know nothing

Maybe it is too much to expect: the having it all moments. the communication, the great sex and friendship and love all in one relationship. The bank account that doesn't require constant tending. Or maybe it's more about the rigidity of holding on to an idea of what things are supposed to look like. The expectations. Seeing as how nothing ever looks like I think it will, I'm beginning to embrace this idea that I don't know anything. I mean, I know a lot of stuff about stuff...like I know my own address, I know now when I push the cork into the bottle too hard that the wine will explode onto my ceiling, I know if I don't squeeze my thighs together during certain inversions that I'll fall. Yeah, I know all that and a few other excellent, albeit practical, things, but I don't really know anything about what's around the corner or how I'm going to feel once I round it. And that's not an altogether unfortunate place to be. I think it probably allows for a lot of interesting surprises, which can be a good thing, but it also completely terrifies me.

I thought I was so sure that I wanted a guy in my life who was both my friend and my lover. I thought I wanted true love. I thought I wanted to share all those little moments with someone while feeling flush with the knowledge that lust would ensue. I think I still want all that, though I'm not sure how to let someone in that far and tend to go too fast in trying to bring it into being (hmmm, just like I do in my dance...). At least I think that's what I do. Clearly I'd been so resistent to having it all that I stayed in a marriage devoid of one-half the equation (sexual passion) and only stepped out of that after being told it was over. When I'm on my own, I know how to make myself smile and feel good in numerous ways, and I also have amazing women (and guys, too) in my life that fill me with endless joy. I see this picture from a past birthday party and I instantly recognize the letting-go and happiness on my face. And in that instance I was absolutely and completely in the moment. Feeling my presence and power and taking in all the good stuff around me from one movement to the next. That can happen a lot.


So as I get better at flowing from one move to the next, leaving aside the cerebral choreography that so complicates things during my movement in the studio, I also look toward freeing myself up and embracing the not knowing in all parts of my life. Letting go without feeling scared. Saying what I want without feeling needy or a pain in the ass. Trusting in the space I take up in the world without acting on the impulse to hurry through. To embrace the nothing, nada, zilch, 何もない, нищо, nic, mitte, faic, rien, hakuna kitu. Sweet nothings.

The play's the thing

Last night I stepped out of an S class carrying a profound joy that sprang from feeling the absolute rightness of where I am right now. Nothing to do with boy/girl moments or the state of my finances or the world or beyond (although I think if everyone could ride their joyful vibration, the world would shift into a better place. And, no, I'm not going to break out into a round of "Kumbaya," cuz I can't sing...you're on your own for that). This feeling had everything to do with touching and honoring the place I am right now and how lucky I am that I'm getting to know it. Letting it be in me/me in it. My thoughts were around how I play. How, in my life I've skipped and rolled, and I began wondering when the absolute pure joy of those actions stopped, or rather, when did I put a stop to them? How did she play back in the day when there was really nothing else but that?

One of my favorite pictures from back when i was shorter is of my dad and I when I was 7. We're in the courtyard of our house in LA and he's gesticulating away, probably telling a joke, arms out to the side, mouth in mid-speak. I'm beside him looking into the camera like a side-kick, like maybe I'm the one who introduced him to the audience with "Here's Dean-o. He's my daddy." I have a shiny, little bowl-like haircut and ears that stick out just like his, and though I most likely didn't get the joke he was telling, I'm really happy to be there. I was the only kid in the house. I don't remember ever wishing I had brothers and sisters. I liked my two cats. I liked to read. I liked to play with the girl next door (she had a horse and a pool), and the two brothers down the street. And I was curious and pretty quiet, though i liked to giggle. How did I play? While a fairly solo adventure, I did hatch plans that let me see the world in ways that I often got in trouble for.

Like the time I snuck out my window on the second floor to go down the street to play with the brothers, but then when I got back home I couldn't get the screen back in the window and when my mom discovered it she thought someone had tried to break into the house and she called the police. You know when you feel like things are unfolding crazy fast around you and it seems too late to do anything about it? That's what I remember. I didn't say a word about how I was the one who broke the screen. (Mom, if you're reading this, sorry.) I just went with it, watched it happen and then—thank gawd they didn't start a neighborhood watch or anything—it died down. And I think that's about the time I began to realize that fun could also be a bit scary. (Closely followed by the incident where the brothers and I set a neighbor's yard on fire. Those boys were trouble. Wait...I sense a trend here. Oh, never mind.)

