Dance hasn’t cured my Parkinson’s – nothing can –
but it has reminded my body, and my spirit,
that I am still capable of movement, expression and grace.
My arms could still carve shapes through the air.
My feet, so often reluctant to move, occasionally left the ground.
It felt almost miraculous.
Dance demanded that I be visible.
That I take up space.
That I allow my altered body to be seen not as shameful,
but as capable of beauty.
The true triumph, I discovered, was not perfect steps.
It was presence.
It was standing tall and saying:
this is Parkinson’s, too.
Not just decline, not just loss –
but resilience, creativity, connection.
Words
by Ian Temple
Picture
of the English National Ballet’s
Dance for Parkinson’s Performance Company
by Henry Curtis
