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You know those things you do that you instantly regret? This was one of those. I am no stranger to the ill-advised exploit (just see my last blog post for proof), but somehow that gnawing knot of trepidation in my gut never stops me.
This particular incident requires a little bit of context. I have been folk dancing since 5th grade, and I’m just about to graduate from college, so that would be…12 years now (God, I’m old). I’ve danced in many different traditions, mainly Irish, English, and Appalachian, but I also know a couple Danish dances, which are some of my favorites, and at one point I knew an Australian folk dance, which was really different and a lot of fun. Anyway, when my family moved to Berea my freshman year of high school, it opened up a huge new door for me. I had been dancing as a hobby in previous years, but the expansive folk community in Berea allowed me to deepen my involvement. After a couple years in my new dance group to get my feet under me, I went to my first CCDS.
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It was England, 2014, just as the new flower buds were beginning to come in. I was immersed in my study abroad program (the London Dramatic Academy, a semester-long conservatory) and the days were long and hard. Soon, though, we had the promise of a short reprieve—spring break. For a week, we would be free. Now, while my fellow actors quickly planned trips to the big cities of Europe—Rome, Paris, Copenhagen, and more—I felt myself pulled towards a different route. I wanted to get out of the metropolitan hustle and bustle, to see the English countryside, experience English country culture, and just stop moving for a while.
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