I recently facilitated a day away from work for a group of passionate, committed, service leaders. They have come to trust each other as a team, looking outward toward the lives their work affects. What they haven't always done is display their inner selves to each other. Throughout the day, I asked them to do that.
We began by dancing.
"Dance your own dance," I directed, "and when you encounter another person dancing, acknowledge them without speaking. I'll dance along with you." For the first few bars, most of them got into a groove, but never looked up. As I danced, I moved through the group, looking in eyes, mirroring a motion, smiling. Measure by measure, they looked at each other, connected, laughed, and shared a few steps. About two-thirds of the way through the song they all knew, they formed a circle. One by one, laughing, clapping, each of them took the center, and danced to the applause of the others. At the end of the song, they were joined hand in hand, moving together, laughing.
I asked them how it felt. Almost every one of them acknowledged feeling awkward at the start of the dance. "I rock out at home all the time," one dancer said, "but no one ever sees me." "When you're at a club, no one looks at you," said another. "When you're at a wedding, you dance with a crowd and you know everybody, but you're never watching anyone else," said another. "There was no alcohol. I only dance after I've had a few drinks," said a participant who'd walked slowly and deliberately around the room until the circle formed, and only when invited to the center had carefully shifted to moving rhythmically. What happened? Bit by bit, they acknowledged that they decided there were no judgments; they were safe. When they dropped their self-judgment, they could connect with others and enjoy the experience together. Once they were connected, they organically came together and shared the dance.
How often do we fail to share our joy because we believe others won’t accept us? Who convinced us that laughter is only for children? When did we learn that self-expression is threatening? What made us decide to become invulnerable? Why did we decide that we were no longer simply, essentially, purely lovable, loved, and loving?
What would happen if we danced when someone was watching? What if we joined their dance? Who are we really, when we let ourselves be seen?
We began by dancing.
"Dance your own dance," I directed, "and when you encounter another person dancing, acknowledge them without speaking. I'll dance along with you." For the first few bars, most of them got into a groove, but never looked up. As I danced, I moved through the group, looking in eyes, mirroring a motion, smiling. Measure by measure, they looked at each other, connected, laughed, and shared a few steps. About two-thirds of the way through the song they all knew, they formed a circle. One by one, laughing, clapping, each of them took the center, and danced to the applause of the others. At the end of the song, they were joined hand in hand, moving together, laughing.
I asked them how it felt. Almost every one of them acknowledged feeling awkward at the start of the dance. "I rock out at home all the time," one dancer said, "but no one ever sees me." "When you're at a club, no one looks at you," said another. "When you're at a wedding, you dance with a crowd and you know everybody, but you're never watching anyone else," said another. "There was no alcohol. I only dance after I've had a few drinks," said a participant who'd walked slowly and deliberately around the room until the circle formed, and only when invited to the center had carefully shifted to moving rhythmically. What happened? Bit by bit, they acknowledged that they decided there were no judgments; they were safe. When they dropped their self-judgment, they could connect with others and enjoy the experience together. Once they were connected, they organically came together and shared the dance.
How often do we fail to share our joy because we believe others won’t accept us? Who convinced us that laughter is only for children? When did we learn that self-expression is threatening? What made us decide to become invulnerable? Why did we decide that we were no longer simply, essentially, purely lovable, loved, and loving?
What would happen if we danced when someone was watching? What if we joined their dance? Who are we really, when we let ourselves be seen?