I’m in Vancouver. Last night I went to tango. There was a musician from Argentina who played the Bandoneon solo. The voice of the instrument is both community and alone, melancholy and festive. He sat on the west side of the floor with dancers seated around him in a circle and I put my head back rested against the wall behind me and closed my eyes. The music voiced the sense of being there.
Before my 15 month journey of learning to trust the process, tango had given me a sense of value and worth–a feeling of accomplishment. The music of immigrants, transition, gain and loss, the embrace, discipline, expression of soul and connection. But last night it all felt like it was on the surface. Clusters of attachments, individuals, couples, desire, craving and struggle and movement.
The Bandoneon played it all for me. The art and religion of tango was only on the skin for me last night. There were only brief moments of connection and I left the milonga with the realization that my value and worth no longer rest within that art. There has been a shift not only in my mind but in my body as well. The desire to find the music, discipline, sure movement in my bones and flesh. To know that it must be in me first and then I can be seated at peace with enjoying the music or feet sore from dancing. Whatever–the soul of the dance must be found in me.