A dance

File:2009 07 07 arne mueseler 0037.jpgFrom the deck on the altar, I draw the card The Miser, and feel a moment’s distress. That is horrible. Is that me? Then I decide to go with it. Yes, the miser, hoarding, clutching, clinging, is part of me. I kiss the card, and put it down face up. This evening, I will claim it. I will celebrate it.

There is no 5Rhythms dancing in Swanston, but B invited me down. It is good to spend time with her, and she proposed meeting here. I have not seen Tim and Jane since their Field of Love camp last year, and am pleased to see others here I know only from that. C is having a walk along the River on Sunday, followed by lunch, celebrating her birthday. I had thought I would go to the Quaker Area Meeting, having agreed to be assistant clerk I should fulfil my obligation which I took on voluntarily, and I am so angry about the clerking that I could just throw it up, and spend a sunlit Sunday with lovely people, making new acquaintances. Is it possible? I ask B, who would be happy to put me up another night.

It is very hot, upstairs in this former church. The windows open such a little way, there is no breeze, and I cannot bear to keep my wig on. This skirt is very full, but has a less full lining, so I roll the lining up and pull it through the waist band, so I can move my legs. I cannot bear to keep my wig on, and at one point put my head under the cold tap, trying to cool down.

In the station, I popped into Monsoon, whose stock is all dresses, beautiful feminine things in silk and rich Autumnal colours. The child, who had been slouched against the doorway, attended by parents, is now running among the dancers- exposure to this now, in childhood, is such a blessing! The video B shared- gorgeous, watch http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/eb/Bellydancer_in_Sugar_Factory_02.jpgit- runs through my mind. So there are light, sweet thoughts in the mix, but I am here to celebrate my shadow.

In the opening share, Tim talks of the value of dancing in heat, and of getting away from words. I stand behind the line of a shadow on the floor, and it becomes symbolic to me. I have a decision to make, and this side of the line words come to me: duty, honour, right, relationship- I will cross that line, and escape the words. I can label almost anything with any of them, and they do not help.

It is a beautiful sprung wooden floor, and it is all church. Out of the window, on the second floor, I look out to that high, sharp point on the gable end. The windows up here are Gothic apart from the circular West window. It has the look of 19th century pastiche to me, I could be wrong, and the Roses carved where the roof beams meet are just copies. It reeks of Church of England, Organised Religion, even though deconsecrated into a community centre, and I hate it. My hands grow hot with the feel of healing, and I remember how the priest blessing the Eucharist holds her hands in a similar gesture. I dance with the shape of the windows, and the Roses. I kneel to the East, and put my forehead on the floor.

In Staccato and Chaos I dance to celebrate my No, my Resistance, the strength and power of it: in all my fear and desperation I have chosen it to keep me safe. I have sought safety through not being obtrusive, not shocking, holding in my fire. What might that power do, turned outwards? I dance with beautiful sweaty Duncan, moving around each other keeping body contact just as in that video, though I would need to verbalise my request for consent to be comfortable lifting off the floor. I am the Miser. Duncan, you are in me, I eat you, I suck you in, you are mine. I incorporate karate moves into my movement, Heuch, gabble gibberish to get away from the Words.

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