“Do you really have to love everyone?” she asks.
After a short, reflective pause, I reply, “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Just letting go
Dance the Night Away
Every fall, my sister and brother-in-law hire a band and invite people to gather on their property. Attendees bring their own food, drinks and chairs. They sit around a fire or create a large haphazard circle sitting next to family, friends and strangers. Or, they sit in the Quonset hut to listen to the band and watch the dancers. Rarely, they join the few people on the dance floor.
Usually, I take the dance floor without thoughts for anyone else; it’s the one time a year that I can truly dance the night away. It’s a safe place for me to just “let go” and be free in the moment. This year, however, was a bit different.
I had returned to town on the Saturday afternoon of the party after having been out of state for a couple nights, so I started the party tired, yet excited. The tiredness put me in a state of openness because I had no energy for filters. I happily took photos of couples, friends and families – starting with my niece and her three dogs.
Gasping for breath
Smile and Express Gratitude
As I wandered into the Quonset hut when the band started playing, I saw my 85-year-old aunt sitting in her folding bag chair. She and my mom were basically a year apart. She now reminds me of my mom as my mom was in the months leading up to my mom’s death: tiny and lost. When they were in their 40s, my mom and aunt would go out dancing together – they were band groupies - they seemingly had a whole lot of fun together. I can hear their laughter and the stories they would tell echoing in my memories as I see my aunt sitting there.
I impulsively start to dance with her while she is sitting in the chair. I’m thinking that I’ll hold on to her hands and move to the beat of the music. She, however, has a different idea. She struggles to get out of her chair and joins me on the edge of the dance floor. We hold hands facing each other and move our feet in time with each other and with the beat of the band: tiny step left, tiny step right, tiny step left, tiny step right. She smiles, grateful, I think, to be seen and to be dancing once again since her health precludes her dancing on a regular basis. When the song ends, I help her sit back down. She simultaneously is gasping for breath and saying a heart-felt thank-you for the dance.
Dancing your way
Survive the Party
I think to myself, “Dear God, I think I’ve killed my aunt at my sister’s party.” Spoiler alert: I did not. I hover for a bit as I listen to my aunt’s husband talk to her while she gets her breathing back to normal. I return to the dance floor solo – loving and appreciating that I am invited to enjoy such a night once a year.
A little later, I look over to see my aunt up again on the dance floor; this time she is dancing with the wife of my cousin on my dad’s side. I think to myself, Is my aunt going to survive this party?
My aunt and uncle had said earlier that my aunt’s doctor would not be pleased about her activity and that got me thinking some more while I continued to dance.
What if my aunt really did die on the dance floor? Would that be such a terrible thing? To die doing something you have absolutely loved doing your whole life and you now don’t get to do it at the age of 85 because you can barely see and barely hear and barely breathe? Wouldn’t that be one of the best ways to die – dancing your way to meet death?
Wondering how we will end the night
Choose the Dance
As I continue to dance on the floor, and with these thoughts, I smile. My aunt is having the time of her life in her recent memory. I go over and ask her one more time to dance while also hoping that I don’t create a traumatic memory for those in attendance. It’s more important to spend time with my aunt in that moment than to borrow trouble from something that might not (and did not) occur.
Later, a 2-year-old joins the very few of us on the dance floor. She moves with abandon, sometimes stumbling or falling, yet she continues to dance. I'm sure it's past her bed time, but she’s having so much fun – sometimes experimenting with her own moves and sometimes imitating others’ moves. I do not fear that the 2-year-old will die, but I do wonder if she will hurt herself as she runs out of control and falls again.
I wonder with affectionate curiosity how the night will end for each of us. Have we each exhausted ourselves to the point of a deep sleep or will we be too tired to let go of the night’s activities? Will we fight what inevitably is heading our way or will we joyfully embrace the sleep that takes us all?
It does not matter whether we are 2, 61 or 85; until that time, we can choose to find our dance, we can choose to love the moment we are in, we can choose to see everyone for the beings we are inside, not necessarily the beings we show others.
“Why do you have to love everyone?” she asks with affectionate curiosity.
I sigh. How do I explain something I, myself, don’t completely understand.
I try though. I truly do try.