I Hope You Dance
This weekend, I drove to St. Louis for a dear friend of mine's wedding. It was beautiful. Everything was so well put together and sincerely, lovingly composed; I was truly affected.
A few things occurred to me.
First, the coffee at the Hyatt in Union Station is terrible. The meal and dessert were so spectacular that it justified real coffee. I even thought about putting sugar in it, but only consumed a few sips. The day-old, cold Ethiopia Harrar I brought with me was amazing compared to the swill served in the Grand Hall of the reception.
Second, I don't dance. I mean, when it comes to dancing, I'm retarded. I can't. I'm not sure why that is so hard for people to understand. Dancing is just like everything else- some people are good at it, some people do it anyway, and some people just can't. I can't. I'm fascinated watching others do it. But when I step foot on a dance floor, I feel very uncomfortable. I don't derive any joy from it. My body just doesn't have a compulsion to move.
I can run really far. I can mountain bike like nobody's business. And I don't act astounded when someone tells me they can't mountain bike or run 100 miles. Maybe it's because I'm so obviously intrigued that people think I should be able to do it. Maybe I just need a better cover. I don't know.
On my drive home, I heard the song "I Hope You Dance" on the radio. It made me think. I don't take the path of least resistance. I climb the mountains. Daily, I am amazed at life. I take chances. I just can't dance. I wish I could.
The last thing I thought about is this. Gwendolyn and Sloan are really lucky. I watched them make a promise to one another before God. I see her loving him, and him loving her. That is rare. I hope they never let it die. I hope they hold onto it despite everything else. Love is elusive; I can't think of anything I'd rather have. Not even the ability to dance. Not even a fresh-roasted pourover of Kenya Peaberry. Well... let's not get carried away.
A few things occurred to me.
First, the coffee at the Hyatt in Union Station is terrible. The meal and dessert were so spectacular that it justified real coffee. I even thought about putting sugar in it, but only consumed a few sips. The day-old, cold Ethiopia Harrar I brought with me was amazing compared to the swill served in the Grand Hall of the reception.
Second, I don't dance. I mean, when it comes to dancing, I'm retarded. I can't. I'm not sure why that is so hard for people to understand. Dancing is just like everything else- some people are good at it, some people do it anyway, and some people just can't. I can't. I'm fascinated watching others do it. But when I step foot on a dance floor, I feel very uncomfortable. I don't derive any joy from it. My body just doesn't have a compulsion to move.
I can run really far. I can mountain bike like nobody's business. And I don't act astounded when someone tells me they can't mountain bike or run 100 miles. Maybe it's because I'm so obviously intrigued that people think I should be able to do it. Maybe I just need a better cover. I don't know.
On my drive home, I heard the song "I Hope You Dance" on the radio. It made me think. I don't take the path of least resistance. I climb the mountains. Daily, I am amazed at life. I take chances. I just can't dance. I wish I could.
The last thing I thought about is this. Gwendolyn and Sloan are really lucky. I watched them make a promise to one another before God. I see her loving him, and him loving her. That is rare. I hope they never let it die. I hope they hold onto it despite everything else. Love is elusive; I can't think of anything I'd rather have. Not even the ability to dance. Not even a fresh-roasted pourover of Kenya Peaberry. Well... let's not get carried away.
posted by Brian at 8:34 PM
2 Comments:
I beg to differ. i’ve watched as you roast coffee beans. i’ve felt the passion. i’ve seen the dance. the music: the vittoria, in all her whirring, whirling, gas-fired glory. and you taking lead: gliding effortlessly from hopper to controls to thermometer to log. back and forth-- listening for the slightest change in her normal sounds. lovingly adjusting the inflow of gas. occasionally pulling some beans to take a look. ignoring any distraction that might draw your attention away from her. and waiting for your gut to tell you just the right moment to dump the beans from her drum. it may not be the sort of dance one sees at weddings, but it’s a dance all the same. and it is truly a thing of beauty.
Wow you're squishy...
Married 18 years and I only dance to embarrass family. I also prefer the cold remains of your fine blends than a fresh of the other stuff.
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