Wednesday, January 16, 2008
A Bittersweet Ode to Love
Slowly, I drowned in the music you played in my ear as i read the warmest words of love that I wouldnt yet grasp nor deserve. But the music will be played on and the words be accepted with the utmost gratitude and honor. Its always an honor to be loved, and to be loved this way, through poignant harmony of music and words that makes for a tender stroke - which never fails to capture the heart. But whatever whistle of kindness or compassion that you saw in me doesnt even level to your song, to the pinching caress of your sweet love. Thank you dear, for the privilege of being loved. I may not be able to return such richness to you today, but I pray that somebody nobler, kinder and wiser should catch you on your blissful fall. There must be one out there, otherwise, love's such a bittersweet tragedy. The future veneers itself from the naked eye. Yet friends we will always become!
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Molting
I WELCOMED the New Year in solitude.
The year 2007 came in the guise of a minor "thud" one humdrum night. I slept through most of it, rousing occasionally amid the muffled sounds of firecrackers from outside. Some time during the night, I decided to watch a movie while devouring one whole pizza and a couple of "floss" breads I had bought earlier.
Of course, I cannot recall the title of the movie now. It may have been some chick flick or a breathtaking romance I've seen far too many times and whose "happy ending lines" I have already memorized. Yet to keep the cheer of that lonely night, I remained fixed on the small screen watching hero and heroine kiss like it was for the very first time. It promised to be the highlight of my New Year's Eve.
The film's soundtrack struggled to contend with New Year's own musical score of syncopated etudes of "five stars" and other noisy firecrackers. The explosions gradually intensified as the night wore on, until it peaked, as usual, around midnight and died down by two in the morning. No clanking of calderos that night, no silly jumping in the air in superstitious yearning to add a few more inches to my height (I could have but I was too lazy that night), and no overrated TV countdowns and painful "Auld lang syne" to bear as I, alone in what used to be a charming 1950s art deco apartment in Ermita, relished how I yawned, lazed and slept, alone in utter contentment with the seeming triviality of how my New Year unraveled.
I had planned to go home that night. I even bought champagne a few days earlier and had it sent to our house in Laguna, where I was supposed to spend the New Year. Just like in the previous years, I intended to repeat the same tradition of drinking sparkling avec mon famille. Even my sister, who had stayed away from us for many years, decided to show up and join us for the season. Subtly rebellious as I know she was, she preferred staying with my mom in the province to avoid "family affairs."
But I never went home that night; I decided not to. Dad must have felt let down realizing that his hijos and hijas wouldn't all be present for the New Year cheer after all. Well, I wouldn't really call it a cheer, especially when I reminisce about the past few years. We almost never got to eat our media noche dinner the last time I was present. I thought everybody dozed off, except for me, and dad went home some 10 minutes before midnight, amid the increasing sounds of firecrackers, breathing a faint scent of alcohol under his nostrils.
It was one of those days, although he did manage to save that night from becoming a total humdrum. He woke up the sleepyheads to join us in lighting the fireworks and we sat for dinner afterwards in photo-finish fashion.
I wondered for a moment how the night went this time, without me. At that thought, I felt a slight pang of sadness. "At least they had champagne"--the idea came as if to give myself a reassuring consolation for my intentional physical absence.
As another new year approaches, I look back to that night in Ermita and see it now as sort of a thematic conversion that brought about interesting twists and truths for me in 2007. Uneventful as it was, my one night of solitude signaled the stirrings of a new personal outlook. It made me react to things quite spontaneously and sometimes in reckless abandon. Call it a molting of a snake's old skin, but my casual decision to be alone that night turned my year into one great adventure. I experienced not only a great deal of pleasure but also a great deal of pain. I felt abundant love but also agonized over stinging losses. I met new people of different colors whose lives splashed passionate hues in mine like a Joya. I built up expectations, only to be thwarted most of the time. So I re-molted, and reduced my expectations. I loved with the conscious effort of not possessing those whom I loved because I learned that freedom means to love without possession.
I jumped at every chance, while still missing out on a lot of hints. However scared of heights I was, I braved falls. I conquered places I've never been before, leaving my indelible soul in each of my travels.
I find it amazing as I reflect now that life never runs out of surprises if we expect only one thing from it: the unexpected.
I don't regret a single thing. I've "been to me" more than in any other year. It all began in 2007, ironically, sparked by what seemed like an uneventful New Year's Eve.
