Or more specifically dance. I come from a family of dancers. My grandparents were competition ballroom dancers long before the sport was lampooned by Strictly Ballroom and ballroom dancers achieved the status of minor celebrities as judges on shows like So You Think You Can Dance and Dancing With The Stars.
My mother is also a dancer. She's spent many years teaching people to tango, salsa and do the West Coast Swing (which is its own complete and distinct subgenre).
But am I dancer?
Until a few years ago I would answer that question vehemently in the negative. No. I am not a dancer.
Maybe my rejection of dance has something to do with a basic flaw in my nature. When people tell me to go left, it makes me long to go right. If you tell me what I can't have I only want it more. If you tell me what I should do, I will dismiss it.
Until I get there on my own.
Because recently I've rediscovered the joy that is to be found in dance. And as if that wasn't enough, the ways a body can move and be positioned have seeped into other areas of my life.
What is yoga, if not a slow elegant dance? Walking can be lyrical and running provides opportunities to leap over puddles and sashay under low hanging branches.
I'll even admit to pushing aside the coffee table in the living room. The kids and I let loose in after school dance sessions where we move our bodies to the sounds of Pink Martini. There are no technical terms, no discussions of reach or posture but there is an undisputable amount of joy.
My grandfather is no longer alive but I'm quite certain my recent love affair with dance will bring joy to my ninety-two year old grandmother. She's always insisted dance is the key to a happy life. I'm not sure if it's the only key but it definitely has a place on the key chain.