a total eclipse of the heart

I pack a bag, take a train, then a bus and wait. For a long enough time to begin to wonder if it’s the right tree by the right pub near the Caledonian Forest. All I have is an out of signal mobile and the remnants of a hangover, that and a massive rucksack. . . I’ve signed up for ‘dance, body and the environment’ for dancers, artists and choreographers. A little leap beyond my musical theatre training but something deeper calls me on.

The waiting dance ends . . . my lift comes. Some bending roads later and I plonk my rucksack by my bunk bed side and join the evening circle. I am the last to land.

We are artists gathering round a fire in the company of Jennifer Monson, Simon Whitehead and Angus Balbirnie. [All worth checking out]. I’m curious, making a version of The Red Shoes for Tramway later that year and wishing a dose of the wild to dance with, perhaps a dose of courage - of the heart.

There are a couple of folk I am half familiar with in the circle but mostly new souls. The introductions begin - where we’re at and if we have any injuries to report before we set out on a moon walk . . . it’s a necessary kind of delightful awkward that every rehearsal, workshop, read through in a performer's life begins with. I’ve learnt to enjoy the squirm. The tone gets set here somehow. The ensemble of first impressions.

Injuries are reported - mostly dancers in attendance so there are a fair few of them - knees, ankles, backs, things to take care of. I’ve not broken anything - sprained an ankle in a dramatic jazz leap a few years previously that put me out of action for a while but mostly mended. The only thing that’s ever been broken is my heart. So I say this - with enough comedy to warrant a ripple of laughter round the room.

[I am often ‘the funny one’ - comedy is my friend when it comes to social tensions - grief and joy is my duet it seems!]

It’s Jennifer’s invitation. We are to partner up and walk out as the sun sets, the moon rises and the world begins to invert into black and white. Other alliances have been made.

I’ll walk with you, she says and takes my hand. She knows what she’s doing. I feel glad of her sturdy grip and sure footedness. After the day, after the month, after the year.

In silence, we walk together into the darkness. I have not known this space by daylight so I am in trust of Jennifer and my feet.

Something inside switches on, my other senses waken. My eyes adjust, the light inverts and though distance is harder to measure, time also shifts, we settle near the river, clamber over logs and nestle into grass, earth. We sit back to back till our breath unites.

Jennifer moves first, she is stag, stone, rock. I move, get closer to the earth, lay my face down into the grasses, let my body curl into the branches and invert, surrender to the moon.

Back to back we breathe again and then the moths come. An eclipse of moths. They circle us.

Flutter, flit, whisper a softness of wings I’ve never been closer to.

The moths are many and winging their way around us. 

What are we to them? If anything. Perhaps a little warmth?

A moth takes pause on my heart. Slowly opening and closing its wings.

I rest in tender breath between Jennifer’s back and the moth on my heart. Not wishing to whoosh it away. 

Breath, wings, heart.

Open and close, in and out.

As tenderly as it must, as I must, as we do.

Opening and closing, in and out.

My heart, the wings, our breath.

Oh my heart. How we dance.