*** Published in Phil. Daily Inquirer's Youngblood Column, January 1, 2008
See main article in INQUIRER
The year 2007 came in the guise of a minor "thud" one humdrum night. I slept through most of it, rousing occasionally amid the muffled sounds of firecrackers from outside. Some time during the night, I decided to watch a movie while devouring one whole pizza and a couple of "floss" breads I had bought earlier.
Of course, I cannot recall the title of the movie now. It may have been some chick flick or a breathtaking romance I've seen far too many times and whose "happy ending lines" I have already memorized. Yet to keep the cheer of that lonely night, I remained fixed on the small screen watching hero and heroine kiss like it was for the very first time. It promised to be the highlight of my New Year's Eve.
The film's soundtrack struggled to contend with New Year's own musical score of syncopated etudes of "five stars" and other noisy firecrackers. The explosions gradually intensified as the night wore on, until it peaked, as usual, around midnight and died down by two in the morning. No clanking of calderos that night, no silly jumping in the air in superstitious yearning to add a few more inches to my height (I could have but I was too lazy that night), and no overrated TV countdowns and painful "Auld lang syne" to bear as I, alone in what used to be a charming 1950s art deco apartment in Ermita, relished how I yawned, lazed and slept, alone in utter contentment with the seeming triviality of how my New Year unraveled.
I had planned to go home that night. I even bought champagne a few days earlier and had it sent to our house in Laguna, where I was supposed to spend the New Year. Just like in the previous years, I intended to repeat the same tradition of drinking sparkling avec mon famille. Even my sister, who had stayed away from us for many years, decided to show up and join us for the season. Subtly rebellious as I know she was, she preferred staying with my mom in the province to avoid "family affairs."
But I never went home that night; I decided not to. Dad must have felt let down realizing that his hijos and hijas wouldn't all be present for the New Year cheer after all. Well, I wouldn't really call it a cheer, especially when I reminisce about the past few years. We almost never got to eat our media noche dinner the last time I was present. I thought everybody dozed off, except for me, and dad went home some 10 minutes before midnight, amid the increasing sounds of firecrackers, breathing a faint scent of alcohol under his nostrils.
It was one of those days, although he did manage to save that night from becoming a total humdrum. He woke up the sleepyheads to join us in lighting the fireworks and we sat for dinner afterwards in photo-finish fashion.
I wondered for a moment how the night went this time, without me. At that thought, I felt a slight pang of sadness. "At least they had champagne"--the idea came as if to give myself a reassuring consolation for my intentional physical absence.
As another new year approaches, I look back to that night in Ermita and see it now as sort of a thematic conversion that brought about interesting twists and truths for me in 2007. Uneventful as it was, my one night of solitude signaled the stirrings of a new personal outlook. It made me react to things quite spontaneously and sometimes in reckless abandon. Call it a molting of a snake's old skin, but my casual decision to be alone that night turned my year into one great adventure. I experienced not only a great deal of pleasure but also a great deal of pain. I felt abundant love but also agonized over stinging losses. I met new people of different colors whose lives splashed passionate hues in mine like a Joya. I built up expectations, only to be thwarted most of the time. So I re-molted, and reduced my expectations. I loved with the conscious effort of not possessing those whom I loved because I learned that freedom means to love without possession.
I jumped at every chance, while still missing out on a lot of hints. However scared of heights I was, I braved falls. I conquered places I've never been before, leaving my indelible soul in each of my travels.
I find it amazing as I reflect now that life never runs out of surprises if we expect only one thing from it: the unexpected.
I don't regret a single thing. I've "been to me" more than in any other year. It all began in 2007, ironically, sparked by what seemed like an uneventful New Year's Eve.
*** Published in Phil. Daily Inquirer's Youngblood Column, January 1, 2008
See main article in INQUIRER
First Pilgrimage
When I go to places, my soul sparks upon every sight of land and sea, and the world to me becomes smaller, slowly unfolding, and gradually “un-alienating”.
I glanced past the window; vast squares of land in shades of blue, green, blue-green, and brown greeted me. The fields below formed amusing quadrilateral patterns 39,000 feet above the ground. I danced gently in my chair, my fingers fidgeted in sweat and my insides quietly giggled as I took in my first glimpse of Thailand. The first time I saw land other than Philippine soil was more than a year ago, when our dance company flew to Malaysia for a nine day performance. It was nighttime when we arrived. From above, the terrains of Kuala Lumpur looked like electronically charged chips! Light flowed from lampposts, skyscrapers and houses. The fluid yet orderly choreography of cars in intersecting highways resembled wires streaming with energy.
