Once, I was able to walk down a dark corridor with confidence and flip the light switch ... on the first or second try.

Every message from every part of me registered in my brain. I had full body sense. I owned my entire body.

Today I place my feet carefully. I feel my way along the wall. I grope for the light switch. It’s there ... somewhere.

We call our unconscious ability to know exactly where our heads and feet and fingers are “body sense.” Neuroscientists call this sense “proprioception.” Every joint of our skeleton reports its position, every muscle and tendon reports its tension or relaxation, every hair on the back of our neck reports its angle. Proprioception operates ceaselessly, usually beneath our awareness. When we speak of property, we use a word derived from the same root. Proprioception is the process whereby our brain owns our body and our body owns our brain.

A brain structure known as the cerebellum processes all this incoming data. This body sits near the rear of the cranium. Our cerebellums make us “smooth operators.”

Our cerebellums play a central role in coordination, calculating trajectories for footballs, flying feet and fingers reaching for light switches.

My cerebellum doesn’t work quite right. Here’s why: An arachnoid cyst – a fluid-filled sac growing on the spider web-like middle brain cushion – wrought the mischief. Birth-related trauma can trigger this disorder. My cyst probably began forming after my forceps-assisted delivery in 1947.

“Your head didn’t look normal after you were born. The doctor kneaded your head,” my parents told me now and again. “He said you’d be just fine.”

Thirty-six years later, the cyst had grown to lemon size, squashing my cerebellum and threatening my brain stem, central command for respiration and heartbeat.

Electrical service to the right sector of my neural grid browned out now and then. Balance eluded me. I staggered. I fell.

I consulted a neurologist.

My neurologist suspected that multiple sclerosis was causing the mayhem. Tests revealed the arachnoid cyst. The job of dealing with the cyst fell to a New York neurosurgeon.

My surgeon performed a sub-occipital craniotomy, opening my skull at the rear, draining the juice from the cyst, surveying the damage, then closing. He reported that the tonsils of my cerebellum had been forced towards my spinal cavity, a disorder known as a “Chiari anomaly”.

My sensation and control improved in small ways following surgery. A physical therapist worked two months helping me regain my strength and balance.

My insurance company announced that rehabilitation was complete. I returned to work as an association executive.

My neurologist monitored my progress.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as each appointment began.

“With my fingers,” I retorted after two years of appointments.

“Are you working?”

“Full-time.”

“Walk for me, please.”

I tottered ten feet down the office corridor, turned and teetered back.

“Fine. I’ll see you again in six months.”

“Forty dollars, please,” said the office manager.

I refused another appointment.

A year passed. My home telephone rang.

“Mr. Hett? This is the local ballroom dance studio. I’m calling to offer you a free dance lesson!”

“Can you deal with men who are a little clumsy?”

“Why, of course we can.”

(Most men – and not a few women – feel more than “a little clumsy” as novices.)

“Well ... okay.”

We scheduled an appointment. I limped into the studio. I remained upright throughout the lesson.

“Wasn’t that fun?” my instructor asked, “Why don’t you sign up for more lessons?”

This tentative beginning turned into two-hundred-and-thirty-six dance lessons.

My dance instructors made me aware of my body again. Practice strengthened my neural pathways. Learning new and complex movements stimulated my injured cerebellum. The music touched my soul, enabled healing.

My right foot still lacks full proprioception. Data moves slowly to and from my right foot. I can only know its whereabouts for sure by checking visually. If I wish to get out of my chair, I must first look at my foot. One might say that I am obliged to walk by sight. The apostle Paul urges believers like me to “walk by faith.” I need to see where I’m going, thank you.

A dancer wishes to maintain balance, to dance with speed and grace. He must raise his chin and look up. What is a guy like me to do?

“Relax,” said my instructor, “your foot will be there when you need it. Trust me, it will.”

I lifted my chin. I raised my eyes and moved forward. My foot did its job. We floated around the room.

’S wonderful ... ‘s marvelous ...

I may walk by sight, but I dance by faith.

Trained dancers press against each other to connect. The leader communicates through this bond. He need only move in a desired direction. This connection does more for me: sensory data flows through it, making my balance sure.

Forgetting myself, I concentrate on leading my partner to a pleasant experience. We move easily ... even with grace.

“Health,” wrote G. K. Chesterton, “is the mystical and mysterious balance of all things by which we stand up and endure.”

Dance enabled me to stand up and endure.