The Magic of the Dance

The amazing thing about this dance is what's unspoken: you're talking to someone without words. As you become a better speaker, as you find people who you can talk with more easily and often, and now and then profoundly, the conversation gets more intense, more delicate.

Think about this for a moment: what sorts of conversations do you have with people without words?

So when it works, when two people somehow make this dance work, this non-verbal communication of some fair subtlety, well.  Those are some fine moments.  They can be very affecting.  Intimate.

Tonight I met a stranger, and with barely two words spoken between us, we stepped onto the floor and we danced. From the first movement I knew it was something special.  Uncommonly smooth, slow. Velvety. As the music gathered itself and leapt, luxuriated, and wound around, I remembered why I do this insanely hard dance, with all its frustrations and agonies.  For a few dances, I felt the grace and rightness of the world.  It was a bit like being in love.

But this fellow who was a stranger before we danced and was something else after was no more to be held onto than a rainbow. So we exchanged a smile, a thank-you, and we both went on to our next partners. That's how it goes.  The moments are what you get.

And for a few glorious moments last night, it all came together. For a few moments last night, the birds sang, the flowers bloomed, and I Danced.