See how the fearful chandelier

Trembles above you

Each time you open your mouth

To sing. Sing.

Donald Justice

In the first section in Anne Lamott’s Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith, “Dance Class,” the last essay describes her experience being a “helper” in a dance class for adults with disabilities. To me, this story, really this entire section, is about finding beauty and joy, and grace eventually, in our world. Beauty and joy bigger than our mistakes and missteps. Beauty and joy bigger than isolation. Beauty and joy bigger than ability.

I started taking dance class at the age of 5. I studied tap, jazz, and ballet until the age of 18. I was never any good but that did not matter. I loved to dance. The joy I felt while dancing was driven internally, rather than by external compliments, or being being given solos in recitals, or even by dancing in the front of the group (which was a big deal because I was always the shortest person, so being in the back made me hard to find for my family in the audience at recitals.) None of that mattered. I felt beautiful. Swept away in French words and taps shoes. Fancy in crinoline and rhinestone tiaras. I had good rhythm, which often saved me. It was my form that kept me from dancing in the front row.

Perhaps dance class was my first experience with grace – real grace that feels like a huge hug that comes at the perfect time and does not stop until my breathing quiets. I was tuned to the frequency of joy when I danced. Pure joy. Grace feels a lot like joy. There was no room for judging myself and others in dance class. Grace is judgement free, too. Dance class was a constant throughout my childhood – when things were bad and when things were good. Grace is constant like that.

Two fundamentals of grace are beauty and joy. Maybe graceful means full of beauty and joy? I like that idea. In that way, I was as graceful as a prima ballerina. In that way, the people in Anne Lamott’s dance class were graceful, too. May we all be graceful all our days.