The website was beautiful.
You know the type.
Minimal typography. Yummy colors. A vortex of sacred geometry promising transcendence through breath-work & DJ mysticism. Words like immersive, transformational, carefully curated, embodied liberation.
The DJ had credentials.
The facilitator had credentials.
Everyone had credentials.
If enlightenment had LinkedIn, these people would have ample endorsements.
My friend wanted to go.
I said okay.
I’ve been around this thing for a while.
Back in 2001 when we were shaping what would become Ecstatic Dance in the jungle of Hawaii’s Big Island, nobody had websites that looked like luxury skincare brands. We had speakers, people, movement, sweat, massive downpours and occasional moments of accidental transcendence.
So I’m a little jaded.
Not cynical.
Just… experienced enough to know that sometimes the prettier the website, the less dancing there will be.
We arrived a few minutes before start.
The room was about ten by ten meters.
Wood floor.
White walls.
White doors.
Four large windows.
Two open.
Cool breeze.
Clean.
Functional.
Not offensive.
No altar.
No flowers.
No candles.
No fabrics.
No objects suggesting anyone had lovingly touched the space before opening the doors.
A few pillows lined the wall like a waiting room for people expecting spiritual tax returns.
Ambient music played quietly through a small sound system.
Three people.
That’s who was there.
Eventually it became eight.
One DJ.
One facilitator.
Six dancers.
Six.
Interesting.
In the hallway there were four chairs and coat hangers.
I removed my shoes.
My socks.
My pants.
Changed into comfortable black shorts.
And wore my adorable new Marilyn Monroe blowing a pink bubblegum t-shirt.
Cute.
Fun.
Silly.
An attempt to inject a few molecules of joy into the atmosphere.
I entered quietly.
Started moving.
Just listening.
Feeling.
Observing.
Then I noticed something.
Two people sitting on the floor talking.
Talking.
At an Ecstatic Dance.
Not whispering.
Talking.
Like they were waiting for the subway.
I thought maybe I misunderstood.
Maybe this was pre-dance.
Maybe this was a networking mixer.
Maybe eventually someone would say -
Instead the facilitator motioned us into a circle.
Opening circle.
Cacao ceremony.
Immediately.
No musical arrival.
No easing in.
No forty-five minute warm-up set where people awkwardly rediscover their knees.
No.
Straight into ceremonial beverage consumption.
Then the windows closed.
The room got warm.
Then humid.
Then human.
For six people.
That felt ambitious.
Then came breath-work.
Conscious breathing.
Forceful breathing.
Instructions.
More instructions.
Breathing.
If I wanted to learn about breathing, I’d attend an advanced breathing seminar.
Music exists because breathing already works.
But no.
We breathed.
And breathed.
And breathed with intention.
Then the facilitator started an opening musical segment.
From his phone.
Play.
Stop.
Talk.
Play.
Stop.
Instruction.
Play.
Stop.
Interpretation.
Ten.
Maybe twelve songs.
A man manually conducting emotional traffic control.
Move like this.
Feel like this.
Release now.
Express now.
Scream now.
At one point we were instructed to scream.
And people screamed.
That’s not ecstasy.
That’s group therapy.
If someone tells me how to move and how to feel -
that isn’t freedom.
That’s choreography wearing spiritual jewelry.
Then the DJ took over.
Now.
This DJ had been praised in the promotional materials.
Musical mastery.
Years of experience.
Refined journey building.
You know.
Words.
He stood behind the controller twisting knobs with the intensity of a man headlining a warehouse party for a thousand people.
There were six dancers.
Six.
Brother.
Nobody needs this much filter sweep.
I didn’t know whether I was attending Ecstatic Dance, participatory performance art, or a breathing seminar with electronic soundtrack.
But I left with something valuable.
A reminder.
There are many ways to do this.
Many interpretations.
Many local flavors.
And maybe this one was exactly what they wanted it to be.
More power to them.
However, if you want to learn about the version I believe in -
the one that disappears so completely you forget there’s even a facilitator -
I'll tell you all about it.