But this time it was different because for the first time, I was traveling on my own, more than a thousand miles away from home. With just two small backpacks (I saw other foreigners carrying backpacks the size of mini-refrigerators!) and a couple hundred dollars as my only “friends”. No scheduled itinerary, no tour packages, no hotel reservation, no friends, not even relatives nor lovers.
“You should check our website,” interrupted the lady beside me. I struggled for a moment to remember what we’ve been talking about, distracted by the increasing anticipation of Thailand looming ahead, and getting increasingly disinterested with the small chitchat that I tried initiating with her. I recalled her saying, in English with a distinct Visayan accent, that she owns this online travel agency where I can book my future holidays. She gave me a business card, I politely received it, said my automatic thanks, and quickly shifted my thoughts back to my dream, which in a few minutes was about to become real.
As soon as I could get out of the plane, I quickly raced through the tarmac and in big strides slowly moved ahead of everyone who came before me. I had quite some fun “in-flight” - eating a pleasantly sumptuous chicken lunch, listening to Grace Nono’s spiritful take of a Ryan Cayabyab on the flight radio, and reading about the jungles of Laos while leafing through the in-flight magazine (maybe my next trip). But three hours in the plane felt more like a decade for an itchy pair of feet raring to dash into Bangkok streets.
Only to fall in long lines of immigration! I suddenly found myself in a sea of foreigners, different colors, smells, and ages! I heard phone calls made in different languages and yes, varied international scents, pleasant or otherwise wafted in the air. After all, Thailand receives the most tourists every year in this side of the world. There were businessmen or simply men wearing business suits, women in chic travel-wear, some even costume-like, while some looked like they just got out of bed still hung over and having a bad hair day. Others carried either children, or make-up kits, or their current holiday books; and of course, hundreds of backpackers carrying exaggeratingly huge bags.
Then it dawned on me. What was I going to do in Bangkok all by myself? Before I left I felt confident at the prospect of traveling alone, after all, I considered myself a loner most of the time. But on that day, amidst a sea of “aliens”, I suddenly felt unsure anymore. I realized nothing can ever prepare you for a solitary journey to a place you’ve never been before.
As I got out of the airport, I walked more slowly this time. The adrenalin rush of excitement subdued, replaced briefly by a hint of uncertainty. I debated whether to take a private taxi or a bus going to the city. It looked like a minute decision to make, but it later proved to be one of the most important that I ever did for this trip.
So I hopped on the bus, paid my ticket and sat on a window seat. I was about to engage in a private reverie when I was jolted by an overpowering bodily smell that suddenly pervaded the bus. It came from man sporting a now commonplace giant backpack as he entered the bus. He was tall, though a bit lanky, and judging by his boyish unruly hair; smooth, unblemished face, and reddish pink lips, he looked very young, twenty-one, I thought. But two things made me pay more attention to this man who now sat on the seat in front of me. First, the slightly dizzying scent coming from the late stranger (must be the effect of Asian humidity); and second, his eyes that made contact with mine for a good few seconds, those clear grey gems, hauntingly sad, and something else, but I couldn’t make out as yet.
All the passengers including me managed to keep the next hour of the trip to ourselves in silence. As the bus neared the city, I became restless again. Bangkok looked just like Manila, I thought, only slightly cleaner, more orderly, and I couldn’t see any large concentrations of shanties. I must have been oblivious and absent-minded because I accidentally touched the elbow of the young man seated in front of me. “Sorry.” I said. He replied with a smile, “No problem.” Considering my circumstances, I thought the smile was very kind and warm. We eventually exchange names. His was Andy, short for Andreas. “German?” I asked. With that remark, he beamed again, this time even warmer. “Yes! How did you know?” He asked. “I just guessed.” I replied, repaying his smile with my own.
I learned that it was his first time to travel as well. He was supposed to take a four month holiday in South East Asia with his female cousin. But upon reaching the airport, the girl suddenly panicked and out of the blue, realized that she didn’t want to go on with the trip anymore. That same day, she bought a return ticket to Frankfurt and left Andy all by himself. And at that moment, I recognized what I saw earlier in his eyes. Fear! He was scared. Here was a nineteen year old German boy who got separated from his family for the first time and was now alone and didn’t know what to do. Yet unlike his cousin, he decided to stay. I felt flushed. Any uncertainties that I had been feeling earlier about this trip had vanished into thin air.
