In a Very Reel Sense

When in doubt, skip the ceilidh steps and just tango. Your people will know and they’ll tango hard with you.

An earlier version of this piece originally appeared on Fergie & Fife

Married to a Scot, years of living in Scotland, even the times I return to Scotland, there is one element of my relationship to Scottish culture that simultaneously thrills and terrifies me: The Ceilidh. Scottish Country Dancing. The Reels.

It all started with a severely traumatizing lesson in how to reel that was thrust upon me by one of my closest friends, Iona, after a dinner party one night on the Isle of Skye, and I was way too tipsy to store choreography in my brain under pressure. The steps are hard. There’s a lot of them. They involve multiple dance partners. And— if you’re a lady— quite a bit of being flung around everywhere like a wet rag. I was bad… really bad. And I don’t like being bad at things. I’m a bad sport at being bad at things. It gave me the shivers just thinking about having to do in an even bigger group… at every social function… for the rest of my life.

But also, one ball on Skye gave me one of the sweetest lessons I’ve had in my life about the kinds of friendships and interconnectedness I was now trying to foster in my life.

After my crash and burn dance lessons, my PTSD set in pretty hard as soon as I entered the beautiful dance hall, covered in ancient portraits of Macleods and Macdonalds. You knew they could reel. Even in all those petty coats. All through the dinner portion of the ball, I just prayed no one would ask me to dance and I could escape the whole thing without anyone noticing me as a wallflower. But then I’d also miss out on the fun too, and it did seem like everyone was having a lot of fun.

Finally, I threw myself in. In the middle of it all, there seemed to be less pressure. No was was hunting for you to judge the steps. And no one cared if you messed up. In fact, sometimes that made it more fun. Maybe it was the sight of my friends looking so smart in their dresses and kilts, or maybe it was the excellent leading by Sandy, Hugh, Frankie and even occasionally Torcuil (when he wasn't trying to trick me about the steps!) but I summoned the confidence to do my best, and I think I did.

Days later, all my limbs were still sore, but it was worth it. There’s a special camaraderie of looking for the person you’re dancing with while you’re spinning in a crowd of other people. Knowing that you’re a little bit responsible for each other. And that-- in the context of this small thing-- you’re either going to sink or swim (or twirl or trip) together.

I loved getting the moves right equally as much as when the whole thing broke down-- when Torcuil and Iona’s dad, Hugh, would deliberately make the circle go faster than necessary, to make us all laugh. Or when Hugh spun me so fast, my feet were literally off the floor. Or when Torcuil spun me so fast, I slipped and hit the floor. (Torc’s body count was two that night, in fact!)

And so my point is this: so much of my life, and indeed American life, is this ‘making your own way’-ness. But I’ve found in Scotland something only barely glimpsed in America. These days of togetherness and being responsible for each other. Of agreeing it’s okay to mess up in front of each other. To laugh with, at, and for each other.

Because after all, at the end of the night, we’re all going to go back and drink whisky together… listen to Sophie sing together… get up in the morning and go for a beautiful hike with picnic lunches together.

And it’s those times that remind me why I am my most freely happy in Scotland. That wherever my mission may take me as years go by, there will always be a piece of my heart and soul dancing and spinning free in Scotland in a room full of my friends— each with their arm out to catch mine.