The Eastertide Dance 2025

The Stoics underscore grasping what you can and cannot control. Among the few things we directly control are our reactions to things beyond our control. Thus, on Friday when I got an unexpected text message that my ride to the Eastertide Dance would be delayed because of dance business of which I remembered nothing, I decided to embrace the chaos. One thing I have learned for sure is that after weeks regimented planning and effort, chaos will turn up on the day of a dance. One might call this the “god of surprises,” whom the late Pope Francis identified with the Blessed Trinity, but I’m not so sure.

I was less stoical when I got a text message at 13:31 that “an extra five ladies” were coming. My thoughts flew to the already printed dance cards, my inability to process payments at the hall, and my male:female ratio. I sent a few more messages over the next few hours, and it turned out I already knew about two of the five, and they had already paid.

The matter was put to rest at the hairdresser’s where the hairdresser (as decreed by the god of surprises) informed me that I would need two appointments to have my hair smoothed into a proper French roll and proceeded to turn me into the Bride of Frankenstein instead.

Hitherto my worry had been about my eyebrow rash. (Really, these two beauty appointment were too much temptation for the god of surprises.) I had a biannual eyebrow tidy on Wednesday so that the resultant rash would calm down by Friday. When I told the beautician this, she said it should disappear that afternoon. Instead it broke out on Thursday and lasted well into Saturday. On my way home from the House of Frankenstein Friday, I popped into the chemist’s to ask for advice. The young man at the counter said that any moisturizer would do, especially if it had been in the refrigerator. He emphasized any, so when I got home I anointed my forehead with cold butter.

After that, I piled all the dance supplies in the doorway for my kind young helper, dropped the contents of my makeup kit on the bathroom floor, whimpered, and then–thanks to Epictetus, Seneca and Marcus Aurelius–got a firm hold of myself.

By the way, I should mention that I had already labelled every bag, box, and container with my name. I labelled all tools, too–the cake knife, the cake pan, my clipboard, my phone and the labelling tape itself. Utterly crucial.

Also crucial, I had inveigled a friend into being the Dance Kitchen Manager. I had done layers upon layers of organizational work, and when I discovered I probably wouldn’t be at the hall by 6PM (as I had promised musicians), I sent messages from the hairdresser’s chair to my husband, whom I appointed my deputy, and to the hall manager. Experience has taught me that some halls won’t let anyone in unless the lady wha’ signed the form has already arrived.

I arrived to find my husband enthroned on a comfortable chair in the foyer beside the reception desk and David, the kindly and invaluable receptionist. This was the first time I had an actual staff member on site during the whole dance, and–oh my goodness, what a difference. Instead of dreading the rattle and thump of a grumpy janitor, I was constantly reassured by a friendly young fellow who praised my various decisions, carried the comfy chair to the dance hall for wheelchair-user Mr. McLean, and told me we could come again anytime.

Various friends/helpers arrived soon after, and the supplies were unboxed. On the drive to the hall, I had written a checklist for the Dance Kitchen Manager, and she taped it above the sink. The piper arrived–I am very proud of those words–and after some rehearsing behind a closed door, he went out to the street and played “Highland Cathedral” in front of the hall.

“We have arrived,” I thought with all the smugness of someone who thinks pipers are akin to priests.

The ceilidh band, delayed by the god of surprises, arrived later than I expected with equally unexpected sound equipment. There was then a good deal of faffing over sound levels, over which I had no control. I did however, seize back powerat 7:50 PM by greeting the guests through a microphone and asking my husband to begin the evening with the Prayer to Saint Michael.

There followed another 10 minutes or so for the crowd to fill in their dance cards, and then the Caller (another quasi-sacred role) introduced the Dashing White Sergeant.

