Last night, I went dancing.
Now, I used to be a dancer. I was a ballerina for years and then added some jazz into that. I did solos – and won awards – and I worked in company groups – and won awards. I loved the dancing world, but sometimes, we make mistakes. One of my biggest “rue for always” moments was after ten years, I quit dancing. In going to dance class, it was one of the few places where, whilst doing exercises and learning new choreography, I felt comfortable with my body. It moves just so and it was as though what I desired and what I felt were really in tune. I am no longer a flexible chit of ten any longer, but I sure lose my all-pervasive self-consciousness when I’m on the dance floor. (It’s only after that my mind kicks back in to remind me that I am a heiffer.) It was a lesson, this dancing all night.
So, let’s talk about going dancin’.
He picked me up in a carriage. There could have been horses drawing it or thestrals for all I know. I was more focused on the regalia that went into the evening. My date was dressed to the nines. He was wearing a top hat and a devil-may-care smile. He wore a white shirt with a black coat, complete with tails and gloves. He had a snazzy walking stick with a golden head, shaped like a dog’s head. He modeled his outfit for me, charming me all the more before we were on our way to a ballroom, complete with candles everywhere, entire pendants dripping with candelight. A huge, polished dance floor spread out before us and there were beautiful people, all in masks. It was a ball, a mascerade, and my clothes were inappropriate. It didn’t matter. My date with his old-world flair made me forget all of that. We are here to dance, he nasaled at me, not to worry. Let’s take the prize, shall we?
It was all so much fun and fancy and care-free.
He spun me around with grace and intent. He pulled me from one dance to another, from conga to the waltz to the self-made choreography of people intent on a good time. He pulled a dance maneuver from the good ole days, using his snazzy walking stick as a prop. Then he spun me ’round and ’round until I was dizzy with laughter and joy. It was a fabulous evening and we won the prize. Best dance couple ever, it read, etched in gilt and with a calligraphy art form. I traced the letters under giddy fingertips, reveling in an evening of fun and thrills. Woefully under dressed, disheveled and in dishabille, my hair full of elf-locks and snarls, I had a fantastic time.
I also felt incredibly beautiful, even in a pair of PJ pants and a bulky T-shirt.
Pajamas are fine and dandy for ballroom dance soirees when your date is Papa Legba.
He stopped in for a visit, and a lesson.
You see, a few weeks ago, I noticed a drop off in contact with Papa Legba. I began wearing the bracelet I bought in his name on a more regular basis when this occurred… hoping… hoping… It didn’t seem to phase the lack of communication, however. I hadn’t been sure what the issue was that was barring our contacting one another. I thought he could have been busy or that he had other things to do. My fears were that he had strayed away. Perhaps he was done with me because we had a time limit or perhaps he was upset with me for some reason. I continued the usual, went through the daily stuff. I figured he’d let me know, one way or another. Though, I will admit to a certain level of worry. Perhaps I had screwed up somewhere or maybe, you know, he was just sick of my shit. Or maybe he had just been around to get me moving more smoothly with my gods – mission accomplished – and was on his way out the door.
He came by to lay my fears to rest.
He also, as I said, came by to teach me some things without, actually, teaching me anything.
1. Sometimes, as much as shit sucks and you have to be in the thick of shit because the universe is busy trolling you, letting off steam is a good way to go. Letting it fester will only end up with you e’sploding all over the place, which probably wouldn’t solve the problem.
2. He’s still around whether I hear him clearly or not.
3. Just because I have so much shit to get done in the astral world doesn’t mean I can’t have fun with it, too. I tend to view the astral as just another job – get in, do the work, get out. I know it’s not quite like that since I have friends who go regularly. It doesn’t matter, but how I perceive it just going in to do the work I need to do to get rid of the ex-husband for finally. I’m allowed to have fun, too, though.
And this is why I love Papa Legba.