A Different Kind of Religion

        Growing up, my idea of  religion was much different than the average.  On Sunday mornings, my brothers and I would wake up before church, get our salt water fix in the ocean, and then rush to our small town church to meet the rest of our obnoxiously large family consisting of six kids, a mom, a dad, a dog named roadkill, 26 chickens, 2 fish, and 4 bunnies. Only, of course, the dog had to wait outside and the chickens, fish, and bunnies did not attend. We would sit in a row, that we took up entirely, pretend to listen to what the priest was saying, and giggle and carry on hoping that mom would not give us her infamous death glare. And, no matter how embarrassed or angry mom was of us during mass, we always ended up going to breakfast as a family afterwards. 

        Up until now, it may seem that my religious experience was like many others, only what is described above was not what I considered my religion, nor is it what many of my friends considered their religion. Though Sunday mornings were spent at a church and with my family, it was not until Sunday nights that I found what my form of religion and God are, and I found that far beyond the walls of the church. 

        The artifact I found is temporary, it will not last in a physical sense, but this item made me stop and think, and it simply reminded me of where and how I found my escape from my own sick soul or where I found the “purpose of it all,” as did many others. This artifact is an ice block and inside are point shoes used by a dancer. They were found on the side of the street on 54th and 9th and are undoubtably an art-form in their form as they are photographed and in their form when they were once used. 

        On Sunday nights, after Sunday morning festivities, I found myself in a wear house.  The music blaring, the mirrors fogged, and the dancers passionate.  Religion shapes itself for a person and, with religion, one is more in tune with oneself.  Dance also shapes itself for a person— the choreography, the musicality, and the expression are all shaped around how the person dancing feels, and what is going on in that person’s life. Dance is religion. And there, in that wear house, is where I practiced my religion, it is where I found the purpose of everything, even though I still did not know what it was, I knew how it felt and there was no where else I felt more in tune with myself. 

        For a multitude of reasons, much like a sick soul,  I felt the weight of sin, I faced the presence of evil, and I felt the weight of reality. But, on that dance floor, I was able to clear my mind, lift the bourdons of those evils, and leave them on the dance floor. That room was the only place that I feared nothing at all. That room was my church and dance my religion.

        Passing those point shoes for many people may have left them with thoughts lasting less than a second, they may have looked at them and not even seen them.  But for me, for many people I know, and for many people I once knew, those shoes concealed in that block of ice are an artifact of the religion that we so heavily have depended on since our first time stepping on a dance floor.