I love the old-book smell that greets me upon entry.
I love the way the door and steps sing, announcing an arrival.
I love how the floor creaks when first in the ballroom.
And I love the ominous vastness of being the last one in the ballroom at night,
And the echoes the walls carry when you sing, alone.
The piano, the flute, the accordion, the guitar, the melodica come out to play when the dancers sleep.
I love the wobbly leg of the piano bench that threatens to drop and pop me
(I’ll take a hammer and nail to it someday, just like I did to its belly)!
I love the silent walls that hold the secrets of my late-night, piano-high shenanigans:
My sock-skating, barre-bending, throat-singing, head-standing shenanigans.
I love the ceiling fans with their familiar dust. Their dance is a part of my meditation.
I love how currents send their wings into their hypnotizing vals, without reason or music or rhyme.
I love how sunlight climbs through the leaves of the tall-standing plants in the late afternoon hours—a jungle sunset for Spring yogis.
I love laying in savasana; the hard, cool wooden floors welcoming after exertion.
I love the acquired familiarity of songs sung in foreign tongues.
And strange instruments. Sometimes, even roosters.
I love the taste of salt on my lips when leading, and the way that sweaty tendrils stick to my forehead.
I love peering out from behind the dance embrace to see a wall filled with familiar faces—
—Looking, talking, being.
I love the different personalities, the different smells, the different dialects of dance that sweep across the floor.
I love when I am one of the last dancers on an emptying dance floor.
I love the s’mircles and kitchen gossip, strange wines and sour cream, the smiles of strangers.
I love my dance shoes, and spinners, and the sugary memories of Smyrna figs.
I love the pursuit of stray wine glasses on milonga nights. And befriending strangers who clean with us.
I love collapsing upon the red chairs.
I love discovering new ways to lie across their arms, indulging the suppressed urges of kid-curiosity.
I love how the instructors, my friends, see a person in a student, saw a person in me.
I love how they seek to understand your world.
Yoga is delicious.
Tango is addicting.
Connection can be intoxicating, thrilling, terrifying.
It’s so easy to take it all for granted; how little, yet how long, you have been in my life, dear Sangha (almost two years!).
The faces that greet me, the spontaneous hugs, the kind-intentioned souls that worship you.
That worship me.
We’re so loved, here, at Sangha Space.
I love you. Thank you.