But back to play. To joy. At some point, as I imagine in most everyone's life, a turning comes. An event, or a series of them, happens and pure joy isn't an always-state-of-being. And for me, it wasn't like a conscious choice, Oh, I'll visit that joy state a little less often. No. It was merely a way my life was going. There was fun and play and laughter and then some fear and rumbling and scary and then more play. All mixed up. Though I adjusted the dimmer on the lightness and didn't turn it up as much as I might have, I think the little smiling bowl-haircut-girl with the sticking-out ears just took a step back into the shadows to watch. The playing became a bit different and the serious got more important and the years rolled on.

Which is why last night, when my inner-playmate and I got reacquainted, I immediately asked her to come out more often. And I think she's going to take me up on it. I've learned how to fit a screen and use a fire extinguisher, so I think we can handle it from here: wiggle our ears at the fear.

unVeiled

"For nearly two years, almost every Thursday morning, rain or shine, they came to my house and almost every time, I could not get over the shock of seeing them shed their mandatory veils and robes and burst into color. When my students came into that room, they took off more than their scarves and robes. Gradually, each one gained an outline and a shape, becoming her own inimitable self."

This passage is taken from "Reading Lolita in Tehran" by Azar Nafisi and when I came across it, I had an aha moment. While the context is a group of modern women removing the robes and head scarves imposed on them by a fundamentalist Iranian government, the connection I felt was on a more personal, psychic and universal level. (And BTW: I don't in any way mean to diminish the importance of this action politically for women forced to comply to these rules by comparing it to a Western construct.) These words transported me to a place of recognition in that so many times over the past two+ years I've walked into a room on a weekly basis and shed my symbolic veil and robe and found myself and the women around me bursting into our true colors. (Re)Defining our outline and shape, each doing it in our own special way but wordlessly. Dropping what felt like the mandatory pretense that I feel we shroud ourself in during the rest our life.

Metaphorically, the shedding of clothes seems to strip away the layers of pretense. That's not to say that other defenses don't pop up in their place. (My hair, for instance, is a handy veil to shield me from anyone trying to read my expression as I dance. It can be used to distract with rock-chick head swings or cover my face completely, and it's also sometimes called into action to catch tears.) The less clothing, the more we lay ourselves out honestly at each other's feet. And interestingly, sometimes I notice that the same raw power and emotion we see, feel and hold for each other in the darkened studio, can get layered back on as the clothing is readjusted and class is over. Almost as if the moments that happen in the dim light of that room evaporate under the glare of everyday illumination.

Once I invited a friend to a class for her first time (she's since been tripping this light fantastic for almost a year now) and, after seeing how we all cheered each other on during our dances, she asked me if the women were always this supportive. It seemed almost incredible that this zone where every shape and size of woman was on full display and where most of these women were strangers to each other, that there was no outward sense of judgement or snarkiness. And I can't altogether explain why, but for the most part, there is an absence of malice where so often the traces of insecurity among women trail around like bad vapors. It's as if with the stripping out of layers of clothing, everyone is equal. Exposed, yet happily so. Don't get me wrong, this isn't a bunch of skipping, giggling girls high on happy-endorphins each and every minute of class. Far from it. What I find is plenty of honest pain, joy, fear and celebration. All of which makes us, no matter what we do or where we come from, brave travelmates into the land of ourself.

