I am finding it difficult to write anything cohesive about this weekend. I've started this post at least three times already.
It is not enough to tell you that it was exhilarating, or to tell you how many hours I danced - I don't even remember well enough to count. It is not enough to describe the leads I met, or explain the ways my dance improved (and then degraded from soreness and lack of sleep), or to say that I went to milongas six nights in a row, or to say that I stayed Saturday night from 9 pm to 6 am and danced almost every tanda.
Perhaps it is enough to say that when there was music on, my feet moved, whether I was on the pista or not. Or that my friend Melissa's voice was so soulful as she sang and danced simultaneously with a man who was simultaneously playing a guitar and dancing with her that I shed two full tears. Or that Sunday morning dawned so grey and misty and lovely that I felt nothing but energized as I drove the long, damp road home, the sun burning orange below the clouds to the east. Or that, in the end, I was happier with good conversation and a slim female arm through mine than I would have been attempting to please the upper crust of dancers.
There was much about this weekend that was good and beautiful. I love tango for the reasons that I love so many things: because it involves intimate connections with people I value, and because it is ephemeral. It exists only as long as we are dancing, only as long as a shared breath.