When I wore pigtails, I twirled in a tutu and drummed taps with my feet. When I grew into my Farrah hair, I linked arms in a joyful line, my feet reinacting the folk dances of the ages. When I filled out my strapless gown and swept my hair in an up do, I spun and dipped across the ballroom with dashing, tuxedoed men.

But when I had cancer, I belly danced. When I lost my first husband to mental illness, I belly danced. When I left all I knew and loved to take on law school, I belly danced. And when I started writing novels about Life, I choreographed them as I would a dance.

For 26 years, I’ve belly danced solo and in troupes. I’ve danced on stages for crowds, and I’ve danced alone in my living room. I’ve taught classes and produced shows, put together troupes and torn them apart, and through everything, I have always been a student. Over the years, I’ve come to realize something. Belly dancing and the women I’ve met in the art have taught me the dance of Life, and that’s the dance I want to share with you.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: