“We’d been crying a lot, and some David Bowie came on. “I have this beautiful memory from when right after Rayya was diagnosed,” Gilbert says. But the dancing? That started as a way to cope with the loss of her partner, Rayya Elias, who died in 2018 of pancreatic and liver cancer, at age 57. Over the last year, movement has been an important way for Gilbert to break herself free of this mindset. “Most people like us,” she gestures to me, so I assume she means writers more generally, “think of our bodies as a broomstick that carries our brain jar around.” “I do a lot of weird shit on my own,” she tells me with a laugh. Gilbert dances with the loosey-goosey, arms-akimbo, leaving-everything-out-on-the-floor abandon you discover when you’re dancing in a room by yourself to Motown. Not the graceful steps she might have retained from a childhood ballet class, which she assures me she never took. Elizabeth Gilbert has recently taken up dancing.
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