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June 21, 2004
Red Silk
When Tom called me at work on Friday afternoon to say that he couldn't join me for the contradance that night, I was bummed. Away on business, he couldn't get back to town in time to for our dance date.
Before he called, I had already invited another friend, Sam, to join us for her first time at the dance. For about ten minutes I thought about calling Sam and just cancelling the whole evening. Tom is a very fun dance partner in his own right — but for better or worse, he's also my dance security blanket. My fallback plan, my tried and true. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been to the dance without him. Just the idea of driving there without him was uncomfortable.
After agonizing over it, I finally decided to just go without him. I would meet Sam at the dance as planned, I would send forward all the positive vibes I could, and I would accept the offer of anyone who wanted to dance with me that night.
Oh, what a good decision.
All of the photos on this page were taken by Doug Plummer, a dance enthusiast who happens to be a very gifted photographer. Or is it the other way around? His site is filled with wonderful images. I am grateful for his permission to borrow these photos for this entry. They come closer to capturing the spirit of this dance than any I've seen.
When I arrived, the dance was starting. Sam had arrived earlier for the newcomer instruction, and she had only enough time to wave at me and drift out to the floor for her first dance. I sat out the first one and watched the lines forming up and down the hall.
My college roommate Karah was from a little town in Maryland where apparently no one had anything better to do on a Saturday night than put on their stockings and their dancing shoes and head down to the town hall for this crazy folk dancing which was somehow called contra but did not involve Nicaraguans or Iranians or anything illegal. When we lived together in the little house in the woods during our senior year she kept telling me about contradance and playing the dance music for me and talking about how wonderful it would be to go together.
Finally one September afternoon she heard about a dance being held at a farm somewhere in the mountains of North Georgia. She coaxed me into her car and we drove off looking for the dance.
We drove for hours, taking Highway 27 North, a beautiful winding deserted stretch of highway made vivid with changing leaves and a deep blue sky. We drove and drove. We got lost. We found ourselves driving in circles. The driving directions she had started with were vague at best.
Just as we were losing hope, she spotted the rutted dirt driveway and the sign leading to the farm.
When we reached the top of the rugged hill, I opened the car door and from across the pasture I heard the sound of fiddles and a piano and a flute, and the sounds of feet moving together across the sprung wood floor. I don't think I've ever been the same.
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The thing about contradance is that it is perhaps the most un-Gen-X activity I can imagine. It is so pure and wholesome and earnest. The irony and sarcasm that is so prized out there is useless in here.
The dance is like a weird drug. As soon as you start to move, it begins to work on you. On those tragic occasions when I arrive at the dance feeling grouchy and sorry for myself, struggling under my newest burden of self-created worry, I somehow end up just dancing for hours, having the most wonderful time. And when I fall asleep that night I still have a giant grin on my face. Whatever was bothering me before is forgotten, melted away.
Dance brings together movement and touch and music in a way like nothing else can. When the music is good, you feel like you're flying. That is really the best word that I have for it.
When I dance I am filled with joy for the simple fact that we are alive in this big, gorgeous, messy world. We are here, and we have each other, and we have music. There's so much to be grateful for.
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I wore a big swishy skirt to the dance on Friday, a red silk skirt that Karah gave me years ago as a birthday present. When I twirl in place, it fans out around me, and I feel like a little girl and a queen at the same time.
On Friday I moved through the steps of the dance, and was overwhelmed with gratitude for everything that I've been given. As the music worked on me, I tried to make a list in my head of some of the things I was grateful for. I was grateful for that Sunday afternoon in 1995 with Karah, and the farm with the fiddles and the piano. I was grateful for my red silk skirt that she gave me that was spinning out around me in a glorious circle. I was grateful for legs that can move, ears that can hear, hands that can hold. If this is what I have, it is enough.
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