I'm also constantly humbled to realize that these are women I probably wouldn't know if it weren't for us all landing together for two hours a week. While outside these walls, each and every one of us wields different powers, bank accounts, family ties, languages, humor and geography, none of that comes into play here. In fact there's no time for those conversations to even come up between us. I probably learned much more about these luscious ladies (and them about me) quicker through our movement than I'd come to find out after hours of conversation. And over time there's almost no need for discussion: I know that L, who has so regularly danced in the shadows, is coming closer to the light...literally, which is an illumination on many levels. That K, whose movements have so closely mirrored my own in manic, hard-edged fire driven by our music choices, is slowing down, softening to the possibilities of going deeper. B, riding a wave that has been sparking an inner fear of exposure during her dance, now seems to be body-surfing the moment rather than fighting it. KS shows a sensuality now that flows from a deep spring of confidence that has been tapped powerfully of late. A's soaring moves reflect the lightning of her life outside the studio, while O's release from the pole mirrors her willingness to land on her own. LA taking fearlessly from the floor around her and LL practically purring as she embodies her own desires to give and to take as she deserves. (Even IB, who isn't in class anymore, is channeled for me everytime I see an amazing standing hip circle in action and am reminded of those times I'd watch her moving and think she could heal the world with this beautiful move; whie T appears whenever a leg wraps sensually around the pole and pulls it close, a woman in control as she is...even if she doesn't always believe it of herself.) And I could go on and on and on (and often do) to describe the wordless magic that each of us unfurls every week as we let the layers of clothing and pretense go. None of this growth has been told in words, all of it in the unveiling of movement.

And now, in a different class with new wordless conversations weaving in and out, I reveal myself. At first I've been tentative, this new language hasn't yet freed my movement's tongue altogether, but I write this post in honor of the women with whose unveiling I started this journey and with whom I'll always travel in my heart&soul. And to the women whom I burst into more color with as I shed further veils.

moving in place

I'm starting to realize that stilling myself is much different than stopping myself. As I've been recently hell-bent on slowing down (how's that for cross-purposes?), the mental picture I've carried with me resembles that film trick where a camera revolves around someone frozen in place while a million things are moving in super-fast motion all around them. It's dizzying and a bit nauseating. So while tussling with the idea of how I can take it all a bit slower, it's dawned on me that I'm afraid if I'm still I'll disappear, while if I execute a full-stop, it's an action move that people will notice, squealing tires and all.

Which brings me to my other realization of this weekend: I'm an exhibitionist. I like to be watched. I arrived at these moments from a couple of different side streets. First: an observation made by a new claSsmate to my friend L after seeing me dance in class for the first time. She used the words still and needs to be more and I thought, Damn, if a woman who just saw me for the first time ever can see that in a darkened room in three minutes then she's either incredibly observant (no doubt) or, I'm obviously struggling against myself even when I think I'm slowing down (uh, that, too). Then: B, of my merry band of dance luvahs, wrote to me about finding comfort while dancing in darkened corners or completely out of the light, so this weekend I entertained the notion that I'd try just that. Oh, hell, no. I had a gnarly inner tug-o-war going on between my ego and...whatever it is that's opposite the ego...I guess Freud would say the id. I guess I would say whatever lies beneath. Basically, when the music started I found myself crawling right into a place where I could be seen. I also noticed how hard it was for me to not wonder what those watching were thinking. (And then I was mad at myself for thinking about it.) For a long while, during both the classes I took, it became one large cluster-f*&k in my head as my look-at-me desire drove me on. I had a hard time not thinking about what I looked like to the others. Hoping they noticed how deeply I was diving into myself...which of course was far from the truth, since I was instead smacking my brain against the bottom of my ego's kiddie pool. I actually started to repeat to myself, There's no one here watching you. Which only sort of worked. Overall, this was frustrating...and necessary.

I also think this realization is rearing its head now more than ever because I'm with a whole new group of classmateS and I'm suddenly insecure about how I'm going to be received. (And, as usual, this mirrors ongoing moments lived outside the studio as well.) I know that if I keep giving over my power to the movements and music that get a rise, I'll stay stuck in the emotional quicksand that's holding me in place. If I'm still, dance to my muse, the one that really truly lets my breath infuse my body and respond to or against the music, I'll have a chance to move out of the mire and into some clear water. Even if I'm only floating. Even if the only thing I move for a full three minutes is my pinkie, that's a bigger space than my platform boots could ever cover as long as it's authentic. (My boots have carried me to some very real and kick-ass places, but I don't want them to become armor. I want them to remain enhancement.)

