It never ceases to amaze me how wonderous – and preposterous – is the Tango.
I grew up with two disparate worldviews, the church and my family of origin.
Neither would have approved of the tango.
My father would not have seen the point in expending all that time and energy in close proximity with a woman if it didn’t count as foreplay.
The church was sure it did. All that music and movement was simply an opportunity for the devil.
Which is why the tango is so preposterous – and wondrous.
Here I am, post mid-life, maneuvering through a conflicted morass of phobias, prejudice and perversity from my past and venturing into a completely unanticipated landscape: I step out onto the dance floor, engage my dance partner in a close embrace (often a total stranger), and we create something of beauty and intimacy.
Tango is the treasuring of connection for its own sake. It envelopes one in a magical, mysterious world of flourishes and embellishments for an intense few minutes and then dissipates, leaving the body tingling and yearning for more.
In a world where relationships are often characterized by disdain and violence, such a close, safe, vulnerable, intimate encounter is preposterous.
The wonder of it all.