The Dance of Dying and Rising

For approximately 16 years now, I have been a student and teacher of movement prayer, in particular Catholic liturgical movement. I have studied liturgy with gifted artists, have been hired to choreograph and coordinate danced prayer and ritual movement for national conferences, and have presented workshops throughout the United States. For the past two years, I have been co-creator of a performance concert of Christian women celebrating the experience of women of faith through music, dance, storytelling, and drama. All this, I imagined, would be a solid base of prayer for anything life would serve me. A Christian warrior, I thought, doing the good work of the Lord!

My solid base, however, proved wobbly when real life put my father in the hospital with life-threatening illness and infection. My legs were unsteady when facing fear, grief, and the changes his decline quickly brought to our family. The breath-taking shock of my dad's downhill heath spiral left me paralyzed, unable at times to move. The details of taking care of my mother, keeping up with doctors, communicating with siblings, working part-time and maintaining a semi-sane life with my husband and three-year-old had me living in my head much more than my body. Fatigue, borne of numerous trips to the hospital and overnights at the nursing home, silenced my limbs, and fear brought my spoken prayer down to its simplest terms "God, help us."

I was curious where my danced prayer had disappeared to at such a needful time, but did not have time or energy for much reflection. The overwhelming physical experience I had was the ache in my chest for this man I have loved my entire life. So strong this feeling, I was sure at times that others could notice my pain or feel it in my presence. The thought of dancing this pain as some sort of prayer seemed impossible and absurd. The beauty or gentleness of the movement seemed a betrayal to my dark, fearful feelings. Any time I would use to dance my prayer felt like a waste of precious energy that could be used to do something to help my dad. I questioned the ministry to which I have dedicated a good part of my life. My love for embodied prayer sat apart from me as if it belonged to a stranger.

As the weeks progressed into months, I rode the family roller coaster of fear, grief, hope, and sorrow. White-knuckled, we traveled to places of sadness one is only brought to by illness or tragedy. Soon those places became so familiar that I began forgetting what my life was like before his illness. Family gatherings were held in the waiting room of the ICU rather than the living room at my parent's house, or around my dad's bedside rather than around their round, wooden table. With the help of Hospice, we eventually brought my father home and settled into a new life It was not a comfortable fit but at least was home. I watched the Hospice nurses and Anna, a gentle, skilled caregiver we had hired, circle his bed over the next few weeks. Soon my family and I learned the specifics of his care and caught the rhythm we watched each day. There was a gentle, fluid movement present in straightening his covers, changing his clothes, preparing and serving his meals, and flushing his feeding tube without waking him from much needed sleep. More obvious movement was apparent in stroking his hands, washing his face, and massaging his legs. I was grateful for my body in a way I had never known.

I was happy for my strong back that could lift him, and my hands that could clean him, my ears that could listen, my body that could vigil in the chair near his bed. I discovered a dance of care that is much more beautiful than any that I've ever created or imagined. It is a dance of love, pain, sorrow, patience, frustration, fear, and joy it is a dance of life.

Much to our surprise, my dad announced recently that he was tired of being in bed and wanted to see a physical therapist. Though we were all curious at this new development, Hospice graciously arranged the meeting and a gifted therapist named Don walked into our lives. His evaluation reported that, since Dad has no problem with his physical mechanism except for weakness and arthritis, increased mobility and walking were actually possible. His confidence and skill gave my father hope, and that day a new dance began. I watched this big man help my father stand up to his full 6'1" stature and show him exercises that were inescapably dance steps. Over the course of weeks, I have seen Dad hold my husband's hands and walk side to side in rhythm reserved for miracles. I have witnessed his body and spirit strengthen in ways for which we could barely hope. So remarkable has his recovery been, including the clearing of all infections, Hospice had to sign off his care because he was improving in health rather than declining.

The dance continues each day and includes new dancers and choreography. My family has gotten used to not knowing what lies ahead. But we wait now in joyful expectation of God's possibilities. A dance, borne from suffering, commitment, and love, has woven us together, healed a body and soul, and prepared us for a future of deepening trust in God's plan.

I return to my work now, humbled by the power of the art in which I have been blessed. My inspiration is now everywhere I look... a parent struggling to soothe a frantic child, a kind receptionist offering a drink of water on a hot day, a child bringing a drawing to an unsuspecting recipient, a man pushing his mother in a wheelchair at the hairdresser, a touch on the shoulder rather than a word. The dance continues, connecting all of us in gestures of compassion. Giving and receiving, back and forth, around and around, we move with one another and with the Maker of the dance.
 

Ginny McKinley Temple, is a liturgical artist who specializes in ritual and dance. She is also a massage therapist in Scottsdale, AZ.