Ash Wednesday blog 2008

There is a certain relief to be had when things go up in smoke, and blow away on the breeze. On this Ash Wednesday, I feel a renewal, something cleared, something starting. 2008 year of big change, but meltdown is no bad thing. How else would rubies be made?

What to give up for Lent, and beyond?
A broken heart.
Or more correctly, a shattered dream?
Enough.
I’m not Catholic, but I do love a good ritual.
It focuses the mind.

The sun brinks a new cycle, solar winds on the rise, after 2007 doldrums. I feel it. Lucky me. Set your sail, plan your course, but know that it’s the wind who’ll decide where to take you. But you have to set your sail.
Or the wind just blows on by.
Adventure.
Life.

They have names, the winds. Zephyr, Tramontane, Levanter, Sirocco and sometimes, they call the wind Mariah. Men have named them, adventurous men listening to the romance in their souls. Nobody names anything anymore.
We’ve lost all romance.
We’ve lost men.

Last night I danced a new dance, Ceroc. Where men lead and women follow, except some of them can’t. The middle aged ones, limp and lost, unable to lead women anywhere, even on the dance floor. And a gentle lead is so what we long for. How can they not know this? I’ve had men say “You don’t need me for anything“, not knowing the essence of what men are is what we need most. We need you to be men. Just the way you are. To stop giving up.
Courage! Battle! Rouse Michael.
The Archangel.
He likes to help.

The Ceroc pensioner was sweetest for a beginner to partner, apart from the counting out loud and every so often wiping his bald spot with a towel. At least he took charge. Or the ones who were teddy boys in the 50’s, they may look like they’ve come to paint the kitchen, but man can they jive, and without moving their heads. They are smooth in that ‘guy who takes the money on the Waltzers’ way, only in that setting, all lit up and whirling. Smoothness released in the bright red yellow of flashing bulbs and spinning carts, cool for those fun fair moments, drab and uptight in the cold light of day.
Don’t make a false move.
Watch the hair.

The men from 30-40 seemed lost and soft, no muscles to spin or pull or push, even the ‘man spin‘ clumsy and doddering. What happened to that generation? Were we such dragons?
We’ve lost men.

But Ceroc is the thing to sort them out. There is a gentle but effective rule, if he doesn’t lead, don’t go anywhere. It works. I am hooked already. All the men I danced with said “You have such warm hands.” Then “5, 6, 7, 8 and…“
Compassion. It can strike at any time, in any mirror-ball hall. I saw they were afraid, and their longing not to be lost anymore, to lead and be loved for it, to share the dance. Yes!
That bravery of a sail set to the blue yonder,5, 6, 7, 8, deep in them somewhere, 5,6,7,8, the courage to show up, to dance. To lead women where it isn’t all or nothing. Where there's no loss of love to risk and nobody says 'no thank you'.
It’s just a dance.
5,6,7,8.

More power to their elbows, which “should be kept close to the body and at waist height when leading a spin as that’s the woman’s centre of gravity.”

Time to move.
Jingle jingle.