A couple Thursdays ago I found myself at Warren Wilson College outside of Asheville, North Carolina. Most wedding receptions involve a DJ and an open bar, but unimpressed by conventional standards my best friend, Andy Beth, longed to Contra Dance just as she had before she moved to Hawaii. So after the nuptials were said, the entire wedding party caravaned to this campus, walked through the doors of the gym, paid our $7 and waited with anticipation to see what could possibly come next.

A hundred plus people from all age groups and genres milled about – men with long hair, women with short hair, men in kilts, or tie dye, some with bandanas around their heads to catch the impending sweat. Some women wore yoga pants anticipating the immense energy about to be expended and other wore beautiful dresses – all free flowing and unrestricting, designed to bloom with all the pomp of a gladiola when the girls were spun around and around.

One man with a fiddle, one man with a guitar and one “caller” stood on the stage. As they improvised one rousing Appalachian country song after another the caller would proclaim a two or three word instruction like, “Women: Gypsy!” or “Men: Allemande!”. Each song began a new dance and each dance had it’s own set of choreography, but all the choreography was based off of the same repertoire of ten to twenty moves that were amazingly simplistic and repetitive. So anyone could catch on – even a novice like myself.

Imagine every nineteenth century period piece movie, with a dance scene, you’ve ever seen. Now, Imagine a hoedown. Mix the two together: Contra Dance. I’ve set the scene for you. I’ve explained technically what it is. Yet, what it means to me – how it made me feel is it’s own entity. It is nearly impossible to stay afloat amid the romance of it all. The dances are designed in a way that you begin with your partner, in a line and then throughout the dance you are choreographically parting with your partner, moving to another partner down the line, but always coming back to the one you started with, over and over again. I was certain, as I was twirled about from person to person that I danced with every last one of them (woman and man) at least once. How can people avoid falling in love steeped in this brew of romanticism? I wanted everyone to fall in love this way: accepting to take a dance with a stranger and clinging to the pieces of themselves they share in between being tossed between themselves and everyone else, but always coming back to each other.

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This was my first poetic stop outside of the Philadelphia scene. Philadelphia is an extreme example of a melting pot of verse and experience. So, I was eager to try on this small town open mic night to see what it would offer to an out of towner.

My apprehensions perked a bit when the first poet stood and delivered an attempt at a poem, but fell short by simply sketching a verbal outline around some thoughts. Yet, every single poet that followed offered something compelling and provocative. The gem of that night stood out when I digested the greatest meditation on life in the college town (Texas A&M resides in the next town over.). She offered beautiful word portrait to the effect of: ‘In this town we bleed maroon and paint our houses white.’ Though you may never live in a college town in the deep south, I’d bet the themes of fear of mediocrity and conformity are not lost on you. Thus, the message transcends.

This single truth resonates for me: poetry is a microcosmic expression of the culture and environment it finds itself in. However, It is always a reflection of the human condition: struggle,growth, regression, life, death, love,etc. So, no matter where you go, the struggle may be greater or lesser or it may be a different kind of struggle, or love or death, but the same, essential components are always there.

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I love cheering runners on in races! I am always moved to ridiculous depths as I see them achieving the finish line. They’ve worked so hard to make it.

I was elated when my brother welcomed me to his half marathon. While I was waiting for my brother to cross the finish line I noticed several cadets practicing formation and wondered what the big deal was. Upon questioning one nervous man with a box, I discovered he was preparing to propose to his girlfriend who was currently running the race. As the runners crossed the line one by one the time neared for her to cross as well. They received an update that she injured her ankle along the way, slowing her down. Nails were being bitten. Anticipation was mounting. The cadets assembled in formation a short distance from the finish line. Her name was announced. The crowd that had formed whispered with excitement, camera phones ready. Moments passed and she did not appear. Due to the crowd, she couldn’t see her boyfriend, the cadets or the reason there was a crowd. She was in post 13.1 mode. She had walked off, took deep breaths, got a banana, looked for a bathroom – whatever. She wasn’t there. Then, suddenly, she appeared, cut the crowd in half, received her real prize at the end of the miles and said yes to another race with a running partner at her side.

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