We are fashioned of clay, as the story goes.
Destined to spin breathlessly, terrified and helpless, on the potter’s wheel, molded and shaped by the centrifugal force of a greater purpose.
Our resistance is washed away under a curtain of water as our selfhood bows to the relentless kneading of life circumstance.
Tango is for me a potter’s wheel.
Not the only one, certainly. There are numerous other potter’s wheels in my life, some far more influential in determining who I have become : relationships, experiences, pain, trauma, work, play.
But few are as readily given to colourful description and playful calculation as is tango.
I move onto the dance floor like a sluggish lump of clay,
awaiting my spirited muse to breath life into my limbs. The music flows like a curtain of water washing over my lifeless form. My muse approaches. We embrace. I am softened beneath her delicate touch.
We begin to move, spin, surrender to the centrifugal force of the dance, the drama and passion entering our core.
(Not always. I have often danced with very talented partners - and yet the dance seems soulless.)
Because of its preciousness and rarity,
my heart is forever grateful to those who bring to the dance floor their vulnerability, sensitivity and openness to the moment, who in the shared movements of gentleness and trust shape the dance in elegance and beauty.
As the dance ends I am transformed.