On March 25th of last year I found myself surrounded by people I deeply admire in the middle of a blossoming, dew covered field. Miles from any cities or cell phone coverage, we were isolated but far from alone. That day, my peers and I danced in a sea of yellow and green so vast that only the steadfast mountains could contain it. I watched in awe as everyone took turns improvising beneath the bluest of skies. While my friends writhed, thrashed and raged, I couldn't help but wonder at how truly beautiful it was to see these masters at work. They danced not for the amusement of others, but rather for the sake of losing themselves in their expansive surroundings. Trading in their prestigious stage for the far more sturdy and ever humble ground. Lit not by soldered metal and pieces of glass but instead by the bountiful sun, these remarkable artists moved with breathtaking honesty, and none of them had ever been more radiant.

 Dance is not something that we need, by definition. Without it we would not starve or go thirsty.   The economies of the world would not fail if we ceased to bend and shake to soulful sounds. The policies of our politicians would undoubtedly be proposed and passed. But without dance, the world would be robbed of a sweetness…one that needs no currency or legislation. Martha Graham once stated that “the body says what words cannot”. This is certainly true, but I also believe that the body has no need to say anything. The body and its dance gives us that which words cannot. It gives us purpose.

-Do not go gentle into that good night-

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.