The Céilidh: Just dance


Bunting and lots of it. Flowers. In vases. On tables. Candles. Flickering. Fire hazards.

Hearts. Stuffed and hanging on the wall ones. Full of love ones. Married ones. Not many single ones. So only a few free ones.

Food. Plates and plastic forks. Plastic forks that break when you make them a behave like a knife. So broken forks.

Music. Recorded. Live. Loud. Very loud. Alive. Notes. Melodies. Tunes. Sound.

Feet. Skipping. Hopping. Jumping. Stamping. Flying. Happy feet.

Skirts. Dresses. Shirt tails. Waistcoats. Blurring. Montage.

Worn smiles on woven faces. Hands. Searching hands. Wandering to their partners hands. Familiar hands. So fit like a glove hands.

Eyes. Glittering. Laughing eyes. The best kind. I know you eyes. I don’t want to dance with anyone else eyes. Bedroom eyes.

Moving. Clapping. Thigh slapping.

Laughter. Delight. Hair flowing. Arms whirling. Twirling. Cheeks red. Heart racing

Pure. Unadulterated. Delight.

Seen. Felt. Heard. Smelt. All as I am prancing. Glancing. Perchancing. Life enhancing. Dancing.


On Saturday night. I witnessed a wonderful thing. A celebration. Of age. Of life. Of love.

Couples are beautiful. They are sweet and encouraging. And as this particular pair danced they looked so happy. Delirious, laughing, smiling, their eyes on fire for each other. Best friends, lovers, man and wife. Pure, wholesome and gorgeous. In love. Seven years down the line. Still head over heels, still dancing, laughing and enjoying every step together. In sync. My heart yearns for this. It aches. I want to be somebodies home and I want them to be mine. More than I could ever put into words.

You may think I’m annoying, desperate, my mind set on one thing. And I wouldn’t blame you. But answer me this. What on earth could be more important than love? What is more desirable than companionship? Life is people, it is relationships and interaction. It is nothing, it is miserable without love.

I have love. By the bucket load.

But there is a certain kind of love missing from my life. Absent. He -whomever he is- isn’t ready yet. Or maybe I’m the one who isn’t quite prepared. But one day, when the hour is ours, we’ll find each other. And then I’ll be a couple some sorry single girl gazes upon and is inspired by.

It will be our laughter that will bring tears of hope to her eyes, it will be our hands clasped together and our eyes all a glow that will instill a hope in her. A hope that God exists, that he is the giver of life, the fulfiller of desires, desires that he put there.

And when he sees fit, he’ll lead them to each other. But for now, she will hope. She’ll pray now so that she won’t cry later.

For wisdom, for patience, for peace of mind, for contentment in her singleness. And for a man, a man to love and be loved by, a man to have adventures with, to laugh hysterically with, a man whose hand will be eternally hers. Until death do they part. For a happy middle and an ability to remind herself that this is only just the beginning of things.


Girl waiting; on the dance floor.


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