I had spent nearly a year in Alabama. Things started out fresh and new, but as the end drew near I began to feel as though I was sifting through a slightly stagnating haze. Being the only professional tribal style bellydancer within a two hour radius gave me public recognition that I might not have received otherwise, but it also took its toll on my energy and inspiration. While soloing had taught me a great deal, I found myself constantly longing for the familiar sisterhood I’d left behind.As I watched my temporary residence grow increasingly distant in the rearview mirror I began to direct my attention to the road ahead. I allowed miles to pass by as I contemplated the prospect of the approaching future. I had been away from the bellydance community in Oregon for almost a year. The duet I had co-founded was now a troupe. While I knew the other members, I had little experience dancing with them. The Bijou Project’s culture had inevitably changed and I wondered how I would fit into the new climate.
Traveling through the four corners, my husband and I stopped briefly in Mesa Verde to stretch our legs and slow down the scenery. Walking amongst the Anasazi ruins I marveled at the longevity of their constructions. The past inhabitants of this area had used their knowledge of the environment to shape their way of life. They created villages that were sheltered from the harsh impacts the sub-arid climate, and then mysteriously vacated the area. The structures they left behind have remained intact for centuries. As I knelt down and ran my hand over the grinding bins where women once satconstricted my throat. These ruins, just as our dance, had remained intact for centuries. Structures built on such a timeless foundation could not be destroyed in the blink of a year. If a community of familiar friends greeted me, I knew I would again find my place in the village.
My first weekend back in Oregon lead me to Bend for the Unmata workshop and show hosted by Sahara’s dream. This was my first reunion with the community women I’d left during my travels south. Stepping out into the Central Oregon sunshine I was bathed in the fragrance of juniper and an endless sea of warm embraces from familiar welcoming arms. The weekend swept by quickly. Unmata’s workshop was a deliciously complex and challenging blur. The evening show forced me to question whether my sisters had bloomed as much as I perceived, or if I’d simply come to appreciate their talents all the more—I decided it was likely a combination of both. I logically assumed that this event would be the climax of my return to Oregon, and rode through those days lifted by the high that interacting with my sisters provided.
At the Unmata show Kamini and I had reunited in a choreographed duet that we’d learned separately through the grace of modern technology. All things considered it went smoothly. We had another show the next weekend hosted by the Middle Eastern Dance Guild of Eugene (MEDGE). For this event we were learning a different choreography and also planned to perform a piece of improvisation.
As the day of the show arrived I felt fairly confident about the choreography; though we had yet to practice it together, our instructional video was clear and we’d allotted time to work out any kinks before the show. I was decidedly less at ease with the prospect of improvisation. Kamini and I hadn’t really danced together in almost a year and I was unsure what issues our potentially altered vocabularies would produce.
Kamini arrived to meet me in Eugene early that day. After a few hours of practice we both felt the ease of understanding our own limitations. We decided to put practicing on the shelf, and spent the remaining time enjoying one another’s company. Basking in the warmth of the springsunshine we drank in the afternoon and all that it held. After our ritualistic primping we arrived at the Jaqua Concert Hall. It was revitalizing to see the lovely ladies of MEDGE and share such a delicious venue with them. Kamini and I prepped backstage before our set. While neither of us appeared nervous I couldn’t help but notice our pre-show hug felt more intense than I‘d become accustomed to.
Standing in the wings our music began to fill the auditorium. I breathed in the space and held it caged for a moment. Thoughts clear, I allowed the exhale to carry me onto the stage and into the warmth of the ellipsoidals above. I don’t remember who led, what moves we used, or even the duration of the song; my focus was swept away with the swirling of skirts. With each move the feeling rising within my frame became more familiar. These were not empty movements isolated in their own solitude, each one flowed into the next creating a shared gift between us.
As we moved through space and time the realization hit me that the foundations of our friendship and dance had remained unchanged. We were a sisterhood again, freely conversing in our other tongue. Circling to face each other the audience disappeared as we welcomed one another back to the communal place we’d come to know so well. With unconscious efforts my sister had led me home.
It has been said that it is the journey and not the destination that holds the true rewards. I have come to realize that both hold their own unique experiences and lessons. The two cannot be separated, or neither has meaning. In the grander context, every destination leads to a new journey, and every journey a new destination, it is this cyclical motion that propels us forward and yet keeps us together.
