The first solo was by the woman with cerebral palsy, who during the group practice had done great swooping turns in her wheelchair. For her solo, she sat smiling ecstatically and twitched her gnarled hands in time to the music. She was great. So was the music, a Congolese song called "Soweto." The next dancer, an older woman, earnestly counted her every step out loud, evidently unbothered that none of the steps coincided with the music, her jaw set with a determination that bordered on hostility. Then a blonde woman with Down's syndrome performed what I at first thought were gymnastics: a somersault that pretty much got away from her, and a unique cartwheel-palms flat on the floor, then rocking back onto her bottom, then falling over sideways-and then jumping up and down in a one-legged crouch. Karen later told me that this was intended to be break-dancing, a weekly performance by the woman's alter ego, Homegirl from the 'Hood.
After the solos, ensembles of four or five did the electric slide together. I joined in with one group. I was great; everyone said so.
And then it was time to go. People shook our hands and thanked us. The gymnast gave me a hug with her head pressed into my waist. Neshama and I left feeling elated and surprisingly tired. It had been only an hour, but it was an immersion. It went deeper than I had thought.
When Karen and I were hiking a few days later, she told me that after class, one of the dancers had exclaimed, "I like those old ladies! They were helpers, and they danced." These are the words I want on my gravestone: that I was a helper, and that I danced.
Anne Lamott, Grace (Eventually)
How well she captures the essence, the heart of it all, and how reading her description makes me long for my weekly dancing partners. I could read that chapter every day for the rest of my life, and I'd still tear up when reading that final line. I want the very same.
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