‘Why dance?’

Yesterday I went to a Sunday Lunch and left feeling a little like an ex-belle of the wild Georgian era who has been to a Victorian tea party. The venue, an attic flat in a rectory, was once in the keeping of a friend who lived there until her wedding almost 10 years ago. She got married in the rectory chapel, and her bridal procession–witnessed only by me–was down several flights of concrete outdoor stairs. She was wearing a long white gown and purple stiletto heels, and I held my breath until she was safely on the ground. I am not sure, but I don’t think I was ever again in that flat until yesterday afternoon.

Before her marriage, my friend was one of a group of us local TLM Catholics who hosted Sunday Lunches. We all took turns, so my husband and I often hosted them in the attic of, or in front of, the 17th/18th century historical house in which we then lived. These parties, which almost invariably included a sit-down dinner, could involve up to 18 people, and featured what now seems like an astonishing amount of alcohol. They sometimes lasted until 3 AM, and could feature postprandial strolls in fields or hills or beaches, the singing of folk songs and/or hymns, mock flirtation, sexist banter, watching videos of Spanish religious processions or the coronation of Elizabeth II, and–on one memorable occasion–dancing.

It was in the rectory’s attic flat, late at night and, I believe, in winter. The lunch was long since eaten and the bottles greatly depleted. We die-hards had little desire to go home and many excuses not to–beginning with the long concrete staircase, or perhaps the sleet lashing the windows. Our hostess had been playing various bits and bobs of music over her laptop, and eventually Scottish ceilidh music filled the air.

I’m not really sure how it happened, as this had never happened before, and it never happened again. But suddenly we were pushing the furniture to the walls and organizing ourselves into a set. We danced in a ring: I think it was the Dashing White Sergeant. Eight skips to the right, eight skips to the left, drop all hands. Centres: set to your Right Partner, link arms and turn!

Round and round we went, like creatures possessed, aged 20-something to 50-something, heedless of the sleep of our priest downstairs. Of course we crashed into walls and bookcases–a framed photo of St. John Paul II went flying–but the dance went on, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-EIGHT, until its natural end, ontologically linked to every Scottish country dance at home and abroad, reaching back through the generations, past Bonnie Prince Charlie’s revels at Holyrood, beyond even the building of Antonius’ wall to our painted ancestors stamping around bonfires holding antlers to their heads.

In contrast, yesterday’s Sunday Lunch was sedate. Advised that members of this generation of guests don’t bring a bottle of wine each (an unthinkable social solecism in my set), I brought two of white, and only one was opened. (I believe two bottles of red were broached, but the only guest I noticed having refills was I.) Two tables were pushed end to end and there was a lot to eat, but it was a quiet gathering. Guests chatted amiably to the guest on their left and to the guest on their right, and nobody asked me how business was down on Salamander Street. Some people left even before 4:30 PM, and nobody mocked them or barred their way. It was very pleasant, and in this tranquil atmosphere, I was asked “Why dance?”

The question took me unawares, as I was still pondering my good fortune in having met at this party an actual piper, and thus future McLean funerals are sorted and, less remotely (one hopes), we might add bagpipes to the Eastertide Dance’s ceilidh band. Also, I had blogged at length at the topic of “why”, putting the arguments away into storage, as it were. Thus, my reply was the opposite of sparkling. Since my interrogator indicated that he had read my post on Gloriaville, I mostly talked about discouraging the TLM community from becoming narrow and weird.

However, I have had time to acclimatize myself to my good fortune and to reread material on the benefits of dancing, so I shall now trot out a better, more cheerful answer.

First, human beings dance. We just do and we always have. Many other creatures have “dance-like behaviours” but so far the only other creature science has proven dances to music is the parrot (Psittaciformes), most famously Snowball the Cockatoo.

Good luck teaching Snowball the Dashing White Sergeant, though.

Second, real dancing–not just bopping up and down like Snowball–involves the use of reason, and reason is God’s greatest gift to humanity after Himself. Reason schools human movement into graceful steps and gestures that express or invoke human thoughts and emotions. Since human beings are going to dance in one way or another (even if just mindless head banging or toe tapping) to music, it is a good idea to train us in rational dancing.

Third, rational dancing is social and cultural. We learn it from each other, ideally in person (instead of over the internet or TV) from professionals or beloved elders, and we practise it together. It is not good for humans to be isolated: real dancing gives us–especially those of us who like company but not conversation–a simultaneously rational and physical activity to do together. If it is folk dance, ballroom dance, or swing dance, it connects us to the experiences of our grandparents and/or their parents, or helps integrate us into the country where we now live. It can also give us insight into other cultures, of course: my group has danced the Polonaise, and long ago I stunned my small theology school as the backup dancer for a schoolmate’s carefully choreographed Bollywood dance. (Chunari, chunari.) However, there is nothing like a night of ceilidh dancing ending with ‘Auld Lang Syne’ for me to feel part of my Edinburgh-based community, Scotland, and my mother’s extended Scottish family. Rational dancing helps us feel that we belong.

Fourth, rational dancing is good for mental, cognitive and physical health. It is good not to be alone, and it is good to move to joyful music: the company, the exercise, and the tunes are all anti-depressants. Having to learn the steps and to pay strict attention to the movements of your partner sharpens your intelligence and staves off cognitive decline. And 3 minute bursts of aerobic exercise is HIIT (high-intensity interval training) with all of its benefits: “fat loss”, “increased muscle strength and tone”, and “improved general fitness and endurance,” says the NHS.

Five, rational dancing is good for our characters. It makes us consider others; it teaches us to pay strict attention to our partners and also the people around us. (This goes for the dress code, too.) Men strive to communicate clearly directions to women, and women do our best to follow them. Men also learn to be responsible for the women they lead and make sure we are safe on the dance floor. Some people think this is good training for marriage; it certainly sounds like good training for traditional marriage–or the Officers’ Training Corps. As I frequently mention, it encourages men to spit in the eye of fear and ask women to dance. It also schools women in patience and resignation, two values very much out of fashion and yet extremely useful in married life.

And I think this post is long enough. To return my thoughts to the rectory attic flat, I am glad that a new generation of TLMers has kept the Sunday Lunch going, and I am also glad that they don’t seem to drink as much as their elders did/do. Others have told me that this abstemiousness is a trend among Catholic students (or students in general) at Edinburgh University, and it’s a very good one. It certainly complements rational dancing, for to dance well you usually need all your wits about you.

The one exception I know of is that magical midnight moment a decade ago when six sozzled TLMers suddenly burst into dance. It was a good old-fashioned ring dance without a hint of a hug, but somehow I think it would have caused St. Augustine, who knew something about paganism, a qualm or two.