When these discoveries got noisy in my head this weekend, my first instinct was to just stop dancing altogether. Stop taking classes and pretending I'm breaking through to somewhere. Give it up and just run my miles. Naturally this too suggested my ego was skewering me by pinning me to the spot so I wouldn't move at all. But there is no there, there. Only a girl frozen in time. If still waters really do run deep, then I'll trust that I can swim and welcome the space, that by submerging I won't drown, I can go under, but I won't disappear, it's all my choice.

sound and fury

Something came home to me last night in the midst of a shamanic breathing workshop I went to. All around me there were bodies on the floor taking in air deeply, noisily, full of rattle and hum. I was a bit restless and cold. Trying to concentrate on stilling my mind, which really is beside the point, as you're not supposed to be trying to do anything but just be.... (I'd also just had the experience of watching the guy who I'd been partnered with go through this intense trance-like transformation complete with body-racking tears and laughter, which I watched unfold in fascination, alternately thinking, Whoaaa, I wanna do that, and Jeezuz, I hope he doesn't have a seizure or anything. I don't know the first thing about re-starting a human heart—or any kind of heart for that matter.)

Anyway, I wasn't feeling exactly empty as I gave into the floor's gravity, but I was missing something that always serves to transport me: music. I find I always slip deeper and faster into myself when notes are wrapping around me. There I was, prone, eyes closed, just letting the breath come in and out, until, ack, the sound of a waterfall on the soundrack reminded me of this Kings of Leon song, which started humming in my head and I thought, Hmmm, maybe I'll use that in class next week, and Wow remember when K danced to that song? It was so sensual and beautiful. And there's that other tune of theirs that L played that time and she did a floor move that was so amazing...and, wham, just like that my mind took over and I wasn't interested in getting my shaman on anymore, instead I wanted to get up, go to the studio and turn the stereo up to 11.

Music holds an undeniable power for me. And many's the time that it has ridden me to the point that I feel its sting on my flank. A sound followed by a fury in movement that led me down paths where I'd willingly give myself up to the moment, to the unknown, not often thinking about how I'd feel on the other end. (Not that anyone can ever know how they're going to feel when all is said and done.) I reflect on how sound has spun me right round, sometimes into ecstasy and sometimes despair. When I was a club-going teenager in LA, my friends and I would seek out a wall of sound to hit up against almost every weekend. (Black Flag, X, Stray Cats. Although this picture suggests a Dexy's Midnight Runners meets Boy George moment was upon me.)

This wasn't a spectator sport, this was full-body contact. The days of mosh pits and bruises, big sweaty pile-ons of bodies writhing to a beat, whether live or memorex. It totally served the purpose of shutting down my brain and sending my body into overdrive, which was exactly what I wanted. It was sweet anesthesia. I'd go out into the night looking for an escape from self, but thinking, of course, that I'd in fact find myself somehow. The kind of dancing I did then was usually just jumping straight up and down, catching as much air under my feet as I could (they didn't call it the pogo for nuthin'), while my head bounced like a bobble-head doll. Nice. And the point was not to think, just go. Celebrate the bruises, even if I couldn't quite remember how I got them.

Today I still celebrate my bruises (the ones inside and out). I wear them like a totem and love them for the accomplishments I think they represent. I try to not to hit the same tender spot over and over again. But now, rather than fling myself into the void of my movement, I'm trying to be mindful of myself, a little more gentle, to not let myself disappear altogether, even if the pulse of the music brings me to the precipice. I want to enjoy the ride, feel the sensation and dismount in my own good time.

spaces in between

Honestly, looking back I don't remember being as unhappy as I appear in this photo. I do know that I was pretty out of touch with quite a lot of things back in the day that this was taken: music biz circa '98. I was about to spend some time touring with Bush (the band, not either of the presidents) for a book I was working on. And what I remember most were the moments that happened in the space between: when the stage lights went down and the band would begin. I would hold my breath in anticipation, almost wishing I could freeze that sensation of letting go of any knowledge about what would happen next: Then, bam, the lights would strobe up and the music would take hold and the crowd would start to scream. Total bedlam would unfurl, where a second before there had been nothing. And, if my memory holds(?!), in the nothing was the time my body&mind stopped agitating and I felt happily, calmly myself.

Back then everything was a bit of a blur. I remember how quickly I moved through life's situations, filling up every space, becoming a diversionary tactic by dancing on bars/on pool tables/on top of cars (OK maybe just one car, once) putting on a show for others to watch so I didn't have to look too closely at myself, nor could anyone else see too deeply into me, cuz...gotta go, gotta move. the whirling dervish. Nothing was quiet, though I remember that I really yearned for some calm, some silence from the white noise. But having a mortal fear that the world would pass me by and/or I'd be forgotten, I kept moving. I'm thinking about this because of something a friend e-mailed me the other day having to do with this blog: "I always knew that the dancing on bars would lead to something more wholesome." And, yes, pole dancing somehow is a helluva lot more wholesome than what I was doing back in that day...

That was when my movement did not even pretend to make me whole, it was guaranteed to flame-out. Of course there were times that it was a blast, but once the smoke cleared, I'd usually feel like a pile of ashes. And I know I was holding my breath most of the time. I wouldn't blow on my internal fire for fear of it flaring up and consuming me. The suspense of what the next moment would bring seemed huge, and somehow breathing into it became a bit scary.

Today I'm really excited about breathing into not only the spaces in between, but every moment that happens. When the lights go down in the studio and it's my dance and I'm standing against the wall or kneeling on the floor, waiting, it's excruciating, this pause. But it's a sweet torture because I realize how much I can embrace this slowness, this wait. In the past when I've planned what will happen next, it never looks the way I think it will. Ever. So now I'm making peace with the whirling, the dervish. And it doesn't just happen in the darkened S studio. Yesterday in ballet class, the instructor came up to me during some barre work. He stood right in front of me, eyes full bore into mine and sternly commanded "Breathe." I actually smiled because it felt like every moment's theme is this. A little bit I thought, What in the hell is wrong with me that I don't actually perform the most basic of functions: the in- and outtake of air? But, if this constant reminder is what I need to exist in the spaces where my life happens, the things in between the next move, noise, touch, taste, scent, view, then I welcome it.

letting go

From 4 to 6 on Saturday afternoons for the past two+ years, I've been in a semi-darkened room with my luscious ladies in Chelsea, NYC, shedding things: fear, inhibition, clothing, falseness. I've been gaining things, too: confidence, friendship, strength, power, patience.

Today, Saturday, at 4, I was in a room with bright sunshine sitting across from a guy named Toby in midtown, NYC shedding something: my wedding ring. I was gaining something also: freedom monetarily and emotionally. One more step in letting go. Funny, I thought I'd actually achieved that freedom already, but this afternoon really showed me how there's always a little more to embrace around every corner. I'm going to use some of the funds to sign up for some Alvin Ailey classes because I was feeling a p$nch and couldn't figure out how to move around it. But today I realized that letting go of the material stuff that I'd forgotten I even had is how moving forward looks for me these days.

I'm also starting a new S class this Wednesday with one of my vigilanteS. My new teacher, Cat, I hear she purrs... . And though I've always told myself I'm no good with change, I realize I've made that up. While I'm really thinking about how my Saturday afternoons shifted from I-Can't-Live-Without-You sensations when it came to my ladies and the moments we shared to an I-Need-Something-Else reality, I'm getting that it's OK to let go. And no one disappears. They just exist in another context, another time-frame, another situation. I've always been so afraid of people disappearing, so I held on tight. Now I get that I can let go, and it's alright. Oftentimes even better.

As I found out when Toby handed me a check, saying, "Gold went up in price on Friday, so you're lucky." Toby, you don't know how right you are, I thought. Shook his hand and headed for the elevator.

(dancing) in the dark

Recently I found out some facts regarding my marriage that I'd been in the dark about. It was a something that, at the time it was happening (what feels like a lifetime, but in fact just years ago), I didn't have the dark-night-of-the-soul vision goggles to know how to view and, subsequently, I spent a lot of time looking the other way as the suspicions took up residence in some dim room of my soul. Hell, most the time I could trick myself that that room didn't even exist. Noises from a deep, dark somewhere? I don't hear nuthin'.

As a kid, I don't remember being especially terrified of the dark because I always felt like someone was within shouting distance who would help me. As I grew into a teenager, I was actually more afraid of the light because I felt like if I flipped the switch and it was all illuminated, the person whom I wanted most to be there wouldn't be. But then in adulthood, I worked out a system where, with a trick of the light I could convince myself that whoever I needed was somewhere out there, just within the shadow. And I could handle skirting the shadows.

Except I couldn't. When everything went down with my marriage and I found myself responsible for opening up the curtains on my new future, the light shifted again. I didn't really fling open those curtains or air out that deep, dark room. I still entertained a willing blindness, because it was a view I'd become familiar with. Somewhere inside I ached for some light, but I couldn't quite find the switch. As it turned out, quite soon I'd find myself in a place where there was more illumination in the dark than I ever could have imagined. In fact, in that velvety darkness my inner sight would begin to slowly work it's way toward 20/20 vision with every breath and stretch and reach.


The first time I walked into the S studio, I stumbled right into a column. That's because it was so dark, like seriously hard to see your hand in front of your face dark. My stomach did a little somersault of nervousness. The only light came from a few standing lamps with cool red shades, some flickering electric candles (which at the time I thought were real wax, careful-not-to-knock-one-over things) and one eensy-weensy spotlight shining down from the ceiling track in the middle of the room. There were no windows to let light in, and there were no mirrors. Because I'd apparently left all my defenses in the dressing room along with most of my clothes, I sank onto a mat on the floor and went with it, slowly at first and then fully submerged, eyes closed. Damn it was nice here in the dark. As the hour went on, something dawned on me: This was that feeling I had had as a kid when I wasn't afraid of the dark because I knew if I cried out, someone would be there to help me. The darkness had never felt so good. A no-judgment zone where I'd never felt so supportively alone and also willingly invaded. And so filled with light.

These days I'm not looking to blind myself with a psychic klieg light, although it does feel like a premiere, a coming out of sorts, but I don't want to be in the (emotional) dark anymore. So now that I've helped rip the door clean off the hinges of that dark place in my soul, I feel like I'm finally ready to fix up that space, adjust the mood lighting and maybe put in a few comfy (lap-dance) chairs. And gawd knows I could use the extra room. I mean I live in New York City. Space is a premium.

barefoot dancing

Way back in the day, when I worked in the music industry, my friend J and I were in New Orleans for a conference of some sort or another having to do with record folks and bands and like that. Having some time to kill before the rock show, we wandered over to Bourbon Street and found ourselves approaching one of the (many) strip clubs that lined the avenue. Now I, for one, had always admired the ability of the ladies-of-the-club to wear those amazing shoes and do what they do without falling on their ass, and when I would find myself in a club such as that, I'd mostly tip the lovelies who I thought had the best shoes (& command of them). So as we approached the club on this sultry night, the only thing on my mind was Oh-whee, what footwear will I get to witness in action? On reaching the door, the bouncer, wearing the clichéd long leather trench coat (really? c'mon, it's 412 degrees out with humidity) asked if we were there to audition. J and I exchanged the briefest glance and said, Yeah, sure. While at the same time feeling certain that Mr. English Leather was being facetious given that neither of us had what we would have assumed to be the required physique to be a stripper. But without missing a beat, he asked Names? Cherry Bomb, I said (with thanks to The Runaways for some divine, my first-favorite-girl-band intervention). J offered Venus Flytrap. We were shown in and told to wait at the bar for the manager so we could audition.

From the moment we walked through the curtain, I think our mutual understanding was that we would just go with it. I mean, no one has ever (directly) died from embarrassment, and if we were forced to run out of the club on short notice, it's not like we couldn't pull from our previous experiences of beating hasty retreats from all manner of other clubs, bars and restaurants. So there we were.

