembling and questioning are all key parts. But my goodness, has dance been healing.
Arguably, nothing has healed my relationship towards my body more. Discovering that the way my body looks means nothing but discovering the way she moves was everything. Dancing (specifically free-form, open-floor, 3am, hardcore dancing, probably to techno) brought me back to myself, to love the way my body feels the music, how it responds, how it ripples out. To love the way my body is an expression of feeling, of sound.
And what I have observed, in those moments in the midst of a set, questions bouncing around my noggin, is that so many others are blindly in love with dancing too. We’re all pulled to the way the music makes our bodies feel. Not our brains, not our minds, but our bodies. That sweet release from the relentless demands on our brains, permission to move in ways the rest of our lives does not permit, a moment of embodiment in a world that leaves us dis-embodied. A moment to heal, to say hello to our limbs, listen and respond.
And so my question:
“Why are you here?”
Whether you’re someone who likes to move to the beat or not, you’re here because it makes you feel something, something in your body.
And I thank you rave, you helped heal me.