Belly Roll

(Recently published in the February issue of "Natural Solutions" magazine.)

“How did I ever talk myself into this?” I mumbled as I pulled into the parking lot of our local high school. Earlier in the day, it would have been bustling with kids parading their first cars - lavished, borrowed or earned - and I never would have found a place to park. But tonight, few were bold enough to go where I dared, and I found a spot right up front. With a sigh, I willed myself out of the car and made my way toward the gymnasium. The familiar music of my Middle Eastern roots, with its exotic, tribal lure, kept me moving bravely in the direction of the door.

I decided to give our community belly dancing class a try largely because of it’s touted potential to unleash the “inner-goddess” in women who may otherwise struggle with a faltering self-image. It occurred to me recently, that my own inner-goddess was stuck somewhere between endless laundry piles and expired grocery coupons.

It was time to try and set her free.

Entering a mirrored room off to the side of the gym, dressed in yoga pants and a baggy white t-shirt, I stood out in a sea of flowing fringed skirts, coin-laden hip scarves and bare bellies. I was quick to notice that only a few of those bellies were “ripped.” I felt better already.

“Let yourself go,” teacher Sarina instructed as she began expertly moving to the music. “Remember that you are creating a piece of art.” I tried to refrain from laughing while awkwardly attempting to follow her lead as she demonstrated a snake-like move called a belly roll. It was unlikely that I’d ever become proficient in something that requires knowing so precisely where your stomach muscles are, but I gave it my best effort anyway. As the hour progressed, my inhibitions began to disappear and we became a collage of color moving to drum beats and Arabic flutes – some of us more “Picasso” than others, but art nonetheless.

After class “Sarina” sold coined hip-scarves and finger symbols called “zils” to add some more jingle to the room. I bought both.

Once home, I made sure no one was looking before standing at the full-length mirror in my bedroom and attempting one of the more simple undulations I had learned.

I had a ways to go.

I lifted up my baggy t-shirt slightly, revealing a belly that had “danced” through two pregnancies and forty years. I cocked my head to the side and gave it a once over.

And with the drop of a hip, the inner goddess in me vowed next week to dare to let some of it show.