Striking gold where you least expect it

Is that a twinkle in his eyes? Is that my heart racing? Are we both giggling for the first time in a long while?

Recently, I have learned from an Indian Proverb that "To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak." Since my husband and I started ballroom dancing lessons, our hearts have been a chattering.

In the few short weeks since our first lesson, we know one thing: ballroom dancing outwardly expresses the language that our hearts have spoken fluently all along. A metaphor for our marriage, through dancing our hearts are shouting, "I promise to be there!"

We are one of 12 couples in our class. Even though we appear to be very different, we all have two things in common: we step on our partner’s toes and we trip over our own feet. In other words, we bring no natural talent to the dance floor. However, we are encouraged by our instructor, who believes that anyone can learn.

"Now remember, dancing is just like walking. And, be sure to practice when you go home," he reminds us.

When my husband and I do practice, we are like a new love, arm in arm, lightly stepping back and forth. We wrack our brains to recall the instructor’s words, "Each slow step takes two beats of music and every quick step takes one..."

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, we softly whisper.

With the furniture pushed back on the living room floor, we sweetly sway to the beat of Sugarland and Rascal Flats. Twenty minutes go by in a flash as we move about with an innocent trust in one another’s ability to remember.

The shades are not drawn. Our Dachshunds are looking on with amazement, possibly detecting a new spark, as we take slow, slow, quick, quick steps to the Foxtrot and rock forward, backward and then sideways while doing the Swing.

While ballroom dancing does expose our vulnerabilities, we are rediscovering our couple hood to the beat of 4-4 time.

After 38 years of relentlessly mining ways to be romantic, our hope of rekindling had withered; but now, we have struck gold on the dance floor.

The rhythmic heel, toe, heel toe reintroduced us to a finesse and tenderness that usually escapes our daily routine.

A new soft gift in our lives is transporting us back to an old familiar place where we first met, a time when we would gaze into each other’s eyes, coordinating every move and holding hands until they were hot and sweaty.

The slow gentle leaning into one another and the sudden pulling away represents the best parts of our love.

As we dance, we are in a happy, silly place. We are romantically giddy when we get it right and lovingly chuckle if we get it wrong.

Ballroom dancing brightly teases us into believing that we are young again. It is a fountain quenching our thirst. I like it here. I don't only want to visit this place; I want to stay.

When our lessons are over, we are talking about signing up for some more of this tonic that summons our hearts. Heel, toe, heel toe...one, two, three, four....

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
　

　

Is that you in front of me?

The other day, when I heard SD Public Broadcasting reporter Charles Michael Ray on location just west of Custer in the southern Black Hills of South Dakota, I got the shivers.

Ray spent the day with cavers who were charting the 150-mile mark of explored passageways in Jewel Cave, the second largest known cave in the world.

I have no desire to sliver my way through underground rock tunnels, but I sure don't mind it when others go caving and live to tell about it.

While listening to reporter Ray as he tagged along with cavers, I wondered what it would be like. I can picture myself looking cool in a pair of Dickies overalls with knee and elbow pads underneath, a bandanna wrapped around my forehead with a fluorescent hard hat on and a halogen lamp in hand.

Nevertheless, I think I would miss too many of my creature comforts on a day trip, let alone an overnight. How do you know when it is nighttime down there, anyway?

And, where does someone sleep when they're 300 feet or more underground? A hard surface for a resting place makes me ache just thinking about it. What about a pillow? I doubt I'd be able to bring my favorite feather pillow. Plus, I can't sleep without my down-filled comforter.

Can you picture me hauling my pillow and blanket through tight crawl ways and down chutes? Maybe I could pack them in my travel tote on wheels. Maybe not. With such cramped quarters, I'd probably have to leave them behind or, scarier yet, be left behind.

What if my co-spelunkers snore? I suppose I could wear earplugs, but then how would I hear the bats swooping down to get me? I don't think I could sleep with the snoring and the bats. After all of that, I can't bear the thought of the bathroom issue.

Worse yet, what if I got lost like I did in Itasca State Park and that was in broad daylight? I must admit, I am afraid of the dark. With no sun, moon or stars to light the way, I'd be hanging onto the pantleg of the person in front of me. Now that would make me really popular among the other spelunkers!

When cave diving, which is like deep-sea diving except in a cave, you’re supposed to have at least three dependable light sources. I don't think a flimsy headlamp or glow sticks would give me solace – not even a laser distance finder or a compass that lights up would calm my nerves.

Maybe the thought of sparkling calcite crystals, delicate strands of gypsum and other spectacular formations would be enough to distract me. Nah, I don't think so.

I heard it's wet down there. Cavers get wet and may stay wet the whole time. I hate having wet feet, wet clothes or wet anything. I don't like getting dirty either and caving is a dirty sport.

When I think of a day of spelunking, let alone an overnight, questions overcome me. How will I know which way is up? How will I find my way back? What if the cave caves? If cavers don't return when expected, is a caver team sent out to rescue them?

The whole idea is too overwhelming for me. Besides, what if my leader gets lost? Then what would I do?

It took a century to chart the first 150 miles of Jewel Cave and some believe there are hundreds more miles to explore. I'll leave that to the next generation of cavers.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

Falling into place by shaking it off...

"On your knees, you look up…you get strong...wipe your hands, shake it off...then you stand...every time you get up, one more small piece of you starts to fall into place..." Stand by Rascal Flats

I have a soft spot in my heart for the Winter Olympic Games, especially for women's figure skating. When I was 12 years, I taught myself how to ice skate by watching the 1964 Games on TV.

It was the year Dutch figure-skating champion Kjoukje Kijkstra of the Netherlands struck gold in Innsbruck, Austria.

I remember being perched way too close to the black and white picture tube, taking copious mental notes of her twists, her turns, her solid drives forward and her curvy strides backward.

Wanting to dance on ice just like Kijkstra, I studied her every move as she leveraged her body and glided around the glassy rink - the way she bent her knees, lowered her head and maneuvered her heels, toes and arms all in one glorious flow of athleticism.

The end of her performances signaled the beginning of mine. I wasted no time heading for the ice to mimic her, hurrying a bit, thinking I may forget the images I carried with me.

With a pair of skates slung over my shoulder, I stomped through winter’s long snowy shadows to Chautauqua Lake, one block straight down the hill from my childhood home in Lakewood, N.Y.

Arriving at the encrusted shoreline, I situated myself on a large rock smoothed by lapping waves now rendered still by cold air.

After wrestling ice skates onto my feet, I stood and steadied myself on dull silver blades. Ever so slowly and with abundant awkwardness, I inched myself onto the frozen plane. With no one else around, I was free to live out my skating fantasy. Ankles bending, knees aching, I clumsily forced my feet to move, tittering right, then left, right, left, right, left....

During many wobbly practices, my dream of one day gliding across the ice with some semblance of style and grace held me captive.

Spending hours stomping, skidding and marching across that bumpy rink, I carried a mantle of Kijkstra’s greatness. She was my supply. Her victory dwelt inside me. Nothing could discourage me.

With relentless hope and unchanging images of Kijkstra, I learned how to skate forward, backward and eventually progressed to half-turns and then full twirls.

And now watching the 2010 Winter Olympic Games, as I approach the age of 60, I am 12 again. I am perched too close to the television. My heart is in my throat. I see Yu Na Kim of South Korea win gold. I observe the courage of Joannie Rochette of Canada win bronze. I am taken up once again by a most powerful force that makes me believe I can do anything.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.