I can't stop the feeling...so just dance
And other things I learned from jiggling about to Justin Timberlake
Morning pages is a practice I’ve more or less stuck with for more than a year now: allowing my thoughts, fears, ramblings and dreams to pour from my pen onto the page. It’s a potent and self-compassionate way of sifting through my inner world and moving into into action. There are only so many times you can write the same thing, and not get tired of yourself.
But lately it’s left me feeling less inspired than usual. I’ve put it down to January blues, but I’m not sure that’s the whole picture. Daily writing helps me make sense of what’s swirling around inside my head, but without moving my body, I get stuck there.
I first danced at home, almost six years ago [not including popping on a bit of J Lo and doing the housework Mrs Doubtfire style]. In my mind, dancing, wasn’t a solo sport. It meant going to a Salsa or Ceroc class. It was date night with my husband-to-be, it’s how we met after all.
I was also grappling with a chronic case of imposter syndrome. It was the early days of my freelance coaching career, and it was taking at least half an hour to psyche myself up before each coaching call. After each meeting, I needed to lie down in a dark room to recover.
Thankfully, my own coach at the time, Susannah, didn’t accept my suggestion of waiting another three years until I felt ‘ready.’ Instead she asked what would help me get into a more resourceful state before each meeting. I suggested taking some deep breaths and meditating for a minute or two. My hollow answer took a moment to register with both of us.
“Or you could dance?” she said. “I know how much you love dancing.”
The next morning, I double-checked the living room blinds were firmly closed. It was nine o’clock. My first call of the day was in thirty minutes. I had nothing to lose by giving it a go.
I got this feeling inside my bones It goes electric, wavey when I turn it on
Justin Timberlake’s lyrics weren’t as convincing as usual, but I half-heartedly jiggled my hips nevertheless.
All through my city, all through my home We're flying up, no ceiling, when we in our zone
Sh*t. There were no curtains at the back of the house. Dog walkers on the lane behind our tiny garden could peer straight into the kitchen, through the glass on the living room doors, to my make-shift dance floor if they wanted to.
I decided it was unlikely.
I got that sunshine in my pocket Got that good song in my feet
My shoulders came to life, gently rotating in turn.
I took a long, slow breath.
I feel that hot blood in my body when it drops
My body was in charge now. It sprung to life in a way that was familiar and unfamiliar all at once. I felt like a girl, before I learned ballet, or tap, or modern and learned what were deemed to be the proper steps. I felt wild. Free. Alive.
My body’s instantaneous Yes to being permitted to move in whatever way it chose was almost overwhelming, but I surrendered to it. My arms spread wide, my head thrown back. I covered every inch of the floor.
I can't stop the feeling
So just dance, dance, dance“Yes,” my arms whispered. “Do this!”
“Yes,” My feet, my thighs, my shoulders, my hips, every part of me whispered again and again.
“ This… do this!”
Who was I to disagree?
I was utterly free. Higher and higher I flew, held by the music. I wanted to stay here forever, in this place, where I was enough.
At the end of the track, I dropped to my knees.
Was this kind of pleasure really possible? On a Tuesday morning during business hours? Fully clothed, right here on the living room carpet with its crumbs from yesterday’s TV dinner and boxes of Lego stacked in the corner?
The resounding Yes I heard from deep within me had me stay on my knees, hot tears pouring down my face.
So that’s how it started. My daily dancing date with myself. It became a non-negotiable, whether I was working or not. At the weekends when the kids and Mark were at home, I pushed the dirty linen basket against the bedroom door and found five minutes. That’s all it took. Just me, my earphones and my playlist. It cast a magic spell on my day.
Six years on, it isn’t always like the first time, but often it is.
As I’ve stuck with this practice, it’s evolved. It’s less about ‘feeling more confident’ in advance of specific events, and more about feeling connected to myself.
When I feel less energised, it’s hardly ever about slapping on a smile, but it can be, when I slip into believing that’s the only way to get through the day. But usually it’s about honouring how I feel. When I’m sad, or lonely, or sluggish, I dance to music that reflects that, and move my body slowly. Gently. In the way that it wants to.
The act of doing so gives me permission to feel what is happening. To allow more of myself. Doing so yields answers to questions I didn’t know I had. Wisdom that no amount of journaling would access.
When I don’t dance my body is tighter. I shrink a little. There’s a gnawing incompleteness. Like when you drive down the street and wonder if you’ve locked the front door. I’m less able to enjoy and appreciate the good in my life. I worry about things that haven’t happened yet, that might never happen. I become consumed by the injustice, destruction, and heartbreak I see the world around me, that I have little power to affect.
But dancing shrinks my fear to manageable levels and wakes another part of me up. A bolder, creative, more hopeful part of me. The part that’s the opposite of powerless. Everything makes more sense with that part in charge. I’m more generous towards myself and others. More loving. More able to offer my gifts.
I need both: morning pages, and my morning playlist. Some days I need one more than the other, it doesn’t have to look a certain way. I can drive to the office and dance around before my first call of the day. I can write on the sofa in my pyjamas before my family wakes. Or the other way round. It doesn’t matter. Those two practices can do a little jig together, and hold me in their arms.
It’s easy to fall into the trap of either/or thinking, or to follow someone else’s advice to the letter - a teacher/guru/trusted advisor - and ignore your own instincts.
But there is no exact formula, or method, or one way that anybody else can define for us when it comes to living our lives. There is value in trying different things that call to us, solidly committing to them, and being curious about what they bring us. But we can also mix and match and make our own rituals. Tune into ourselves and notice what enlivens and nourishes us, discover what fits with the practical realities of our lives. When we do this, who knows where it may lead.
A journaling prompt/enquiry…
If you enjoyed the missive above, here’s an invitation:
What brings you joy/enlivens you/has you feel alive?
What form might a tiny teaspoon of that, each morning, take?
If you choose to put this into practice, what do you notice?
What else is nourishing/inspiring me
Glitter and Biscuits is four months old….Yay! Will you help me celebrate?
I’m celebrating a mini-milestone: showing up every week, for one third of a year (with one small break whilst I digested mince pies and Turkey). I’ve never shared my creative self with such consistency, and am learning much along the way.
Thank you for choosing to be part of this journey, for sprinkling some of your time and attention in this direction. I do not take it for granted.
And subscribers are growing in number. Slowly, but surely. Most people find their way here when other readers point them this way…
I would so appreciate you sharing this or another letter you’ve enjoyed, with one or two people in your life. And a reminder that you are always welcome to share what I write here on social media. Thank you for considering this!
It’s hard to define what Glitter and Biscuits is, in a way that makes sense to everyone. And perhaps that’s an impossible task anyway. Someone who appreciated last week’s letter emailed me, and shared how she sees it:
“The way your personal experiences touch into universally felt moments gives everyone who desires growth and self-love permission to access it.”
That’s a better definition than any I’ve come up with so far, and may be helpful as you consider who you might invite to join us :)
As always, I look forward to reading what this week’s missive touches in you (in the comments, or if you prefer, by replying to this email.)
With love and shimmies,
Claire
Find me elsewhere:
Instagram: @clairemackinnonwrites
Website: clairemackinnon.com
LinkedIn: Claire Mackinnon
I’m rushing off to dance for 5 mins - I feel compelled!
Loved that photo of Joy on the wall of a building! 😍