hugs & dancing

01/12/2010 § 2 Comments

On the third floor of an old Victorian house, I sat with a beautiful being. Her shirt was black and loose silk, falling from her shoulders like a gentle hug. Her eyes deep and pensive. She was cutting an onion and it made her eyes water.

“I’m sorry, my hands are shaking.”

There were three of us eating rosemary chicken and greens drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with salt on a table made of metal sheet on a box. The lady told me of her travels abroad, living in different shapes and learning to exist within her means. Then she told me,

“Confronting change is like jumping off a cliff. Standing at the edge, you are afraid of the leap. Then you jump and the fall is not as scary as you thought it would be.”

With that, we buried our meals and washed them back with Scotch and Sherry. We were going to watch a friend play a Nick Drake tribute at Trinity St. Paul’s United Church. We were going to be late.

We were riding fast like a flock. We let the cyclist of the group navigate the route and guide us through dark alleys and lamp lit streets. We were heading North.

We were sitting in the top pews looking down on an illuminated string section, the organ pipes rising behind them. Iron cast. The music played and I glued my eyes shut with the water they were making. We moved closer to each other and held onto one another’s hands and legs. Our vulnerability making us stronger by tying us together.

Downstairs, we start dancing even though the music has stopped. “It lives in here!” said the beautiful creature, pointing to her heart.

Four of us are at a bar discussing adventures and thoughts. Not only what we enjoy, but why we do. These things remind us of home and the us that we are. It is a beautiful moment. For some reason, that moment reminds me of a friend, one who peeled a whole Clementine and passed it to me. “Every Christmas, this is what my Uncle Dave would do. Pass us these peeled little guys.”

The small moments are so beautiful.

By the end of the night, I lay shattered in a parking lot. I slid off my bicycle and she is fine, but my bones and ego are bruised. A softness oozed, like clear sap trickles in the Spring, and I could not keep it in. My friend sat with me and collected the drops, telling me about how people are so important and to not shut them out.

Humanity is a beautiful thing because each of us seem so small, but are able to impact one another with an indescribable profoundness: Through our memories and experiences with them.



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