Is writing about dance like dancing about architecture? Personally, I would enjoy seeing a dance about architecture, which would certainly be easier than writing about dancing. For one thing, my attention was divided between the music, the musicians, the dance, the dancers, and (especially) the non-dancers. Is anyone sitting alone? Should I chivvy the younger teen boys into asking the younger teen girls for a dance? To whom could I introduce those girls from X? Only the day after the dance did I realize that some of the wallflowers I worried over were only 11.

Nevertheless, I assure you there was indeed dancing: traditional dances punctuated by waltzes. I had to glance at random dance cards (I kept losing my own) to announce the next. The waltz musicians sometimes danced the ceilidh dances, and the ceilidh musicians sometimes danced the waltzes. We filled the room but did not crash into the refreshments table. When we formed sets of eight, I counted 6 sets. Including musicians, we were a company of 65.

The 20 minute delay hadn’t mattered: the Intermission began at 8:55 PM, and we had an hour to work into any shape we liked. At 9:15 PM I turned on my Lindy Hop playlist, and the Edinburgh TLM’s answer to Fred and Adele Astaire tore up the floor. Meanwhile, the god of surprises prompted some of the musicians to plan a three-song jazz standard set, over which they worked as Sylwia Buchalska asked po polsku who was knocking at her door and Ella Fitzgerald celebrated Revival Day. I gave the jazz standards 10 minutes, they took 15, and then it was time for the Circassian Circle.

By running a tight final hour, I managed to keep all the scheduled dances. The Caller was for dropping the St. Bernard’s Waltz, but it is my favourite, so I kept it. And I’m glad I did, for the ceilidh band (violin, accordion, guitar and flute) played a particularly sweet slow melody, the perfect contrast to their usual upbeat tunes. The last waltz was the Blue Danube, and then we lined up for Strip the Willow. At first we tried to pack us all into one diagonal double-line, but arranged like that we were too many for the hall , so the Caller divided us into two double-lines. The band struck up and away we went.

Then, to mark the passing of Pope Francis and our late TLM parishioners, the Piper fetched his pipes and played a Lament which roared in and around our ears. Afterwards, we sang (and danced) Auld Lang Syne with vigour. We ended with Regina Caeli; the words and music were printed on the back of the dance cards.

And here is where I love to meditate on our Catholic diversity. Among us were a goodly number of people who go to the Oratory-in-Formation at St. Patrick’s, Cowgate; a bigger crowd from the Noon TLM at St. Andrew’s, Raveston; those from the TLM at St. Brigid’s Toryglen; those who go to parish churches in Dundee; a good number of who assist at the SSPX Mass at St. Andrew’s, Glasgow, and at least one young lady from Sacred Heart, Lauriston (aka Edinburgh Jesuit Church). We ranged in age from 11 to perhaps 60, and we were Scots, English, Irish, Polish, Spanish, Guatemalan, Hongkonger, American, Canadian, and Australian.

We all celebrated Easter as a village, in the time-honoured way Catholic villages once celebrated and, please God, will celebrate again.

Update 1: I forgot to mention that the Kitchen Manager and the Security Team made a nice speech and gave me roses and chocolates, which was very kind of them. I must say, though, that the greatest reward was seeing so many people I know dancing together so merrily. Oh, and we fell just short of breaking even, which means that this amazing event cost the McLeans only £25 in the end. REVISION: A latecomer paid, and so we were short only £5. Meanwhile, one of the bottles of wine we bought was not drunk, and thus I think we can safely say that–at last–we broke even!

However, I had no time to take photos, so I hope kind people send me theirs. If they do, I will add them in.

Update 2: Thanks to the Kitchen Manager and some volunteer clearers, washers, driers, and packers, we were all cleaned up and ready to go at midnight. The invaluable night manager allowed us to stay until our taxi arrived, which was enormously kind of him.

Update 3: Drink tally: only 7 bottles of wine, 10 cans of beer. (Note to self: more beer next time.)

Update 4 (May 5): Photos at last! And it has been such a strange week that I can scarcely believe that Easter Friday was less than a fortnight ago!