the dance of the ink riddled fingers

what move shall i make?

Posted in epiphany tiffany, handfuls of ambition by enisea on 16/01/2013

There was something very wrong with my current understanding of this, because I wasn’t on time – wasn’t in time.

This growing frustration, it had been for a while – for as long as I knew.

Then entered a peculiar thought. Casual but with undeniable presence. This thought was new, and she looked coolly as though she knew what she wanted and had never cared what a second thought might have thunked. She saw me in my inglorious dance, it was hard not to.  In a place where everyone else looked able to move to the steady beat, I wasn’t one to compliment the multitude.  This one beat seemed to have me tripping and smiling, but for the most part, disappointed – I yearned to know it and I loathed it for humiliating me.  I hadn’t successfully kept up with a steady/consistent beat in any session I’d ever participated in.  But I was an optimist! An idealist, a dreamer and a hopeful; and so had come to know Denial well enough to know that it wasn’t a thought I’d fancy befriending. Don’t get me wrong, I had improved my steps much since the last try. I had gradually quickened my feet and this fed me slivers of satisfaction.  Yet my failure to keep up for the most part with the beat, with at least one of life’s simple beats  – an entire session of life’s different genres – made it fantasy and fairytale.  That was my happy ending.  That was the one thing I couldn’t do. I couldn’t keep up with life – not well enough to be considered a good dancer.  Heaving in breaths, sometimes utterly exhausted, disheartened, still I would try and try… stepping out of time, being late and leaving a fellow dancer in a lurch. Oh the number of others I had ruined timing for or disappointed and such… was a sad number.  I had helped to get some disheartened others back into the dance, and that was beautiful to be a part of… but I just wanted to be able to dance right – for once in my life.

I digress. This other thought, she walked slower than the others but had covered more ground than they had over the last sixteen beats and interrupted my frustrations with her straight face. “You’re not a beat person” she said frankly, to which I merely held gaze in reply.  There was nothing for me to say – I couldn’t defend myself and found no wit to counter this hard statement.  I blinked, waiting for another attempt at reciprocal conversation.  Then it came, the words fell like rain on the dry cracks on my exhausted understanding. “Have you tried rhythm?”

Have I tried rhythm?

It made sense, all this time I felt like clumsy fingers over traditional structures, slipping here and there to a poor excuse for sight reading.  I had done something right to bluff my way through each new part of life, “passing” despite what failure had always anchored me in inadequacy.

But it wasn’t me. It wasn’t the point. The point wasn’t moving regimentally to a common beat, it was finding freedom. It was being free to choose which of the many rhythms within the welling orchestra of life’s colours, one decided to dance to. For there were many layers of rhythm.  Rhythm was a brilliance of colour that gave way to different rhythms here and there, coming together and pulling apart, moving in and out of the beat.  The heart beat.

The terror entered only when an insecure someone or other would try to take the freedom. In either trying to stop others dancing or insisting that everyone dance the same way – that was when the floor was no longer a safe place.  A few, by some twisted idea, even tried to eliminate the music altogether – which could not be done.  Some would laugh at others, and others still thought their steps were more sophisticated and developed than that of others.  The dictatorship of propagating one particular dance – that was/is the greatest tragedy, as it made the majority contagious of insecurity.  But there was not merely one rhythm or one dance. There were many.  And not one was above the other.

Not on this floor.

Where there are no fools, where there are none to judge another.  The influential ones being the ones who inspire others to be braver, the ones whose dance is so uncontained, so unconforming but absolutely admirable!  Theirs was so to not overshadow but unto God, dancers who dance upon injustice. Unashamed. Children who would not dance for popularity, or for reward, but who would dance because of their love for it. Where every participant is a creator.  Where the game is to make as many people smile or laugh or try something new as possible. Where there is no such thing as too far gone.  Where nobody ever confuses their dance with that of another.  Where the embarrassed and hurt are not pressured but given the time they need to gain confidence and little by little, learn to move again, freely.

A great grace is that we all hear different rhythms.  The greatest grace being that we all get to dance with Love.  We just get to decide whether we want to or not.  And you really ought to tell them, the others, just how beautiful their dances are and how much their movement impresses you.  Because lately, all we’ve been hearing is how everyone else is doing it wrong.  Tragedy, that.

Dance freely and love others.

Move it.

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