This past fall, my ninety-one- year old father attended my nephew’s wedding in Burlington, Vermont. At the reception, while enthusiastically jitterbugging with another relative, hands did not connect. My father launched into space. Unfortunately, he did not experience a gentle re-entry and instead made a hard landing on the dance floor. Someone helped my father to his feet. He paused for a blink of the eye then continued dancing for about ten minutes, after which he led a conga line around the perimeter of the reception hall. Only later, at the hotel, did he feel significant back pain, which lasted for weeks.

My dad would do well in my Nia dance class in Charlottesville. “There’s still music left,” says my instructor when she wants us to push through and keep dancing to the end of a song. By that point, many of us are exhausted and want to limp off to the water fountain. But no, our teacher encourages us not to waste a minute of the music.

My maternal grandfather, Gaetano, had the same attitude about life. For many years, he worked as a barber during the day then would come home and write far into the night. One early morning, my grandmother found Gaetano still at the kitchen table, with his head resting on a black Royal typewriter and his hand holding a melted ice cream cone.

When Gaetano retired, he wrote fulltime and occasionally traveled to give talks. In his late eighties, he flew from his home in Connecticut to Texas to speak at a conference. While there, he contracted pneumonia and wound up in the hospital. At the time, my grandfather was profoundly deaf and had only one working lung. The doctors called family members in Connecticut and asked whether they should treat him or just let “nature take its course.”

“Hell no,” our family said. “Give him the antibiotics.”

A few months after Gaetano recovered, the little old man organized a relief effort for people in Ghana. He sent rice, blankets and Bibles. There was “still music left” in my grandfather’s life and he made sure to keep dancing.

Recently, after a milestone birthday, a friend gave me a plaque that states, “Live Like Someone Left The Gate Open.” I placed the sign in my kitchen. One day, I wondered who is the “someone” in my life that decides whether to leave the gate open? I realized that it’s me. It’s my decision whether to lock my door and pull down the shades or to keep engaged in the world around me. In that regard, I am grateful for my Nia dance instructor who not only encourages us to attentively enjoy each moment to its fullest but also to notice all the possibilities that moment presents.

Back to my father. After a full month of using ice packs and sitting gingerly, he’s finally starting to feel better. Does he regret jitterbugging at his grandson’s wedding? I’m not going to ask. It’s too soon.

Knowing my dad, though, if he lives long enough to see another grandchild get married and if he’s still standing on his two legs and if he’s got an ounce of energy left, I’m sure he will be dancing while there’s still music.