Heart-dances that cannot be choreographed ~ Malinda Words

‘Dancing with daughters’ is the title of an article I wrote a few years ago. It was inspired by a a school friend dancing with his younger daughter at her wedding to the song ‘I loved you first,’ a debut song recorded by the band Heartland in 2006, a song written by Walt Aldridge and Elliott Park. Watching them I remembered two ‘dancing photographs’ of a mother and her son. My mother and my brother. The first when he barely reached her shoulder and the other at a time she was at his shoulder-height.

Father-daughter and mother-son dances and photographs are iconic, but then there are dances that are unseen, dances not accompanied by music that can be heard, but are nevertheless endearing, priceless and unforgettable.

Consider the following description of father-daughter dances:

We dance with our daughters when they are tiny and need to be entertained at every turn. We dance when their mothers are exhausted and need to rest. We dance with them for no reason at all and even if we don’t have an iota of rhythm in us. We dance, even though we’ve been spectators admiring those who could. We dance when they chide us, when they are exasperated, when they are out of control, when they simply don’t listen to reason, when they best us at argument, when they surprise us with wisdom, when they triumph, when they fall. We dance with them when their eyes and thoughts are elsewhere. We dance with them when they are asleep.

Love, one could claim, is a dance. All loves in fact, include that which a father feels for his daughter or vice versa. You could think of others. Some kinds of love are obvious, but even in obvious love there are elements that are not only unseen but are resident in places and ways that even those who love are unaware of or cannot really describe.

A few days ago, reflecting on parental love, I remembered the last verse in ‘Sinhabahu’ the lyrical theatre production written and directed by Ediriweera Sarachchandra where it is claimed that a son cannot truly comprehend the love of a father. Sarachchandra, in that verse, proceeds to elaborate the nature of this love and locates its possible residence.

"පුතු සෙනේ මස්‌ නහර හම සිඳ
ඇට සොයා ගොස්‌ ඇට තුළට වැද
ඇට මිදුලු මත රඳා සිට දුක්‌ දෙයි නිබන්දා"
යි පොතේ ගුරුන්ගේ මුවින්‌ ප්‍රකාශ වීමට මා සලසා ඇත්තේ මේ හැඟීම්‌ ම ය."

The love of a father towards a son
pierces skin and having pierced skin
seeks out bone and cut through bone
finds residence in bone-marrow and yields endless sorrow

Crude translation. The meaning is clear, though.

Years later, Sarachchandra confessed to Gunasena Galappaththi that the thought had taken root in his mind ten years before he wrote the play. This he mentions in ‘Pin aethi sarasavi varamak denne.’

The seed had been planted when he had read a comment in the Mahavagga Pali of the Vinaya Pitakaya, recounting an encounter between King Suddhodhana and the Buddha. The king speaks of his sorrow at his son Siddhartha’s flight in search of the truth, his sorrow at his second son Nanda being ordained and his grandson Rahula as well. He requests that the Enlightened One decree that those who wish to be ordained should first obtain permission from parents. He backs this request with an explication of a father’s sorrow: ‘The love of a father for his son is something that pierces skin, having pierced skin sinks into flesh, having gone through flesh, passes through veins and sinews, then cuts through bone and in bone marrow comes to a stop.’ Such sorrow, as he had suffered, he did not wish upon any parents, the King said and hence the request to which the Buddha agreed.

Not all sons and daughters contemplate parricide, not even in moments of extreme anger, frustration and disappointment, and even though who may wish to be unfettered from parents do not turn thought into action. They are conscious that hurting can and does happen both ways. Maybe the love of a child for her father is as deep and profound and on account of which similar sorrows are experienced.

Only one thing needs to be remembered, I feel: hurt of the kind alluded to by Suddhodana and lyrically rendered in ‘Sinhabahu’ by Sarachchandra can only be possible on account of love of the deepest and most precious kind. Its dimensions cannot be determined and therefore it cannot be described.

A dance it is, of a kind that can never be choreographed to a point at which someone can say ‘perfect.’

['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]

21 April 2023

Heart-dances that cannot be choreographed

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