DANCE in capital letters.

EDITOR'S NOTE: One afternoon last spring on a plane to La Guardia, a woman moved into the bulkhead seat next to mine. She put a tote bag on the floor. Peering out of the tote bag was a beautiful doll. "That's Molly," said Mary London Jackson. "I'm taking her to visit my granddaughter's doll." Mrs. Jackson pulled out a journal and began writing in it as Molly and I looked on. After a while, we began chatting, and that's how I came to find out about Mary London Jackson, ballroom dancer. --Janice Berman

I spell DANCE with capital letters. It is the most fun of anything I've ever done. Now, mind you, I haven't done this very long. It took white hair and a few wrinkles around my eyes to respond to the prompting of a friend who said, "Mary, you have to take dance lessons," and told me where to go to sign up.

Of course, I've always wanted to dance, but my devout Southern parents thought it was a sin, and I never danced. Then I married a man who said he had two left feet. I stood him up in the living room and tried to get him to move. But he just remained stolid and still like a telephone pole. Now, at this late time, after my husband has died, could I have a chance to do something I had always longed to do? Yes, here was a chance and yes, I would take it. Now, I "sin" regularly three or four times a week, with gusto and delight.

Class lessons soon moved into private lessons and I was hopelessly hooked. My first competition was a small one, but at the "Newcomer" level, I wiped up first places and received a medal for being top Bronze dancer. Then I moved up through Bronze I and Bronze II and now dance "Full Bronze" in competition. Along with dance lessons, there were trips and trips to the dressmaker to have my costumes made and fitted. My wardrobe was designed to make me look attractive without pretending that I have the body of a 21-year-old girl and to flatter the parts of me that deserve attention. Long, sheer sleeves make my arms look pretty, and I bow to the Latin dances with a short outfit that covers my body but has a rather risque slit up the side.

For about three years, my Asheville, North Carolina, dance teacher, a competent professional, taught me, danced with me at parties (along with others) and did a few competitions with me. Then I heard about a teacher in Greenville, South Carolina, some twenty miles away and I added his expertise to that of my Asheville mentor and took a weekly lesson from each one. This new teacher had been on the professional circuit and has danced at the championships at Blackpool in England. (Blackpool, how I long to go there!) I have timorously begun to do competitions with him and, so far, have come out rather well.

Competitions are fun. But more than that, the discipline of preparation adds more quickly to competence, and progress can almost be measured. Soon I'll be doing my fourth competition this year and already I'm feeling a little more secure, but not dangerously so. There is nothing like the excitement of the master of ceremonies calling out the numbers (on the men's backs) of competing couples, then his resonant voice saying, "Music, please." When the music starts, you have to dance whether you know how or not. What a thrill!

The grace and charm of dancing are beautiful to see. And that's why it hurts my aesthetic conscience to call this art "dancesport." But with the possible addition of dancing to the Olympic scene, it is understandable that someone has coined a word that fits in with that program, though dancing will always be to me an art, not a sport.

A year ago, I established a dance program at my newly found Episcopal church. Not knowing quite where I fit in, the love of my heart took over and I asked if we could have a dance class in the parish hall. Consent was graciously given, and last fall we started beginning classes on Monday nights, with my Asheville dance teacher as instructor. Looking on from my now four-year-old expertise, I watch with pride the basic steps of swing, cha-cha, rhumba, waltz, tango and other dances, and I feel like a new mother whose baby is learning to walk.

We invited experienced dancers to our Christmas, Valentine and May Day dances so that our beginners could see what the dances look like when you really learn them. Who knows what the future holds! It is amusing to me that I, with my background, should now be known to my church as "the lady who sponsors dance classes."

People often ask, "What is your favorite dance?" How can I say which one? I like them all. But, if pressed, I guess I would say mambo. Though when I hear waltz music, I think I will have a heart attack if I don't have a partner to dance with me. Some of the old waltzes are favorite tunes like "Ramona" (does anyone remember it?) and "The Wonderful World of the Young," or Chia's music for the bolero. But above all, I have a burning desire to do a solo to "Musetta's Waltz" from La Boheme. I saw professionals from England dance this at the Heritage Classic Dancesport Championships in Asheville several years ago and I thought I was knocking at the gates of heaven.

To me, dancing is a mind-body-spirit integrator and a vital part of my spiritual world. I want to share it with everyone I meet. It brings joy to the depth of my being, strengthens my physical body and nourishes my social life. I once told my dance teacher, "I want to die on the dance floor, and when that happens, don't be sad; just say, `This is what she wanted.'"

Someone made the remark that this is a wonderful story. I don't see it that way. It is just a part of getting up in the morning and doing what I love best.

Mary London Jackson was married, raised four children, bad a career in university administration and now devotes her time to music, writing and dancing. She lives in Asheville, North Carolina.