I have been craving PIE for the last four days of my life, and after much hinting and, finally, pretty much flat out begging, I convinced my little family to accompany me to a little cafeteria place down the street that served pie by the slice.
(This was my first pregnancy demand. I have not yet asked for any special or late night trips to the grocery stores or restaurants to fulfill any baby-induced cravings. And I must say… It was a surprising! amount! of work! to wrangle some delicious PIE out of my boys. PIE!!)
Anywho, we went to this little cafeteria, and it was full of wonderful people who were, shall we say, of the elderly persuasion? There was an older man playing the piano, and some of the couples would get up and dance at intervals while he played. It was pretty much the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my life. These people came from an era where dancing was IT. Dancing, to their generation, is like facebook is to us now. You know… Our main source of entertainment.
We sat and ate pie and watched these lovely people dance and sway to the talented man’s piano playing, and I found myself wishing so badly that our society wasn’t so disconnected now-a-days… that we could go back to a time when gathering in a small dance hall was the thrill of the week, and people had to interact face-to-face if they were going to interact at all. I wished that my sons could grow up in a more personal world, and I found myself praying that they wouldn’t retreat behind some digital screen at the ripe old age of 8, never to resurface again.
That’s when it happened.
Ezra started groovin’ a little bit in his chair. The boy was feeling it.
We encouraged him to dance if he felt like it, so he plopped another bite of his strawberry cake in his mouth and hopped right down off his chair.
What followed was what can only be described as some “fancy footwork” in the vicinity near his chair. It did not take long for the older people in the restaurant to spot this flashy little newcomer. They cheered and clapped, and one extra precious old lady (who earlier had been filling the length of the room with her dancing and shockingly high KICKING) asked my son if he would like to dance with her.
So he did.
They shimmied and “fancy footworked” their way to and fro, with a beaming mom and dad watching from their nearby table. People hooted and hollered. We clapped and whistled. My son lit the place up.
When the song was over, Ezra bowed and said “Fank you, fank you!” as the cheering continued. He thanked the woman who had been his dance partner, hopped back into his chair, and proceeded to finish his strawberry cake.
To say I was proud would be an understatement. I was beaming like a lighthouse.
In that moment, I was most reminded that the world really is what we make of it. I was reminded that the world doesn’t have to feel so disconnected, distant, and aloof.
I’m pretty sure that, with one little dance, my son taught me we don’t just have to roll over and accept what the world is handing us. It is what we make it.
It is what we make it!!
It starts with just a little movement… a little groovin’ in one’s seat… and ends with a heart that’s willing to hop down off its chair and simply get its boogie on.