On grieving and dancing

“Why are there women here dancing on their own? Why is there this sadness in their eyes?”

-Sting, They Dance Alone (Cueca Solo), 1986

I saw a woman dancing in the gym today.  She was dancing by herself.

She was older, a good, few years older than me, her hair completely gray, yet she still managed to move gracefully around the four corners of the room.  She danced in one of those YMCA side rooms where they hold yoga classes and aerobics.

Careful not to disturb her, I popped in to sit on an exercise ball, stretch out my back and do some sit ups long overdue.  She continued to dance to the instructions coming from her compact disc player, playing faintly enough that I could barely hear them.  I waved hello as I walked in, she politely nodded back.

She was performing a waltz, the same sort of ballroom dance as in Disney’s animated Beauty and the Beast.  With her arms circled out in front of her, she danced around the room, not stopping once, holding onto her imaginary partner. 

Yet there was no Beast.

That’s when I wondered to myself… where was this woman’s partner?

Had her husband passed away and she continued to practice her dance without him?  If so, how long had he been gone and how much did she miss him?  Or was I altogether wrong?  Was she just getting some exercise, her old man at home performing honeydews, happy his wife was out of the house for a few, simply because he didn’t care for dancing?  If that was indeed the case, why did my mind immediately race to him having passed away?  Was this woman once a dancer and what was she thinking about as she danced?  If she was indeed a widow, how often did she and her husband waltz in their day, at what kind of gatherings and how formally would they dress?

All these thoughts raced through my head although I didn’t stop and ask her.  Perhaps I should have.  She was in her waltz zone, and I didn’t want to disturb her.  Instead, I finished my routine while she continued to waltz around the mirrored room. 

I soon went outside to catch some sun and perform my own mental waltz.  I thought of my father who I miss, perhaps as much as this woman misses her husband.

My father, as his ex-wife would boast, was a fabulous dancer.  Me, not disciplined enough and far too left-footed to ever succeed in any organized style of dance, I just wing it when stepping onto the dance floor.  I’m not really the waltzing type.

I walked in the sunshine and, as I’ve come to experience since my father’s passing, became overwhelmed with the emotion that this woman’s lonely waltz had inspired.

I thought of that old Sting song, “They Dance Alone,” that doesn’t really apply here as its in direct reference to Pinochet’s repressive regime in Chile and the widows it left behind yet does apply as Chile is where my father and I once lived together so many years ago.  I thought of the song’s message, and pace, its start solemn as it remains so throughout, until the ending where the tempo picks up steam as Sting sings “And we dance,” implying things get better.  I mean, they do, right?

Maybe I’ll say hello to this woman next time and she’ll look at me kooky telling me her husband is perfectly fine at home, and she was just looking to get away.  Or maybe she’ll appreciate the hello and share a story of how she used to dance with her late husband as I’d once danced on my father’s feet as he held my hands as a child.  Or maybe there will be no next time, but maybe there should.

Either way, I will keep dancing.  I’m hoping she does too.

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