I Saw a Woman Dance
Beate Sigriddaughter
Winter it was. It didn’t leave me cold that year. I was ready. Even my past seemed warm.
Blue Witch, my guardian mood, stood by, convinced that even she could benefit, or, failing that, might comfort with blue magic. She would take gold from the past or gold from the future and make it flare for me like fountain fireworks into the nights where I was leaning, shivering against the many edges of the world, too proud to ask: May I come in?
The price of blue magic? Distance. A fair price it was. Nearness could not, like that, spill up into the night.
At the dance floor I stood. Minutes bled into the music. Women, men bent, two by two, into the rhythm. Lovely. Others stood at the edge with me.
Some arms moved: Dance! Some knees bent. Dance! But at the edge all eyes, and my two eyes, were haughty and too proud to ask: May we come in?
Heart fluttered, desolate, regretting that we are all so very shy. The one we might ask would laugh, or suddenly be claimed by jealous lover, slapping down the innocence of asking. And some cold eyes had not yet warmed enough to open and to meet. And still the minutes bled into the music, louder.
Blue Witch tested her wings. Do you want to come with me? she asked.
Come where?
Home. Where I would weave you songs into the night like stars.
Of course not, I said.
Then go and get yourself a glass of cider.
All right. I sipped obedience to vanity, looked busy, had something to do, something I could do well, and alone. I may not get to dance tonight, but all the same, it’s lovely here, I protested in surrender.
I didn’t mean to imply that, Blue Witch said. If you must dance, you will.
Or something. I couldn’t hear blue knowledge suddenly, the music flowing down into the minutes, startling, caressing, flooding through and through.
I saw a woman dance.
Young Artemis was she. She came here to dance. And danced. Alone. With the same grace with which she might choose to be in the mountains, alone, snow drifting simply from slow clouds, or waterfall rushing in summer.
And I saw my life gliding. Not always alone. But sometimes. Choosing. Tall oak over forest. Wild rose over gardens. The dance over What-is-your-name.
Suddenly I too was dancing, effortlessly and alone, close to her curls catching light, catching fire from her presence, a ribbon of air.
Teacher? I asked.
Not I, said her dancing. Not now. Call me dancer.
Fragile she seemed, like a willow in wind, and fast, like lightning, like storm.
Always I watched her that night, dancing alone, dancing with others, her laughter, the shape of her smile.
Blue Witch was breathless with joy. What will we call this magic? she asked. Look what I caught you, gold from the present.
Later, I said. I can’t bother with names now. Blue Witch agreed.
I drank from the voice of the dancer. A bird crying up into morning. A lake humming low against shore.
I must give her something, I thought.
Then hurry, Blue Witch said.
Excuse me, I said to the partner I had for the moment. I wove through the bodies and touched the dancer’s arm at the stairway, already her scarf gliding on.
“You dance well,” I said. She knew this. The dance floor would miss her. Now she laughed with me, accepting the gift.
Blue Witch was holding raw gold with her wings. The fire of life was mine.
Working Notes
I wrote “I Saw A Woman Dance” many years ago. A woman who had campaigned for months to pry me out of heterosexuality had just kicked me out weeks after I committed the rest of my life to her, twice (I was briefly reinstated). I spent a lonely winter—followed by a lonely four years –and went to that one dance, by myself. There I was mesmerized by the dancer of the story.
Seeing her dance by herself gave me an inspiring image to hold on to while I faced being alone. She also gave me a positive image in the face of the many restricting rules I had internalized—for example, a self-respecting woman does not dance alone, and what’s more, she has to be asked to dance. The dancer I watched dropped the seed that “it doesn’t have to be that way.” While I had seen women dance alone before, I simply hadn’t paid enough attention.
In time I went on to become a professional ballroom dancer myself, relatively late in life, but with enough success to safely say that it was worth it. I remember smiling about a youngster who once informed me in a dance studio where I taught that, at fourteen, she was now too old to become a proper dancer. Of course I didn’t laugh straight into her face; she was far too solemn in her unexamined convictions. I just trusted that she would learn more.
I know there is an element of hiding the truth in my story. I think that’s what fiction is for, to say what can’t be said directly in order to protect self or others. In this case I think I was hiding the shame of being unwanted, but at the happy moment where shame met the courage of “you don’t need to be wanted, all you need is to do what you want.”
About the Author
Born and raised in Germany, Beate Sigriddaughter came to the United States in her teens, and now divides her time between Denver and Vancouver. She has published short fiction, poetry and essays in numerous magazines and ezines, most recently Moon Journal, Borderlands, 13th Moon. Her pro-peace novel, The New Parcival, was published in the summer of 2007 and describes women's experiences in and around war. She is also fiction editor of Moondance, a women's literary ezine. In late 2006, she established the Glass Woman Prize in an attempt to honor and reward authentic women's voices. One of Trivia's recent contributors, Mary Saracino, won the second Glass Woman Prize.
