When the Floor Kisses Back: Notes from a Life in Motion
By Melissa Jones — What happens when the body becomes both translator and translated? A mover's meditation on the sacred geography of studios, where flesh learns its own language through repetition the ancient dialogue between effort and release.

by Melissa Jones
The Dance Studio
The space is a blank canvas, and I imprint my feet into the sleek marley floor. This moment is familiar, the setup fresh. My body begins to sway, waking up the engine that has been idle since its last trip. With each sway, my feet kiss the floor and my skin brushes the air. Falling deep into a meditative state, I tune into the proposed tasks that will reawaken my body today—checking them off as if my dancing body is a car getting serviced for the next trip.
With an invitation to explore curvatures, the ball-and-socket joints become more lubricated. An awareness of the space and its many planes leads me to find folds and creases. The backs of my wrists and ankles pierce through the negative space with delicate precision. My bones, dense yet malleable, begin to sponge and absorb the shock of my locomotion. Each task pulls me deeper into a trance; the movement is primal and rich. Delving further, the instructions build until there’s an influx of information, an availability in my body. My body cuts through the space—slicing, weaving, tracing—as the rhythm of my steps quickens.
A studio filled with dancing bodies becomes a playground for movement. An array of oversized, baggy fabrics, pairs of joggers—the “just right” contemporary dance pants—a rainbow of socks ready to rip from another trip to the studio. My eyes focus directly on the space, taking in what will feed my movement today. What is interesting to today’s exploration? Another dancer is drawn to linear, direct pathways, while my body opposes with circular, gooey, ropy motion. My ribs lead my torso through the space, elbows carving curves, the back of my pelvis lifting me onto the balls of my feet. I tap into the long-term memory of ballet classes, sensing the suggestion of a relevé as my right leg sweeps up, balancing and grooving on one leg. The small dance within the balance floods me with information, with possibility. As I come back down to two feet, my gaze is hazy. I can’t trace what I’m doing, intoxicated by the movement running through me. Captivated, obsessed with the motions spilling out. My body is a saturated sponge, squeezed, letting water—an enlightenment of ideas and life—run into the space.
I listen to the environment again, absorbing all the information to feed my next creation. I search and wait for an impulse, sitting in presence and patience. The longer I’m here, the more the information fills me. The more time passes, the more the ego fights its way in, pushing me back into old patterns—the familiar, the comfortable. So I move the way I did last time, a long-term memory of improvisation that feels acceptable, planned, safe—fed by the ego. My mind reconnects to the complexity of the score, listening closer for something new. An inner switch flips. Soon, my gaze feels hazy again, the movement rich and indulgent. The ego is in the backseat. I feel the high once more, infinite in choices, colors, textures, motions, tempos.
The class slows back to the primal. A body heavy with breath, skin salty with sweat, muscles stretched and sore. I leave the space with that feeling—the one that comes with dancing, that honestly can’t be described, only experienced.
The Pilates Studio
Finding my spot in the sea of equipment, I mount the carriage of the Pilates reformer. I melt into the mat, relieved from gravity. I shape my body into the setup position—heels pressing together, collarbones widening, abdominals drawing in. I press the carriage out, opening the springs, moving in and out, each repetition reawakening the same body that was at the dance studio. My dancing body, with its history of chewy, soul-feeding movements, now carries minor aches and misalignments. The afternoon Pilates session—square, straight, symmetrical—nourishes me, flushes me out, refreshes and wrings me clean.
The body centers itself, core firing—the glue to all proceeding movements. Arms reach, abdominals scoop, legs extend. I pump my arms up and down, blood traveling from heart to limbs. My brain counts the rhythm—inhale for five, exhale for five. Each repetition digs deeper. Arms reach further, navel threads tighter to spine, legs stretch another inch. My insides warm as the mind loses count, overtaken by the body’s effort. Conscious of the aches, misalignments, the lingering, the new, the unfamiliar and familiar—aware of today’s body. The mind refocuses to find the hundredth breath.
The exercises puzzle together into something whole. Each one offers something unique, connecting to the next. Vertebrae stack with each spinal articulation. Breath cleanses, energizes. Micro-adjustments refine the form. Asymmetries come into agreement. The springs sing, muscles fight under tension, strength building. Cues shape my body with precision. Mind and body in one place again. Movement grows in complexity, speed. The sixth principle of Pilates appears: Fluidity. Grace. Ease. My second dance of the day.
A new exercise arrives—the one the body needs, the mind resists. I align myself with stored memory from past attempts. Testing my effort to hold the position, muscles shaking, sweat building. A commitment to clarity and form—even as the ego tries to break this agreement. Each attempt enriches muscle memory, making the next time clearer, easier. I fall back into the chain of movement, setting exercises into the body, collecting memories of positions, tensions, control points. Until once again, I’m a sweaty body—muscles strengthened, bones realigned. Leaving the studio a second time today, fatigued and energized.
To the Studio,
Thanks for being the place that promises structure.
Routine & repetition.
Where I test my own promise to it.
Where keeping this promise gifts me the passing of time.
The indulgence in form.
A state of healing & harmony, every time.
Where the ego may sneak in to break this promise—
And I learn better how to fight it.
How you promise that if I stay a little longer,
Search a little more—
I can find safety & let go once more.
Pain dissolves, and I feel whole.
In the movement for the body.
And the movement for my soul.
That if I come in ready to discover,
With inner alertness—an exclamation mark—
Wondering where to be placed in the story that unfolds,
You give me a notion.
A burst of inspiration every time I enter your space.
Sometimes brief.
Sometimes prolonged.
And more often than not, you send me off with the notion to go—
To the spaces I enter after leaving you,
Carrying me through the rest of the day.
It’s the flow state—
The one I’m forever lucky to experience
In the ritual of the studio.
Sincerely,
A mover
Melissa Jones is a professional dancer and certified Pilates instructor based in New York City. She holds a BA in Dance with a minor in Biology from Marymount Manhattan College, where she graduated with a Gold Key Honorable Mention in Dance Wellness.