Learning to wait was the hardest thing the first year, not to anticipate, to slow the breath, to calm my impatience and simply stand in my center, grounded on my axis, and yet be completely alert and ready to move at a moment's notice.

I am not the initiator, or the choreographer, so humbling at first, then frustrating as hell, and finally liberating, as I get to close my eyes, if I want, and be swept into the unseen space behind me.

And then there's the embrace, "abrazo" in Spanish, a close embrace dance we call it -- hands firm and light, heart to heart, connecting right through the center, arms encircling ribs and torso, cheeks touching, legs and feet sweeping, crossing, intertwined, sometimes kicking, and ultimately always walking in intricate patterns on the floor.

When it's good. I melt, I fly, completely lost in the presence of movement, breath and sounds that connect two human beings who may have never met before, gladly losing my boundaries in delicious oneness.

When it's not good, I try to breathe and find my ground, try to forgive my partner for his inexperience, awkwardness, or arrogance -- for not listening to the music or me, for forcing steps with no connection.

Five years ago, on the night of my brother's memorial service in London, I decided I had to tango even though it was after 11 pm. So I took the Tube to Covent Garden and walked the silent streets, wet with rain, with an address clutched in my hand, and my tango shoe bag over my shoulder.

As I entered the narrow, barely lit street, I could begin to make out the lilt of one of my favorite tango songs. Was it Canaro, Poema, or maybe Di Sarli? And then, with great gratitude I knew, at least for the moment, I had come home.

Watercolors: Deborah Ramsden
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