Shooglenifty

6 February 2016

Several years ago, Steve took me to his all time favourite music festival in southeast Queensland. We were to spend 10 days camping with friends immersed in music, yoga, african dance, sustainability talks, etc and we looked forward to it for weeks. As it happened, it rained … and rained. Each morning I would lie there on the floor of the tent, unzip the door and peek out. Each morning, I would witness something new floating past on a current of rainwater. In spite of the relentless rain, we made some happy memories there that I am unlikely to forget. It is with great pride that I tell you I was the thumb wrestling champion of the beer tent. I was able to use my extensive experience in setting up tents the wrong way to help others get theirs right. And we danced. My goodness, did we dance.

One of my fondest memories is dancing to the music of a group called Shooglenifty. They are from Scotland and their music is a bit … traditional celtic blended with electronica? dance? We were under a marquee with mud up past our ankles wearing boots we could hardly lift. The man playing fiddle had eyes like Rasputin. Steve, Wendy, Brigid and me – all hopping around like mad and laughing. It was wonderful.

When we think of paraplegia (and I say ‘we’ because it is definitely how I used to understand it to work), we imagine the person’s legs are inert. But let me tell you, they are not. They still have nerves and muscles that work, but they are no longer centrally controlled. In my particular case, I have spasms that usually originate in my abdomen and my legs follow with something like a slow stretch. The spasms started out as innocuous – no pain, not really in the way, not even noticeable to anyone else. With time, my abdomen has gotten stronger and so have the spasms. I will put my foot somewhere and it will stubbornly move somewhere else. I will try to put my foot somewhere and it will stubbornly dig in to stay put.

Being me, I decided to name them – not the spasms, but my feet. At first I thought to call them something ineffective and annoying, like George W. Funny, but over time, I might start to hate them. No one needs a body part they hate. Instead, I call them “Shug” and “Lefty”. First, because together they take me back to a fond memory of dancing in the mud with my friends and second, because the two words individually mean something. In the south, when we call someone “shug” it is short for ‘sugar’. As a nickname, it has a charming effect – both for the person called that and for the person saying it. And ‘lefty’ makes me think of a 1920’s gangster. I can’t say it and stay frustrated.

Here is a clip of Shooglenifty’s music from the you tubes. I dare you to listen to it and not have a little jig on the spot.

Now, I dream of dancing. I don’t often dream of running or even walking – I dream of listening to a band and hopping around like mad and laughing. I don’t know if my dreams will ever catch up with reality, but I hope not. As my mate, Lex, says I like having one place where I will always be able to dance.