Dance

This is a strange post because it is about the dead parts of something that just breathed anew in my life.

Dance has played a strong influence in my life, stronger than I realized until this week. I was walking to Spiritual Sunday Cinema at the Moore's with Rachel (Alternative Sunday School had just finished) and she asked me about stuff I was doing this semester. I mentioned folk dancing and she asked if I had ever danced before. I replied that I had not really. Just a little bit with show choir. I've realized I deceived her unintentionally.

Show choir was an unforgettable part of my life. I loved every bit of it. Each year was fun, I loved the people I got to serve with, and the audiences were so special to me. It was relaxing and energetic. I wouldn't say I was great at it, but I did my part and I learned a lot each year. Working together. Feeling the pressure of a performance. The many lunches together. And the smiles. It was so amazing. Show choir helped me feel confident in my singing and dancing and acting. I got to be a leader and a helper. But this was not my only experience with dance before this year.

Sufi dancing has come up several times in the last few days between classes and conversations. I felt such a power from those nights. Total emptying of everything I carried. Trance-like at times. The purity and peace of giving yourself completely to something. I remember dancing on New Year's Eve of, I think, 2007. For one long dance I was with a stout, elderly man. He looked a fair bit like Gimli. I noticed he had a strong aroma about him, kinda like someone who hasn't bathed in a few days. But it wasn't unpleasant, it was just very layered. Acrid on top, but there was a deep musk to it, which I found very pleasant. And yet some other scents I can't really define. Something that could have only come from hard work was there. I can't think of many moments I've breathed more deeply. That kind of freedom and peace and acceptance is what Sufi dancing gave me. The experiences peaked when I met Asha and she changed me in so many ways. I will always be thankful for them.

One lovely summer Ruby called me and asked if I'd be available for a few weeks. I said sure and asked why. Apparently her father had an intern from Kazakhstan who happened to have won their national ballroom championship. Ruby asked if she could take some lessons from the lady and she said sure if she could find a partner and that is how I came into the picture. It was so difficult but so much fun. We never had many lessons and I certainly felt awkward and slow, but it was a challenge and I found peace in trying. It taught me that there are things I have to practice if I want to be good and that I can become good at things that I practice.

And now I folk dance. This semester is void of a few joys I have, science and singing being the most prevalent. But they have been replaced by folk dance. I sweat every time we practice. It's intense. We jump and kick and bounce and spin without stop. It's so much fun. And even in just a couple weeks we're all rather close. The guys get along. The girls are great. We can all laugh at our mistakes. It's low stress but greatly rewarding. What amazes me is that every song has a dance. Every song in every culture. And many of these cultures still teach everyone these dances and songs. One of our instructors, on her mission, met a Polish woman who promptly tried to end the conversation. She asked if the woman was Polish, guessing by her accent, and she respond that she was Polish. Our instructor then started talking about these Polish dances that she knew. The lady was so excited that she dragged both girls inside and talked with them for quite a while. Understanding someone's culture shows them that even though you do not know them you care about them. Dance and music is the percussive heartbeat of so many cultures. Who doesn't have happy memories of dancing when you were younger? If you don't, you should try folk dancing because you'll make them now.

The Several Fails in the Tales of Lucy Gale pt. 4

Salt crusts the window, refracting the light,
(she'd never clean it, she hated the view)
breaking his promise and dimming her sight.
She left it dirty to hide hopes she knew.

They'd now been apart more than together.
Each hopeless dawn somehow brightened her day,
but fleeting light did not help her weather
and the cold, empty rooms were not okay.

As weeks turned to years it weakened her care,
but she missed the mornings with steaming tea.
So some part endured and she kept her stare
through troubled tides and the mountainous sea.

Inside and out it is crusted with salt
from the waves and the tears which never halt.

The Several Fails in the Tales of Lucy Gale pt. 3

Every day, young miss Gale would take a walk amongst her fair city. No one else knew why she called the city fair, most people were scared by the town's reputation and some even cringed at the name, but she loved it there. Every night the rivers brought a breeze through town so even though it was exhaustively hot during the summer days, you could always throw open your windows at night and enjoy the cool moisture. It was an old place too so every few blocks you had a change of scenery. Every building was unique and every street seemed to have a different style, a different purpose. Even today, as she walks or feels a particularly pleasant rush of air, she thinks back on this home often.

On one particular day Lucy had the lovely chance to go walking for a couple hours before lunch. Her time was almost spent though and she was heading home. Lucy loved walking with a companion and had one with her that day. Her companion was not having a good day and really wanted to get home for lunch so Lucy was doing her best to accommodate her friend by traveling swiftly. Except, Lucy had a wonderfully terrible (or maybe terribly wonderful) habit of talking to strangers on all these walks of hers and today was no different.

To get to her friends house they would have to travel over a small bridge. It traversed a small, man-made creek. During the night, with the darkness and local ruffians, it was a seemingly creepy place, but during the day it was peaceful. It was small, covered, and provided a nice view of the creek which often housed a heron and some fish.

The most important part of this tale happened right before the bridge on this particular day though. As Lucy companion was trying to hurry home, Lucy spotted a woman on the other side of the road and just instantly wanted to meet her. No rationale, she just thought it would be nice to talk. As she started to cross the street she started thinking about her friend who was very hungry and she hesitated. Then the road was filled with carriages. Then she worried if it would make the other woman uncomfortable. Then she made another excuse. Then another. Then...she was too far away to do anything but watch the next event.

It was not just a woman walking on the other side of the street. She was dragging a little girl (they bore a striking resemblance) and some luggage (which looked a little haphazard and hurriedly packed). Then the large man rode up alongside her in his carriage. He shot his head out the window and started screaming at her. Lucy could not really hear what was being said except, "Get in!" being yelled by the man. Lucy was stunned. Hundreds of what ifs flooded her mind. Even more were the questions about why. What if she had talked to this woman when she first felt she should. Why was she leaving her husband and taking her daughter. Why did he want them back. Would anything last. How long until the next fight. What could she have done for her. Would it have helped.

Then her companion turned around and got frustrated at her for slowing down. So, they hurried home and didn't talk to anyone else until after lunch.