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Broken Foot
 
September 14, 1989

Royal Scottish Country Dance Society Board of Directors
Program Committee

In the aftermath of having broken my foot during the adjudicated dancing at the Santa Rosa Scottish Games, I've had lots of time to sit and reflect upon Scottish Country Dancing, Scottish Country Dancers, and Floors. I'd like to share some of my observations: Nothing (well almost nothing) in my life can compare with the music and the dancing--though physically and intellectually demanding, it is joyous, it is passionate, and it is profoundly gratifying. In the 5 years I've been dancing, I've learned first hand that there are no warmer or more supportive people than Scottish Country Dancers--from their unreserved and cheerful acceptance of the most inept beginner at parties to their heart-felt expressions of love and care for others in their moments of utmost grief.

In a word, I thank whatever fates there are that my ancestors had the good sense and high taste to choose to be Celts, and I thank these same fates too for my own great fortune in discovering this.

However, during these same 5 years, we (you and I) have lurched about on slippery floors, stumbled about on sticky floors, teetered about on tottering floors, groaned about on concrete floors, and wandered about on uneven floors. Slipping, tripping and falling, we have blistered, wrenched, sprained, broken and subluxed toes, soles, ankles, arches, shins, knees and sacra. Soaked, iced, doped and linimented, we are padded, bandaged, braced, taped and slinged. But we are Celts; we survive, but we have complained every close-in-third-skip-change-of step of the way.

Now that I have managed to really mess up my own, beautiful and precious foot tripping over a piece of lousy, curse-of-god duct tape affixed to the dance floor at said games, sticky side up, I'm finally tired of complaining about the floors. Had I known what lay in store for my foot at Santa Rosa, I would have gladly rented the San Jose class's floor myself; it would have been cheaper, and saved my family much stress. Therefore, I hereby appoint myself chairman of a new committee, the Buildings and Grounds Committee. Its charter is to see to it that forever after the floors are fit for dancing. It will spearhead the financing, construction, storage and transportation of a portable floor(s). It will see to it that the floors at parties and balls are properly cleaned and prepared in a way suitable for Scottish Country Dancing.
 
 
 
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
 
 
 
 
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