When I got down on the bus, I wasn’t surprised when I found Andy still following me, and like a vulnerable boy lost in an unfamiliar place, he said to me, “Do you mind if I come with you to find a place to stay?” I said I didn’t. And I meant it.
We ended up sharing a room and bed in Khao San Road, the “backpackers’ street”, and stayed together for four more days, biking through the ruins of Old Ayutthaya and reaching as far as the south, ferrying through the island of (Koh*) Phangan. We talked about our dreams, him wanting to become a teacher and me wanting to see the world; about finding God in obscure places, of healing in reiki and sweat lodges, the parallels between our two countries, carpenters’ wages, nudity, and the seasonal fickle-mindedness of women, among other things, over unaccounted number of cold beer bottles. We met fellow pilgrims along the way, like Mayumi from Tokyo, and Francisco from Santiago who discovered the spice of life after reading N.D. Walsh's conversations with God. Once during dinner, Andy said to me, “Thank you for staying with me on this trip, I think you were my reward for deciding to stay.” Like a child, I smiled and replied, “The feeling’s mutual, mein freund.”
The saddest part of my journey came when I had to leave him in the island. As much as I wanted to stay (he even insisted that he pay for my ticket rebooking), I had to return to a life, work and studies waiting for me back home. Unlike him, I didn’t have four months to spare. As I flew back to Manila, I let out a smile and a deep breath, a sigh of gratitude for deciding to take the bus instead of the taxi. Strange, how at the beginning I struggled to endure his scent, yet now, as I sat on the plane, once again 39,000 feet above the ground, I longed to sniff this angel's essence once again.
Postscript: Last time I heard from my friend, he is finishing his teaching degree in Germany.
* Koh is Thai for "island".
I glanced past the window; vast squares of land in shades of blue, green, blue-green, and brown greeted me. The fields below formed amusing quadrilateral patterns 39,000 feet above the ground. I danced gently in my chair, my fingers fidgeted in sweat and my insides quietly giggled as I took in my first glimpse of Thailand. The first time I saw land other than Philippine soil was more than a year ago, when our dance company flew to Malaysia for a nine day performance. It was nighttime when we arrived. From above, the terrains of Kuala Lumpur looked like electronically charged chips! Light flowed from lampposts, skyscrapers and houses. The fluid yet orderly choreography of cars in intersecting highways resembled wires streaming with energy.
But this time it was different because for the first time, I was traveling on my own, more than a thousand miles away from home. With just two small backpacks (I saw other foreigners carrying backpacks the size of mini-refrigerators!) and a couple hundred dollars as my only “friends”. No scheduled itinerary, no tour packages, no hotel reservation, no friends, not even relatives nor lovers.
“You should check our website,” interrupted the lady beside me. I struggled for a moment to remember what we’ve been talking about, distracted by the increasing anticipation of Thailand looming ahead, and getting increasingly disinterested with the small chitchat that I tried initiating with her. I recalled her saying, in English with a distinct Visayan accent, that she owns this online travel agency where I can book my future holidays. She gave me a business card, I politely received it, said my automatic thanks, and quickly shifted my thoughts back to my dream, which in a few minutes was about to become real.
As soon as I could get out of the plane, I quickly raced through the tarmac and in big strides slowly moved ahead of everyone who came before me. I had quite some fun “in-flight” - eating a pleasantly sumptuous chicken lunch, listening to Grace Nono’s spiritful take of a Ryan Cayabyab on the flight radio, and reading about the jungles of Laos while leafing through the in-flight magazine (maybe my next trip). But three hours in the plane felt more like a decade for an itchy pair of feet raring to dash into Bangkok streets.
Only to fall in long lines of immigration! I suddenly found myself in a sea of foreigners, different colors, smells, and ages! I heard phone calls made in different languages and yes, varied international scents, pleasant or otherwise wafted in the air. After all, Thailand receives the most tourists every year in this side of the world. There were businessmen or simply men wearing business suits, women in chic travel-wear, some even costume-like, while some looked like they just got out of bed still hung over and having a bad hair day. Others carried either children, or make-up kits, or their current holiday books; and of course, hundreds of backpackers carrying exaggeratingly huge bags.
Then it dawned on me. What was I going to do in Bangkok all by myself? Before I left I felt confident at the prospect of traveling alone, after all, I considered myself a loner most of the time. But on that day, amidst a sea of “aliens”, I suddenly felt unsure anymore. I realized nothing can ever prepare you for a solitary journey to a place you’ve never been before.
