I believe in dance. Dance as magic, dance as cure and dance as a metaphor for life. All types of dances, all movement committed to an aesthetic of the body, of bone, flesh, blood moving in concert, infused with intuitive thought, positive vibes as Bob Marley dubbed it, thought buried in physical detail. Dancers, you magicians, Mr. Bojangles, Martha Graham, Baryshnikov — I call on you; help me with my argument.

End the mind-body dichotomy. The body speaks to the mind. You scratch my back and I will tickle your mind. Let our heads move to the groove of our spinal columns.

I grew up in 1960s Guyana and ’70s London on a staple diet of dance. In Guyana I danced to calypso or kaiso, reggae and dub, lots of hips twisting opposite matching twisting hips and laughter and sweat. My youth in England pulsed with that currency of the soul variously known as love vibes, passion fashion, boogie-woogie blues.

My body and mind unified behind a unique cocktail of socially aware lyrics and compelling rhythms. As I dipped and hopped and spun to songs that called for equality, food for all, world peace, planet love, singing as a moral project, a ministry through song to a dancing congregation.

Dance is magic. One time I threw a nightdress at my woman as we danced and all she had to do was hold up her arms for the silk dress to land a perfect fit on her perfect body, another time I danced opposite a woman and I knew from our movements of pure Euclidean geometry that she would be mine, yet another time I landed in New Zealand and Maori warriors approached me as if they would kill me where I stood, they foot-stomped, thrust spears and high-kicked, only to stop inches from my face to rub noses with me.

Dance is a cure. When I worked as a psychiatric nurse in London, a sick woman, anxious and hair-pulling and thin with worry, danced her way from neurosis to happiness in three weeks of aerobic bliss. And the nurses decompressed from the cares of their day by dancing the night