Bellydance (raqs al-sharqi, beledi, danse orientale) is an ancient art form of, by, and for women, handed down from one generation to the next over the centuries.  Born in the family and nurtured there, it's a sharing experience of music and movement.  The dance has many names and my places of origin, distinctive and unique to each culture; Persia, Egypt, Turkey, Lebanon, Greece, The Gulf, Morocco, Spain, the tribes of Romani, Saudi, northern Africa, India.   As different as each woman whoever danced.

It isn't a strip-tease designed to elicit lust and it isn't about showing off a marginally clothed body.  It is sensual rather than sexual and as such deals as much with emotion as with the body.  It isn't just for the young, thin and beautiful.  It isn't even just for women anymore.  Men can and do dance.   
 
 And so do I.  

For me, getting started was an impulse.  Driving down Sprague Avenue, I saw a sign at the local dance studio offering an evening class in beginning bellydance.  My daughters pointed it out and giggled at the idea of Mom doing something outrageous.  At first agreed with them ... and then I thought about it some more.  I drove past that sign dozens of times before I worked up the nerve to turn in and ask for information.  I signed up before I left the building, telling myself I could always change my mind later. 

The idea of that first class was so daunting!  What if I wore the wrong clothes?  What if everyone knew what they were doing except me?  What if the teacher took one look at me and saw through my false courage and knew I didn't belong there?  What if they watched me? 

What if they laughed at me? 

I was 37 years old, 40 lbs. overweight and a mother of three children--including a teenager--with knees ruined by years of competitive sports and depressed by the recent discovery of arthritis in my hip.  I didn't belong here.  I wasn't young, I wasn't thin, and I certainly wasn't beautiful.  All this ran through my head as I stood in the lobby, frozen outside the studio door.  The lobby was full of mothers and grandmothers, probably waiting for their daughters to finish ballet or tap lessons.  I belonged with them--waiting--instead of inside that studio, doing. 

Then the studio door opened, and those mothers and grandmothers went inside, and I followed.  Some wore sweat pants, while others changed into elaborate costumes.  One woman in her late sixties donned a beautiful silk caftan and coined hip scarf, her long gray hair flowing down her back as she moved to the warm-up music.  All ages, sizes, shapes and degrees of ability.  Maybe I did belong, and maybe I could learn. 

Over the course of months, I did, and as I learned the doubts--and the weight--slipped away, both due as much to my improved vision of myself as to the exercise, I'm sure.  My mobility also improved and the chronic pain lessened, thanks to the teacher's insistence on correct posture and form as well as her sensitivity in accommodating individual needs.  Eventually the class dwindled in size, then was canceled for lack of numbers.  I continued on with private instruction and next week will be starting in a new class with a different teacher.  It's become such a core piece of my life that I cannot imagine not dancing. 

I dance for myself, and for/with friends.  I admire and applaud the professionals, and attend dance events whenever possible, but I'll never be a public dancer.  I wish I could tell you that dancing made me young, thin and beautiful.  Hardly.  But it makes me feel that way, and that's more than enough for me.