As I got out of the airport, I walked more slowly this time. The adrenalin rush of excitement subdued, replaced briefly by a hint of uncertainty. I debated whether to take a private taxi or a bus going to the city. It looked like a minute decision to make, but it later proved to be one of the most important that I ever did for this trip.
So I hopped on the bus, paid my ticket and sat on a window seat. I was about to engage in a private reverie when I was jolted by an overpowering bodily smell that suddenly pervaded the bus. It came from man sporting a now commonplace giant backpack as he entered the bus. He was tall, though a bit lanky, and judging by his boyish unruly hair; smooth, unblemished face, and reddish pink lips, he looked very young, twenty-one, I thought. But two things made me pay more attention to this man who now sat on the seat in front of me. First, the slightly dizzying scent coming from the late stranger (must be the effect of Asian humidity); and second, his eyes that made contact with mine for a good few seconds, those clear grey gems, hauntingly sad, and something else, but I couldn’t make out as yet.
All the passengers including me managed to keep the next hour of the trip to ourselves in silence. As the bus neared the city, I became restless again. Bangkok looked just like Manila, I thought, only slightly cleaner, more orderly, and I couldn’t see any large concentrations of shanties. I must have been oblivious and absent-minded because I accidentally touched the elbow of the young man seated in front of me. “Sorry.” I said. He replied with a smile, “No problem.” Considering my circumstances, I thought the smile was very kind and warm. We eventually exchange names. His was Andy, short for Andreas. “German?” I asked. With that remark, he beamed again, this time even warmer. “Yes! How did you know?” He asked. “I just guessed.” I replied, repaying his smile with my own.
I learned that it was his first time to travel as well. He was supposed to take a four month holiday in South East Asia with his female cousin. But upon reaching the airport, the girl suddenly panicked and out of the blue, realized that she didn’t want to go on with the trip anymore. That same day, she bought a return ticket to Frankfurt and left Andy all by himself. And at that moment, I recognized what I saw earlier in his eyes. Fear! He was scared. Here was a nineteen year old German boy who got separated from his family for the first time and was now alone and didn’t know what to do. Yet unlike his cousin, he decided to stay. I felt flushed. Any uncertainties that I had been feeling earlier about this trip had vanished into thin air.
When I got down on the bus, I wasn’t surprised when I found Andy still following me, and like a vulnerable boy lost in an unfamiliar place, he said to me, “Do you mind if I come with you to find a place to stay?” I said I didn’t. And I meant it.
We ended up sharing a room and bed in Khao San Road, the “backpackers’ street”, and stayed together for four more days, biking through the ruins of Old Ayutthaya and reaching as far as the south, ferrying through the island of (Koh*) Phangan. We talked about our dreams, him wanting to become a teacher and me wanting to see the world; about finding God in obscure places, of healing in reiki and sweat lodges, the parallels between our two countries, carpenters’ wages, nudity, and the seasonal fickle-mindedness of women, among other things, over unaccounted number of cold beer bottles. We met fellow pilgrims along the way, like Mayumi from Tokyo, and Francisco from Santiago who discovered the spice of life after reading N.D. Walsh's conversations with God. Once during dinner, Andy said to me, “Thank you for staying with me on this trip, I think you were my reward for deciding to stay.” Like a child, I smiled and replied, “The feeling’s mutual, mein freund.”
The saddest part of my journey came when I had to leave him in the island. As much as I wanted to stay (he even insisted that he pay for my ticket rebooking), I had to return to a life, work and studies waiting for me back home. Unlike him, I didn’t have four months to spare. As I flew back to Manila, I let out a smile and a deep breath, a sigh of gratitude for deciding to take the bus instead of the taxi. Strange, how at the beginning I struggled to endure his scent, yet now, as I sat on the plane, once again 39,000 feet above the ground, I longed to sniff this angel's essence once again.
Postscript: Last time I heard from my friend, he is finishing his teaching degree in Germany.
* Koh is Thai for "island".
Turning Point
My life turned when I decided to dance. My two left feet moved clumsily as I tried my first few steps and I realized I wasn’t breathing at all, my neck and shoulders stiff out of minding the dance too much. I was busy thinking how to finish the move that I forgot to dance. But that’s how it began.
