Before a quick story, I want to say that this weekend was quite interesting (which is better than "fun" or even "exciting"). I went to a thrift store and bought a bunch of plaid shirts, with the influence of my artsy friend. So funny, a thirty-something year old man working at an investment bank combing through second-hand clothes in search of gems. But that's really how people make money on Wall Street, combing through all the junk to find gems, except that they make billions out of that scavenger hunt while I got to spend invaluable time with one of my favorite people. But putting love aside, I was amazed how these shirts brought out so much color in me. I am happy to be going in that direction, direction of color as a means to reveal more of ME!
And, oh, today I did something bad at work, probably cost the company over ten thousand dollars. I mean, that's nothing compared to how much I am sure some traders lose on a day, but presumably, if they still have their jobs, they also make millions more. Anyway, let's see if I still have a job tomorrow!
Now, some private reflection through the eyes of an observer.
In his new shoes, his new clothes, in his new attitude, he walked in to the milonga. Wow, so many people, he thought. He didn't really want to come. He had just returned from a stressful meeting that made his transition out of his little town even more stressful. But he came because a friend of his was DJing, and he felt he had to come. But was it really for his friend, only? Or even for his friends? What does it mean, "friend"? Who was he counting? His usual dancers weren't there. But he sat down anyway, looked around, and saw a woman who used to be his friend. They were close. They went hiking together, he sang tango songs to her, told her what they meant. She did a lot for him, more than most women did. Somehow they were just friends, and even less explicable, they stopped being friends.
But when he saw her, he felt love. Love that was for the community in general. He was leaving them, leaving them all. In fact, he didn't know if he would see them again. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that he felt love, starting with this woman, who had been shy to look at him, the big snob who didn't dance with people from his own little town except with his closest friends, the snob that didn't do more than just say "hi". But that armor of snobbery was laid to rest tonight. He felt love. He asked her in the most enthusiastic way he had felt in a long time. Her face brightened up like the sun in this otherwise very dimly lit hall. He didn't question if she was any "good", didn't ask why she couldn't follow. He held her in his arms and moved to the music knowing how much for those fifteen minutes they were enjoying each other's company.
When the set was over, she asked, a little uneasy, "Are we done?"
Without thinking second thoughts he said, "I'd love another one." He was on drugs. He was in love with this community he had not really felt connected to for a while. He was sorry only that he had come so late because of that meeting, and now there wasn't much time left. There were all these people he wanted to dance with. Some were new, but those he had stuck around with, and abandoned a little recently, meant a lot to him. Compared to New York these people were decent, were simple, were loving. He knew that they didn't love him because he has improved immensely. He has been with them for over five years. Even if he weren't the treasurer of the club, an organizer, and just a frequent dancer, they would have still missed him.
However, what mattered now was that he would miss them. He didn't want to. He didn't really want to come tonight, not because he felt too important for them, but because he didn't really want to reconnect with a community that had left also bitter memories in his heart. Too many women have failed to see him for more than just a tango dancer trying to be better. And in his bitterness he wanted to avoid everyone altogether. But somehow, something else a little more powerful than cynicism reigned and brought this love to his battered heart. He felt close to this woman, and the women after her. He held them truly in the most loving way he could imagine tango was about.
He left the milonga feeling grateful for whatever impulse had let him go beyond his cynicism. While he has been looking forward to moving to New York, becoming a part of the tango community there and continuing to improve his tango even more rigorously than the past five years, he was tonight reminded of the simplicity of tango that transcended beyond practicing, beyond improving, beyond showing off and competing. This little town, this community, reminded him that it is always through simplicity in life that love rises most readily from the ashes of cynicism and hatred.
After he had already changed his shoes, a dancer he almost never danced with asked if he would be in the next practica. Instead of seeing a woman who never kept her balance and therefore made the dance very uncomfortable, he saw someone he would miss, someone whose personality he found peculiar at best now he thought he would miss. So in his rubbery new shoes he invited her to dance and in those same shoes they danced. If you don't know tango dancing, you should know that even for a man (and much worse for a woman), rubber-sole shoes are hard to dance with. But none of that mattered. He was again in love. She told him that the community will miss him, that it would be a loss. There was no sentimental "Oh, but I will come back!" or "Oh, you're just saying that." There was a sincere, "Thank you, that means a lot to me."
Simplicity also means about the present. Never about looking at the past, at the demons, especially, that have whipped the scars on your heart. And neither is it about the future, when he would come back, perhaps next week, perhaps not. For him, his ebullience of love was felt because he was present, because he appreciated with nearly a bottomless well of love the connection he made with this simple community. He thought about other people who used to dance here a lot but have moved to New York too. He hoped he would never feel "free" of this community, but rather, keep it, its people, forever in the rhythm of his heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment