Exhaustion strikes, but in a good way. This exhaustion comes from dancing with a nearly 90-year old woman (my mom)–I call it dancing, and I say it’s with her. This is not accurate: -it was dancing a couple of feet behind with arms outstretched to catch her in case of a fall.
My mother grew up in a time and family in which people didn’t really touch. Everything about them was northern; and the times were harsh. As a result, touch is somewhat distracting to her, an imposition rather than support. (It’s a bit of a tussle to take her arm even when crossing a busy street.)
And yet, there was dancing. With. Her. Of a sort. (One two three four, one two three four–she counts time aloud with quiet absorption as she moves. I hate to say that I think the song was a waltz.)
A magnificent sort.
Music–it enlivens/energizes/lightens the body and soul.
(One two three four, one two three four, one two threeeeeeee.)
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I am linking this post to Imperfect Prose, run by Emily Wieranga. The dancing came about, in part, because I just got a speaker for my computer so that my visiting quite- deaf mother could actually hear some of the music on my iTunes. She liked it a lot.
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