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By Root 712 0

already involved all my friends in Seattle with Bahia Street, I could talk with no one about depression or grief. If I were going to spearhead this project, my doubts, my fears, my insecurities had to remain my own. I could not tell anyone involved with Bahia Street when I was overwhelmed, depressed, or just plain tired. My feelings would pass on to them, and they would lose their own enthusiasm. I saw a narrow, but very deep, crevasse open between myself and others involved, or potentially involved, with the organization. It’s strange, I thought: in starting a community I have ensured a certain kind of personal isolation.

I felt a bone-wrenching wave of loneliness and then crushed it. I thought of the almost unbelievable strength Jill had shown. I could at least honor her by being strong now.

“What cage have I built for myself?” I asked, still looking into the mirror. I smiled, practiced a laugh. I remembered Andrea getting me to dance all those years ago at my first Carnival. “Dance,” I said. “Dance. It is the only choice.”

On the way out, I picked up the roll of toilet paper and placed it on the shelf. No demons now, just a boring toilet paper roll. I walked onto the dance floor.

“And it’s ……….. Margaret!”

I looked up to see Adam, one of the drummers in Eduardo’s band, laughing. He began a percussive beat. The other musicians took his lead, all laughing. “The Margaret Willson Funk!” Adam shouted into the mike.

I laughed, grateful tears pulsing at the corners of my eyes. I leapt on to the stage and grabbed the mike.

“OK, guys!” I shouted to the crowd. “Let’s dance!”

After Jill’s death in January, I went for a night ski. I grew up skiing, but had neglected it for years going only a few times the year before—with Jill, in fact. The knowledge came back swiftly. I thought of this ski as an homage to Jill, for all the times we had skied together. I wore a hat she had knitted for me, thinking that in so doing her spirit could somehow be out there in the snow with me. I skied ahead of my companions, seeking solitude, sliding swift, feeling the rhythm of my body, the snow, silence, a night frosted with blue. I skied to a ridge, and below me lay the valley, beyond it the crests of distant peaks, glaciers, and a deep stream. I began the descent, gaining speed, no fear. On the wind came images of my childhood: the smell of summer grass as we lay looking at the stars, the hard current of a river sliding across my belly the first time I tried to swim across, the excitement of exploring an unknown wood. Here, in the exhilaration of this night, lay superimposed my past. Transcendence comes with experience, knowing comes with joy.

I raised my ski poles above my head and shouted into the night. I felt Jill with me. I dove; the trees rose around me, and my shoulders knew the moon.

Some months later, I was invited to London to give a paper for a conference on film and gender, something with which I had been deeply involved before I went to Brazil. I stayed with my friend Alex, the one who had given me such good insights about the nature of depression. I told him about Bahia Street.

“It’s just beginning,” I said. “We enrolled one girl. I’m not sure when we can enroll the next one or what our next move will be.”

Alex leaned back on his sofa. “I’ll give you two thousand pounds,” he said.

“What?”

“Sure.” He adjusted his glasses. “Sounds like a decent idea.”

“But, Alex, I wasn’t asking you for money. I didn’t mean to imply that. I was just telling you about it.”

“I know that.”

“And you don’t really even know much about it yet.”

“But I know you, Margaret.” He smiled and took a sip of his gin and tonic.

“I’m not sure what to say. That’s a lot of money.” I fidgeted with my own drink, poked the lime wedge deep into the ice.

“You say, ‘thank you,’” Alex said and smiled over the rim of his glass. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Yes—for two thousand pounds I’m allowed to.” Alex paused and set down his glass. “Look, Margaret, if you’re going to do this project, you have to become comfortable