“Tango lessons tonight?” I wiggle my eyebrows at Greg, laying on a thick Spanish accent. “Do you want to dance the forbidden dance of love?”

“Oh, jeez! You’re serious? If you want, I guess.” He’s not enthusiastic, but then I hadn’t expected him to share my dream of one day dancing tango in an Argentinian milonga. A few years before, I had been diagnosed with a potentially blinding autoimmune disease, so I created a bucket list of things to do before the worst happened. Crossing items off my list gave me a sense of control and something to focus on besides the endless medications, surgeries, and slow decline of my vision. The realization that control is an illusion hadn’t quite sunk in yet.

Occasionally I did feel overwhelmed. Overcome by a recent bout of self-pity, I had ordered the movie Scent of a Woman. Al Pacino plays an irascible blind guy who decides to have a little fun before ending his lonely, dependent life. In one pivotal scene, the opening notes of a tango fill a chic hotel dining room as he momentarily morphs from a bitter curmudgeon into a debonair, sophisticated gentleman leading a beautiful young girl in an elaborate dance, his disability of no consequence to either of them.

I was captivated.

So, when I saw the lessons notice in the paper, I knew I had to go, to begin the process that could possibly end with me crossing another item off my bucket list before losing the rest of my sight.

 

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“Tango,” our raven-haired teacher purrs up at Greg, “is a dance of great passion and loss.”  Her scarlet-tipped fingers clutch his forearm.

“Hold her closely, like this.” She folds his arms around me, hers around him. I’m just a mannequin here.

“Pretend this is your last dance together. You’re being parted against your will! You may never see her again.” Her voice is husky as she gazes deeply into his eyes. She’s either trying to imbue him with the correct tango attitude or hitting on him, I can’t tell which.

To my surprise Greg is totally into all of it. I can see he’s concentrating hard on remembering the individual steps we were just taught. Now he has to lead me as we dance together as a couple. I’m concerned for him—the men definitely have the more difficult job here.

We take our place on the vast dance floor among the other student couples, standing closely face to face. Greg places one hand on the middle of my back, I rest my left arm lightly on his right, our free hands pressed palm to palm. I can tell he’s feeling confident; no doubt the come-on from our teacher has worked its magic.

The teacher cues the opening notes of the intro. Greg grips me closely, pressing our bodies together. We begin by swaying slightly from side to side as we were shown, shifting our weight from one foot to the other, attempting to sync to each other and to the music. I’m trying to gauge what he’s going to do next by his touch on my hand, my back. I’m tense now, thrown off-balance by his unexpectedly all-in attitude. I can’t find the beat. I’m not sensing what he wants me to do. I’m worried I’m going to stab him in the foot with my stilettos, trip us, cause an embarrassing collision with another couple. Maybe I can’t do this.

This is not the relaxed good time I had anticipated for us.

As the intro draws to a close and our musical cue to begin the dance approaches, I make a decision and let it go, release all the tension I’m feeling. I lean into Greg, press my cheek against his and close my eyes.

The classical guitars ignite the staccato tempo, the violins strain to a swelling crescendo, the torrid rhythm unmistakable now.

Suddenly everything is clear.

Greg’s leading movements now feel like precise directives. With my eyes still closed, I can feel the dance. We move together in time.  The other couples vanish from my perception, as does the pressure to be as graceful and coordinated as they are. All at once I’m enjoying myself.  Maybe I could be good at this after all.

Another life lesson, and finally a happy one. Some things are easier without vision! What else can I find that I can do better without my eyesight? I feel up for the challenge, excited, hopeful, even. I optimistically make a mental note to search for more of these positive pursuits. Of course, for this dance, I’m totally dependent on Greg for direction, but I’m supposed to rely on my dance partner to lead.

I realize I’ve been holding too tightly to things that aren’t within my control. My fear of losing my eyesight completely in the future is preventing me from being present in the moment. Maybe, though, if I could learn to let someone else lead, to relinquish control a bit, to surrender to the inevitable, even once in a while, things might be easier. Maybe losing my vision wouldn’t be quite so hard, so scary.

As the sensuous music swirls around us like a rising tide, flooding the empty spaces of the dance floor, I feel it enter me, this one moment in time filling me with a rising hope that maybe there’s a life for me to look forward to. A different life for sure, probably one more limited in some aspects, but potentially limitless in areas I have yet to explore—a  rewarding life for me on the other side of blindness.

Susan Sparrow was diagnosed with a rare, potentially blinding autoimmune disease in 2007 She loves living in New Orleans where she’s currently working on a series of children’s books featuring an intrepid blind iguana whose vision loss doesn’t discourage him in the least from having wild adventures. When she’s not writing, Sue can be found dancing to blues music with her cat. 

Header image: Bright Rays by Peter Marshall