Transcendence at the Metro

After reading Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi, I’ve been contemplating moments of transcendence I’ve experienced. Many of these occurred while on my bike—or maybe it was simply being in the zone, a state of mind achieved by athletes, a process of chemicals in the body allowing the brain to detach, rest, while being physically active. I’ve also been in a zone while writing—able to get down pages and pages that seem like true art, until I reread them, mortified that nothing makes sense. Leaving me questioning the validity of these moments of transcendence. Are they actually delusions?

Mini psychotic breaks? A vacating of my body and “normal” personality to adopt a persona, a person who takes risks and enjoys making a spectacle of herself. For instance, dancing.

I’m oblivious to rhythm; I clap on the off-beat. Four/four time means nothing to me. It’s as if the gene for dance is missing from my DNA. Yet, I longed to move to music.

In not too subtle ways I’ve been told I lack what it takes. My father after a recital told me he could tell which of the dancing ducks was me: The one out of step (and with the biggest butt when we turned around to “shake a tail”). Back in the 80s when U2 was taking off, there were a number of bands that sang passionately about faith, playing around the edges yet defying the label Christian. I loved the Call, their song I Still Believe seemed an anthem, a cry in the darkness: I still believe/Through the pain and through the grief/Through the lies, through the storms/Through the cries and through the wars/Oh, I still believe!

At one point, after a chorus, he sings Everyone up!

I was there, at the Metro, my husband and I had scored tickets. I remember the sweater I was wearing, a sort of pop art orange and pink blobby number. My hair, a frizzy late 80s mess, a kind of couture punk. I was excited, happy, bubbly. Then, I made the mistake of dancing.

My husband let me know I had embarrassed him. The little duck memory flooded over me. Of being blindsided. I thought the experience was GREAT, WONDERFUL, when in reality it was stupid, dumb, pathetic. Humanity was knocked down a peg. As was I. Not that I was going to join the band as a backup dancer—I was only feeling something I couldn’t explain, a literal Everyone Up! as well as a figurative soaring of the soul. A transcendence.

I got rid of that sweater. I would never again be so radical.

Every now and then I feel the urge to dance, but like Pavlov’s dog, I will not return to that moment where I stood under the glare of revelation, the pain of shame.