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Only the Dance is Sure ...



"I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.” ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights


I have a friend, a young gay man I'm getting to be good friends with. Last night I dreamt we were ice dancers.

As we stepped on the ice, I was so full of fear, afraid of landing hard, of my knee giving out, my ankle twisting, getting hurt, not landing the jumps. I felt old, and unsure, thrust into something I never thought I'd have to do. I seemed afraid of everything, the lights, the expectations of the crowd, the dance itself.


But he put his hand around my waist and held me up and whispered, don't worry, I am strong.


So we hit the ice and danced. And as we danced, I was still afraid, since he's kinda slim and small, but then he held me with a strength that surprised me and danced with me and said "don't worry, I have all the strength of a young man, and I will not let you fall." So I began to trust, and to let go.


And we danced, us two friends, dancing to music I know I've never heard before and may never hear again. Our blades hitting the ice, our bodies moving together, the dance emerging and becoming. The otherworldly music, the blades cutting into the hard ice, the crowd, the song, the dance itself, taking us over.


And he kept telling me (was it him? or just that voice I've heard all my life in my dreams, in my waking quiet moments) "we just need to be strong. If we are creative, and we are strong, we will be ok, it will be ok. I will dance with you, you will dance with me and neither one of us will fall on this cold hard ice."


So we danced on that ice, landing our jumps together to the thrill of the crowd and the mutual beating of our hearts.


Be creative, Be strong, Dance together, the voice urging us on to an ever more bold and more beautiful dance.


And in the end, it was transcendent.


It was triumphant.


******

And when I woke in the morning, the voice (that one I've heard all my life and can never quite explain), told me that I should write this story for him, let him know that he is strong and creative ...


and that is all he needs to be


and tell him that if we dance together, we will be triumphant


and he will be safe.

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I reached a point in my life where I have to publish what I write. Stories, poems, essays, plays. Thank you for being part of whatever unfolds here. 

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Diane Currie Sam 

Writer. Storyteller. 

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