I recently found myself at an event called BioDance. Never heard of it? Neither had I. But the invitation had a few tempting keywords—outdoors, beautiful private property, music, dancing, and a bring-your-own-food setup. Sounded innocent enough. I thought I was signing up for something vaguely between a picnic and a house party.
What I got was… something else entirely.
The place was nice—private, quiet, plenty of open space. People arrived, paid, stashed their food and drinks in the fridge, and milled about, doing the pre-event small talk shuffle.
Things kicked off with music and light dancing—holding hands in a circle, switching partners, smiling politely. It felt like the warm-up round at a community dance class. But soon enough things moved into what I can only describe as full-contact vulnerability.
The event was “guided” by a very earnest couple, who encouraged us to express our essence, honor our personal journeys, and practice self-love—with strangers. And not in the self-help-book way. In the stand still while someone gently touches your face to the beat of a gong kind of way.
At one point, we broke into groups of five. One person stood in the center and declared, “This is what I have to offer.” Some said peace. Others said serenity. I, went first, was unprepared. You were supposed to whisper, no one told me. I spoke up and feeling vaguely like a contestant on The Price is Right, I blurted, “I have all kinds of things to offer, a reason to wake up in the morning.” Which I guess is true, depending on the day.
Then came the interpretive dancing games. One where half the group ran around while the other half stayed frozen like spiritual statues. When the music stopped, you locked eyes with whoever you were facing and gave them an “experience.” I defaulted to a childhood clapping game: Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar? Not exactly peak spiritual transmission, but it got a laugh.
As the evening wore on and the bonfire raged (note: we were in the middle of a heatwave), things got progressively sweatier and, let’s say, moister. Hugs got longer. Touches lingered. Cheeks pressed. Bodies melted into each other in ways that felt more like a silent nightclub than a healing retreat. By now, people weren’t just dancing—they were practically slow-cooking in each other’s armpits.
Which brings me to the part no one talks about. Amid all the “healing” and “connecting,” there was a distinct undercurrent—let’s call it romantic opportunism. Some men, let’s be real, weren’t just there to align chakras. They were there to meet women. And when you’re dancing cheek-to-sweaty-cheek under the guise of spiritual awakening, the conditions are ideal for bypassing small talk and diving straight into… well, personal space.
To me, it started feeling less like a sacred gathering and more like holistic speed dating to music. Everyone pretending they’re on a path to enlightenment, but also maybe hoping to manifest a girlfriend or boyfriend by the end of the night. And hey, no judgment—if that’s your vibe, own it. But let’s not pretend this is all just about “energy work.”
Look, I’m no stranger to free love and experimental gatherings. I came of age in the ’70s and lived through the ’80s. I’ve done the barefoot dance. I’ve had my fair share of mystical experiences, questionable partners, and impromptu candlelit circles. But even I have my limits. Especially when it comes to unsolicited intimacy and swapping body heat and perspiration with 50 strangers like it’s part of the detox.
All that said, the property was decent, the wine was chilled, and the moonlit pool was begging for a midnight dip (though sadly, nobody jumped in). I met a few genuinely lovely people. But if I ever go again, I’ll bring a fan, a towel, and one of those little Victorian dance cards—so people can take a number and we can all keep our intentions in check.
Words Have Power 