Dance of Glory

It is a noisy, crowded room. Throngs of people jostle in, dancing and singing in unrestrained joy. The lights above are bright; there is heat and sweat and tears, together with loud voices in raucous harmony. One man stands off to the side in his own celebration, relishing his surroundings while completely oblivious to them. Despite his solitude his ecstasy encompasses the gaiety of all the revelers around him.

At first glance, the man appears to be dancing and nothing more. Here, in the corner, holding a scroll, and dancing. He even looks a bit odd, his beard flowing with the rhythm as he moves. He holds the scroll tightly in his arms, lovingly, respectfully. However there is more to this picture than what meets the eye. This is not just a man dancing with a holy object, this is something stronger, deeper, and more sacred.

Here is a man dancing alone in a crowded room, an old man with a lined face and glowing eyes. Eyes so full of rapture and bliss they seem to take over, so suddenly there are no lines, just a jubilant radiance emanating from his face. He dances with the scroll as a groom dances with a bride, with reverence and awe.

The scroll shines beautifully in a mantle of blue velvet, adorned with a silver crown in majestic glory. He holds the scroll to his heart, with great intimacy, singing his own sweet melody, his hands shaking, his heart pounding. He hugs his bride with all his strength, kissing her with love. They are united in an everlasting bond of love. This is not just a man dancing, This is a man dancing in the service of G-d.

Fine

She didn’t know what to feel. She groped for a chair, something to support her as her knees gave out. She sank to the floor, stunned. She wouldn’t cry. Her breath caught in her chest, she took big gulps of air but she choked, and then the tears came. Memories assaulted her, she tried in vain to prevent them from coming, but she couldn’t. Playing piano…reading out loud…washing dishes…staring at the ceiling. Such simple things—she would never before have deemed them important. Air. She needed air. Her hands gripped the counter and she rose to her feet. Somehow, she made it into the cold morning. The sun hadn’t yet started to rise. She stared at the sky, challenging it. Would the sun dare rise on such a day? She was cold. She wondered if she would ever feel warm again, if she would ever feel whole and complete—like a person. She didn’t feel like a person. Suddenly, it was daylight. How long had she been standing there? She turned to look back at the house, reluctant to go inside, to have the images flood her memory. Yet here, too, on the porch, were reminders of the life she’d had yesterday. Yesterday and all the days before. Here on the porch, sitting on a lazy summer day. Drinking hot tea, wrapped up in blankets to watch the leaves change color and fall, cuddling up as the rain and snow came down. She sat down in the wicker chair, the cushion old and worn. It wasn’t her chair. It belonged to yesterday. She felt odd sitting in it. Her arm brushed something furry—it was an old teddy bear. She picked it up and drew it close, holding it tightly in her arms, tears coursing down her cheeks. She hadn’t sought comfort from a teddy bear since she was five years old, and now she clutched it as if it were her lifeline. Pain filled her lungs and she shook her head violently to block out the images she was remembering. She didn’t want to remember. Remembering hurt. A voice called to her from inside and the teddy bear slipped from her grasp. She had to focus. She had to be strong. She stood, gathering all she had left inside of her, breathing deeply, and she went into the house. The voice called her again, and she hurried towards it, assuring it that she was fine and that everything was fine, yet she wondered if she really was and if things would ever really be fine.

A Year Older, A Year Wiser?

Birthdays are always interesting. They are either exciting and joyous, or miserable and filled with anxiety. I used to look forward to my birthday the way all little kids should--giddy with anticipation, excitement for the fun and the possibilities for being a year older. One day, a special day just for me (and my twin sister), to be showered with extra love and attention (and presents!). Birthday parties increased the excitement, with friends and games, puppet shows, clowns, and cake (and lots of presents!). Who could possibly NOT like their birthday?

As I got older, I started to get it: I was getting older. Older = less fun and more responsibilities. Birthday parties fell by the wayside as real life interfered with birthday fantasy land, but to me, there was still something exciting about a birthday. Throughout college, I would go out to dinner with friends and to a movie. Meet my sisters for cake and coffee. Go to a show with my parents. One year, all my friends got together and bought me a bracelet from Tiffany’s. (The next year, ironically, they all forgot my birthday. I’m mostly over it. Mostly.) For my 24th birthday, I threw my own party, complete with homemade mini-eggrolls and meatballs and martini glasses I bought to complete my makeshift bar. And then I turned 25.

My 25th birthday was about a week before I was leaving New York for my new job in Atlanta, so I had a combined Birthday/Going Away party at one of our favorite hangouts. We all toasted each other and ate our double-decker grilled cheese sandwiches, and then it hit me. I was 25 years old. Panic gripped me and I reached for the nearest beverage to cool my throat as I started to freak out. Unfortunately, I had grabbed my friend’s Long Island Iced Tea and, as I coughed and sputtered, I wondered how it was that I had turned 25 with a blink of an eye. It was the Ultimate Birthday; I had a whole new life to look forward to, the magic of a birthday I had always loved, and suddenly, I didn’t want it. I wanted to stay 24, with my same life, my same job, where even if I wasn’t so happy all the time, at least I knew where I stood. At least everything was familiar. At least I wasn’t 25.

25 invokes a real grow-up age. You are no longer a “young adult,” or even an “early 20s.” You are 25. You are a Real Person. After years of complaining about being treated like a kid, that was suddenly all I wished for. I wanted to go to bed and hide under the covers until it was over. But then I would be turning 26. Another year older. Hiding under the covers and reverting back to being 7 was not going to happen.

So here I am, a few days shy of 26 and totally freaking out. What happened to all the things I was going to do with my life? Get my Masters in Social Work. Get my Masters in Public Administration. Lose weight. Write a book. Be successful. Make a difference. Get married! What have I done? Cher famously warbled “If I could turn back time…” Well, you can’t turn back time. You can’t go back and get a rewrite. You can only take comfort in your successes, resolve to make up your failures, and look forward to the new year of the new you, older and hopefully a little wiser.


Thanks Jack for your assistance!