I was on my third year into my Philippine Arts degree and we needed to apply as interns to companies relevant to our studies. I didn’t want to do the usual rounds to museums and arts organizations so I decided to do my internship in a church. Not that I intended to be converted to a new religion, no, I just wanted something new. So I found myself translating a T’boli Tud Bulul epic, one of my initial assignments as researcher for KALOOB Philippine Music and Dance Ministry, a cultural NGO based inside a Christian church in Manila. Quite some culture the church had I observed at first. During the month of May (same time as my internship) they celebrated a Pistang Kristiano. For me it was something unheard of for a “Protestant” church. I always thought they leaned more heavily on the Western mode of doing things. One outstanding highlight about their pistas and their worship I noticed was the dancing. It was everywhere. It exuded life, energy, it had vibrancy. Every Sunday during the church’s worship, a dance group would lead the congregation to spirited dancing. My feet wanted to abandon its rootedness to the floor and just go on dancing but I kept on restraining myself. I wasn’t used to it yet, being raised going to a Catholic church where they do the whole praising God ritual sans the dance.
I went even more aghast when I first saw them perform Philippine dance traditions. I was especially mystified when I saw them render dances from Mindanao. One special scene stuck until now to memory, a female dancing solo wearing metallic extensions attached to her fingernails. The dance (now I know is called paunjalay, from the Yakans) lacked the technically difficult routines that one usually finds in ballet or jazz yet it was the most hypnotically moving dance I’ve ever seen. Her slender body moved ever so gracefully, and without effort, and the movement flowed like fluid from one point to another.
So I didn’t mind too much when one early evening, after finishing my days work, I lingered to watch one of the group’s regular dance rehearsals. And just almost as casually, one or two of the dancers, coaxed me into trying it myself. So there I was in the dance floor, shoulders hunched, my hands stiff and my body sweating profusely, panting after just a few counts, unconscious of the fact that right there and then, I just rewrote my destiny.
Five years later, my shoulders still hunch from time to time, when I don’t watch it, but the dance floor became my alter-universe and the dancer I see now in the mirror my alter-ego. If there’s one thing that this decision taught me, it was to just dance with the music and go with the flow, for most of the time, we really don’t know where we’re supposed to go. But there’s always music to listen to, and the dance floor where you can chassé your way to your heart, and back to yourself.
I was on my third year into my Philippine Arts degree and we needed to apply as interns to companies relevant to our studies. I didn’t want to do the usual rounds to museums and arts organizations so I decided to do my internship in a church. Not that I intended to be converted to a new religion, no, I just wanted something new. So I found myself translating a T’boli Tud Bulul epic, one of my initial assignments as researcher for KALOOB Philippine Music and Dance Ministry, a cultural NGO based inside a Christian church in Manila. Quite some culture the church had I observed at first. During the month of May (same time as my internship) they celebrated a Pistang Kristiano. For me it was something unheard of for a “Protestant” church. I always thought they leaned more heavily on the Western mode of doing things. One outstanding highlight about their pistas and their worship I noticed was the dancing. It was everywhere. It exuded life, energy, it had vibrancy. Every Sunday during the church’s worship, a dance group would lead the congregation to spirited dancing. My feet wanted to abandon its rootedness to the floor and just go on dancing but I kept on restraining myself. I wasn’t used to it yet, being raised going to a Catholic church where they do the whole praising God ritual sans the dance.
I went even more aghast when I first saw them perform Philippine dance traditions. I was especially mystified when I saw them render dances from Mindanao. One special scene stuck until now to memory, a female dancing solo wearing metallic extensions attached to her fingernails. The dance (now I know is called paunjalay, from the Yakans) lacked the technically difficult routines that one usually finds in ballet or jazz yet it was the most hypnotically moving dance I’ve ever seen. Her slender body moved ever so gracefully, and without effort, and the movement flowed like fluid from one point to another.
So I didn’t mind too much when one early evening, after finishing my days work, I lingered to watch one of the group’s regular dance rehearsals. And just almost as casually, one or two of the dancers, coaxed me into trying it myself. So there I was in the dance floor, shoulders hunched, my hands stiff and my body sweating profusely, panting after just a few counts, unconscious of the fact that right there and then, I just rewrote my destiny.
Five years later, my shoulders still hunch from time to time, when I don’t watch it, but the dance floor became my alter-universe and the dancer I see now in the mirror my alter-ego. If there’s one thing that this decision taught me, it was to just dance with the music and go with the flow, for most of the time, we really don’t know where we’re supposed to go. But there’s always music to listen to, and the dance floor where you can chassé your way to your heart, and back to yourself.
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