Dance, I did

Advises are strange entities: they sound different each them you receive them. Sometimes what earlier felt like a balmy solution to your troubles, pokes like a hollow sermon. Happens all the time to me. Sample this song from Lee Ann Womack, called 'I Hope You Dance'.

It is full of sensible paradigms for leading a life, less stabbed by pain. Yet at some cynical moments, to me, she sounds like a crooner aloof from the tragedies she's trying to remedy through her number. But at other times, when the breathing turns heavy, the song releases a thaw inside me. It wises me to the inevitability of happenstance, and yet the power of choice.

And I buy her key advice of the song, by the truck load. Elsewhere on the net, I mentioned that, of all the places on earth, I'm happiest on the dance floor. No, I'm not the best of the dancers, not even among the better ones, but I don't have two left feet either. But, that's besides the point.

What transpires when the floor beckons, with the DJ belting out some thumper is that some imaginary fetters unshackle from my feet, and all worry leaves me by the ringside, and I dive in, like a free bird (or maybe like a fugitive running away from morbid sorrow, which is trying to enslave him, and the only firewall keeping it off is the disco lights going above me). On the dance floor, I don't have a pestering boss demanding a report 'RIGHT NOW!' I'm also shorn off all relationships that create bondage. I also suddenly become capable of letting my inferiority complex go for a walk, while I jump, shake, head-bang, boogie and what-have-you.

So much so that I become a rivulet of sweat, flowing right 'from the top' (pun unintended). Suddenly, I cease to care if the sweat might be offensive to others (what the heck, others are getting sweaty around me too).

Number after number, the pain eggs me to go on & on. So, while Womack's lyrical fear 'God forbid love ever leave you empty handed' gives me gooseflesh, I carry on dancing, even her wish that 'Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens' doesn't despatch relief at my doorstep, I don't cease. Even when her exhortation 'When you come close to selling out, Reconsider' has been torn to titters by me in my erstwhile life, when I sold my soul to the devil, I don't pause to indulge in shame. I simply choose to exercise my option B: no sitting out, just DANCE!

The only time hope wins its bout against cynicism for a fleet is when she says,

'Living might mean taking chances

But they're worth taking

Lovin' might be a mistake

But it's worth making'

So, indeed, I have lived, and I have lost my bets on winning here, and I've loved & I've erred, but I guess I'm fine; so far, the music doesn't stop. I guess now why I dig music and booze: temporary distractions both, but very, very effective!