As we entered, we noticed that there was a woman warming up on stage. Turns out she was the featured dancer for the night, and since it was still light outside, the club wouldn't be expecting patrons for a few hours so she could take some time to get her swing on all for herself. After a few twirls, she spotted us at the bar and came over to chat. I'll call her Ms.Terree and she was a bit of a riddle. A hard bravado that was about as substantial as her g-string in hiding some yearning under the surface. (That I couldn't tell whether the yearning was to demolish or delight the men who surrounded her was testimony either to her practiced polish or my need to make up stories.) She did not hold back in describing the ritual she went through every night she worked: a shot of tequila before stepping on stage to numb out her overall revulsion for the crowd, a shot of tequila leaving the platform to keep her from decking the club manager after he squeezed her ass, a shot of tequila again because, well, why the hell not? When she told us that we'd be fools to want to work there, we actually believed she cared for our well-being and we exited back into our own world of tricks and numb-ification.

Now, years (feels like a lifetime) later, I look back on that conversation and realize that even though Ms.Terree and I now have more in common than I ever would have thought what with swinging round a pole and all (and I even have a certain command of the shoes these days), I suspect we may still exist in different ozones as to why this dance makes a difference in our overall quality of life. Lawdy, lawdy, do I ever appreciate Sheila Kelley, who, after a role in the movie Dancing at the Blue Iguana, recognized what this movement can do when a woman owns it, holds it and wraps it around herself, for herself. When I lift myself up onto a pole and fly around it, I'm really constantly stunned at how powerful I feel. To do this all for my own sense of pure joy and not for commerce or lascivious entertainment (though don't get me wrong, I also appreciate the sensual power my body can convey when I choose to share it) is priceless. This is good stuff and I wonder at how the movement has mostly existed as a commodification rather than a celebration of women. But maybe it's shifting, as more women (and the men who get to have it shared with them) recognize the joy in the climb and soar, the absolute smiles that come with feeling the support of the floor, the cylindrical pole, the warm body.

So, in the end, Cherry Bomb has become a kind of alter ego for me. This year I ran in the NYC marathon flying her flag (see above, rendered so awesomely by the S's own cool-chick C.Roman. thank you), and I flew in a different kind of shoe-wear, crossing the finish line faster than ever before, tearing down my past and giving flight to a whole lot more to come. And I felt thrilled to bow down to all the ladies out there dancing in the tall shoes, dancing barefoot and everything in between as we all move to the power of our muse.

For a really great example of how sexy a dance can be without any added inches of footwear, check out award winner, Barbara Dial's PoleSuperstar performance from this fall '09. True poetry in motion.

Touch...

the body electric. Today I took a couple of classes. The first was a stretching resistance class where, after literally resisting the biting NYC winds and 10 degree temps in the canyons downtown, I experienced what it is to push against yourself physically—the point being that our muscles have strength and stretch, and rather than pull on them to elongate, there's a way to push into them that makes them capable of stretching even further. (for info: http://www.meridianflexibility.com/index.html) While I could definitely feel the resistance in each muscle that we isolated, what I was also reminded of was how much on an emotional and psychic level I push against myself. Could it be that's giving me a better internal stretch?

I went to S after that and sank into the studio for a strength/stretch of another kind—one that also challenges my resistance in ways that often make me cry and laugh, often both at once. Funny things those opposites. The class was with the teacher who'd given me so much insight a few weeks ago and it was my first time back in an S room since our two week break and I was achin' for it.

Here's what I found there: My reaction to touch is electric. During our moving meditation (a time when we flow in whatever direction the music, our mind, our body takes us), I found myself really using my breath. The right way, breathing in through my nose, following the thread, letting my body follow, allowing my hands to trace themselves along my body and fill in and hold whatever spaces needed that touch. They took their time, as did every part of my body, and suddenly with my hand moving down my neck, tears began. Such a release and not wholly unexpected (never is), but I didn't resist them and the word echoing in me was Touch. Further in, during my dance, the teacher kneeling near me as I was (I honestly don't remember exactly doing what) on my back, she took my hand and, zap, an emotional jolt rode it's way through me.I alternately felt like holding on for dear life and leaping away into some future where I could just watch. I felt my emotion rising again. I want the touch so intensely, though I'm a bit terrified of how powerful it is. How my own resistance to the need, the rawness, the heat, keeps me at a distance. Reaching. Not quite touching.

It's time now to push into my fear and let myself feel the whole of it. The laying of hands and souls.