School of Waltz

Once someone asked a little girl:

— And what do you love?

she answered:

— I love my mom, my dog and kompot.

Without any doubt, in this child’s phrase a whole science of love suddenly opens up.

Here there is the ability to love in different ways, the measure of access and taste.

In principle, we love many things, and each one with its own kind of love. We surround ourselves with beloved people, animals and things, and each of them is dear to us in its own way at the same time.

Our ability to love in different ways contains and unites everything we love. At the same time:

Mom does not cancel the dog.

The dog, in turn, does not cancel kompot.

Kompot, in turn, does not compete with mom.

Each love takes its own place. In this way, one and the same person opens differently for different people.

In essence, there is no hypocrisy here. Each person simply has their own particular access to him, and each occupies a certain place in his personal space.

More precisely, he does not compare and does not assess who is better or worse. The only thing that can be decisive in such moments is the definition of “mine” or “not mine”.

A person is a living architecture, not a walk-through yard

“Loving in different ways” does not mean letting just anyone into your personal space.

It means that a person is not a walk-through yard where anyone can enter without knocking, go anywhere, open any door and touch everything that interests them without asking. Undoubtedly, a person is a living architecture.

Figuratively, they have an outer courtyard. Certainly, a living room. Naturally, a kitchen.

Probably a workshop, naturally a quiet room, memory, perhaps even pain and, without any doubt, joy. Moreover, an inner fire. Of course, there is a place that can be called an altar, a “holy of holies”. Naturally, not everyone has access to all these places. And that is normal.

With one person, someone may laugh, and with another, work. With someone, remain silent, speak about what matters most.

Meanwhile, someone may be allowed only into the outer space, and someone else into the most treasured place.

And all of this together is called “loving in different ways”.

Because access to a person is always connected with trust. Moreover, one cannot demand depth simply because one is curious. By the same logic, one should not climb into someone’s soul just because the person seems open. Naturally, one should not enter the inner room without an invitation. For openness is not the absence of doors. A sincere person can certainly be alive, warm, honest and clear, but that does not mean they are open all the way to the end.

One way or another, trust rests on two things: reciprocity and guarantee.

Undoubtedly, reciprocity is when I see you, and you see me. I treat you carefully, and you treat me carefully. I do not use your openness against you, and you do not use mine.

Certainly, guarantee means responsibility, maturity, clear rules and the ability not to destroy what you have been allowed to approach.

And the greater the access, the more precise the measure.

Because the most intimate cannot be shown to a random gaze.

The inner altar

In the end, every person has an inner altar. It does not necessarily have to be a religious image. First of all, it is the place of the most intimate. For example, the first pain may be kept there. Also, the first love. Perhaps the purest hope.

It is possible that there is a memory there that cannot be handed over to rough hands. Most likely, there is an inner fire from which a person lives.

One does not enter there out of curiosity. One does not intrude with the desire to judge, appropriate, test, prove one’s right or leave a trace.

This place can be approached only through deep trust, tenderness and a rare coincidence.

And even if a person loves someone, that does not always mean they must open everything to them.

Love does not cancel boundaries.

Closeness does not exclude measure.

Trust does not mean a walk-through yard.

It turns out that the truest love is precisely the one that knows how not to intrude.

The second story about the little girl reveals this theme even more precisely.

At a children’s party, an adult asked her:

— Why are you not eating broccoli? You said you loved them.

And the girl answered:

— Well, not to such an extent that I would eat them.

It seems funny. But if one thinks about it, there is deep meaning behind this phrase.

Love does not always mean eating without leaving anything, taking everything and appropriating it, admitting it all the way in.

Most likely, love is a living response, feedback, involvement, interest, a careful attitude based on reciprocity. And I believe that love does not cancel the sense of measure, coordination and honesty toward each other.

Why does this theme belong to the School of Waltz?

Because closeness is like a dance. In a dance, one cannot step forward all the time. One cannot retreat all the time, drag the other person along, dissolve and lose one’s own axis.

One needs to feel the rhythm.

• A step closer, softer.
• A pause.
• A turn.
• Distance.
• Coordination.
• Trust.

If one person keeps moving closer all the time, and the other is not ready, the dance breaks.

One loves as a home, and another — as light from afar; they need to honestly see the difference between forms.

If one demands full access, while the other opens only the outer room, pain arises.

Love becomes alive not when all doors are flung open, but when there is rhythm, measure and respect for boundaries. The little girl’s phrase about mom, the dog and kompot sounds funny, but it is surprisingly precise.

She does not divide love into first, second and third place.

She says:

I love all of this, but in different ways, and there is freedom in that.

There is no need to force different kinds of love to fight with each other. To demand from one person what only another can give.

There is no need to consider smaller the love that does not lead to complete merging.

Love for a mother is one kind. Love for a dog, for kompot, for a beloved person is another. And each can be true in its own place.

Conclusion

A person is not a walk-through yard.

They have an inner architecture, different spheres, different doors and different levels of access.

In the School of Waltz, love learns to move beautifully: not to intrude, not to disappear, not to demand another person’s altar, not to confuse closeness with ownership.

And true closeness begins where there is not only feeling, but also respect for the door through which you were allowed in.

The world rests on difference. Not on complete merging or capture, so that everything becomes one solid smooth cloth.

Life appears where there is difference and connection.

Light and depth.

Call and response.

Mother and child.

I and you.

Closeness and boundary.

Access and trust.

Imbalance and measure.

Darkness and star.

The inner altar and the outer courtyard.

When all are equal, there is no movement. If there is no response, there is no life. That is why love also cannot be the same toward everyone. If one loves everything “equally”, it is no longer love. Living love always distinguishes: where there is a mother, where there is a dog, where there is kompot, where there is a friend, where there is a beloved, where there is a sacred thing, and where there is simply sympathy.

One can say it this way:

The world rests on difference, but comes alive only through connection. Difference gives form, movement and interest. Connection gives response, coordination and Life. And measure does not allow difference to turn into rupture or absorption.

We have arrived at a formula for this whole theme about the School of Waltz: dance is possible only because there are two, there is distance, there is a step toward each other, there is a step back, there is rhythm, there is difference — and there is coordination.

The basic theme opens on the page School of Waltz-1, where rhythm, structure and perception are considered as the basis of living movement.

Also close in meaning are Scales of Resonance, where the measure of choice matters, and Chamber of Wholeness, where a person restores their inner wholeness.