I like it, this slow dance on Sundays.
And before I go on . . . some words about dancing.
One. That is the number of actual dances that I have danced on an honest-to-goodness dance floor. And it was with my daughter at her wedding where I danced that dance, and I think it went well. I’ll see her in precisely one week, and maybe we can compare notes. But from my perspective, it went like this:
People—many of them—are sitting out there at the elegant tables at an exclusive private school in California, one where the last decent U.S. president graduated, and they are sitting, not dancing.
Are they too tired? Dear God, I am not.
Are they embarrassed or afraid? Lordy, what is there to fear?
They wish they were out here dancing I bet. And those of us who are dancing, are oblivious to others who may be dancing because it is our dance. One with another with only the Music . . .
That’s Sunday, again. And again and again.
The music was composed ages ago before there was an age, and it continues into never-age. And that composer? He is also conducting the angel band who plays as we praise. And they continue, as we sit this one out, and when that certain song begins, we jump up from the table and frolick like we are young. Sure, the music may take on the tone of a melancholy serenade at times, but it’s just part of the seamless flow. It’s okay to sit then, and just watch. It’s beautiful, even watching from a distance.
But, the dance is where we belong. And all of life is that for the asking (and for the receiving). A tango? The band knows every song and the composer has already written the music. A jig? Of course. Square dance? Well, it may be called a square dance, but the movement is in a circle that is endless. A waltz? Ideal, those three beats in every measure.
Let them sit and watch if they must, but let’s keep dancing.
And for now, it’s the slow dance of Sundays . . .
Photograph “As Seen from Above” © 2018 Timothy Waugh