Dancing With Gravity was the winner of the 2011 International Book Award for literary fiction.
When a high-wire aerialist takes the first step away from safety, the crowd looks up, looks away, and then, attracted to the choices displayed, the inherent danger and potential for tragedy, stays for the journey.The hours of practice are invisible.The desire to perform is there for all to see.That’s why the first few steps in each career are a foot above the ground.These test the talent, but most importantly, provide experience to traverse the wire to safety...to applause...and significance.
Samuel R. Whiting will learn that experience has no substitute, and the path to it will take its toll. He is asleep in his own life—vaguely mystified by the lives of his patients, struggling to care for his eccentric and demanding mother. When a fellow priest is stricken with cancer, Whiting cannot face his friend’s grave illness. He turns to his coworker, Sarah James, with whom he has a passive and flirtatious relationship that might become something more serious. But Sarah wants help from Whiting as well.
A small circus from Central America needs the services of a priest. As Father Whiting moves deeper into the mysterious world of the circus, he finds himself high above the world he knows, struggling for balance.
“Whether we love—or fail to love—there is always a cost.” When Nikolai, the trapeze artist tells a story about the power of love, Whiting wakes to his loneliness and every aspect of his life is called into question.
Dancing with Gravity offers an exploration of the depths of human nature with a haunting examination of lost, unrecognized and courageous love.
Excerpt
Carla was on the phone, speaking in an excited whisper when Whiting entered
the office. Her face was flushed. She hung up quickly when she saw him.
“Mother Frances called you from the motherhouse. She wants to see you at
once.” Carla was breathless. This was news.
“When did she call?” He tried to stay calm.
“About forty minutes ago. I said you were at lunch. I put her on hold and
had you paged in the cafeteria, but you never answered.” She sniffed after this last sentence. “Finally, I had to tell her I didn’t know where you were.” Her eyes narrowed.
“She said she wants to see you this afternoon. At the motherhouse.”
Whiting closed his eyes. He knew he was being summoned. This is about the
boardroom incident. She wants to know what I heard. He turned toward his door
but stood in place. With a second deep breath, he collected himself, went into his office and closed the door. Once inside, he fought to contain a feeling of foreboding.
He needed a routine, a task. He cleaned his teacup and placed it on a folded
paper towel on his credenza. He rearranged his basket of teabags alphabetically:
Apricot Chamomile, Green, Irish Breakfast …. He polished his small teaspoon, a commemorative item from his ordination.
I’m disgraced.
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