Grief is the bully of the emotional playground. In the midst of laughter and squeals of delight it will come stomping through the sandbox; it’s shadow covering the jungle gym and monkey bars, while other feelings cling to the periphery of the chain link fence.
I started taking a Flamenco class. I’m enthralled with the intense emotions embodied in the dance. Love and Hate wear the same flaming red, Joy and Grief come in a cacophony of clicks. There is a story being told with every stamp and swipe of a shoe, every clap and snap, and the point of view is crystal clear. I was introduced to the dance by an actress pal when I first moved to Los Angeles. We would go to the weekly shows at El Cid in Hollywood. It’s become a hip spot now but fifteen years ago it was mostly a room of unoccupied tables with a dusty plastic rose in the odd vase. Despite the morose room, the dancers would transport us to another place and time.
My Monday flamenco class is a cross-section of nine novices. I am one of the slower students. I can hear the rhythm and repeat it, but not necessarily with the correct footwork. My fellow students are a cross section of ages and cultures, including two Spanish-speaking women. The younger one seems too advanced for the class, she remembers the choreography from the previous week without need of a recap. They are often on opposite sides of the room during class but always leave together chatting en route to the subway. This week our routes converged. Even before I asked I knew the answer, the relationship was much clearer outside the studio – they were mother and daughter.
I kept smiling through the gutting moment – I really was happy for them and their shared routine but I mourned never being able to share new things with my own mother. I’ve lived through a version of this moment before and I’ve gotten better at managing the crushing sadness, staving it off until parties have gone their separate ways. Later, I’ll feel the acute sadness of never again picking up a telephone and calling my mother to describe some crazy new thing I’m trying. I won’t be able to cajole her into laughing at my challenges and failed experiments and she won’t be moved to share some relevant story for us to have a bonding moment.
Image by mikeywally via Flickr
But one day the sadness will lessen to the point of dissipation. One day the playground will be a safe place without the threat of emotional hijacking. In the meantime I’ll keep on trying new things.
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