courage

A funny thing happened on the way to my NYC marathon this year: I decided to have the courage to do something a little different. I decided to listen to something other than the part of me that does things because, well...because that's always been the way I've done things. I decided to not run this year. There are a couple of important reasons (the main one being that my knee injury threw my training off and hasn't yet altogether recovered its happy place during long runs), but despite that, I'm finding this decision challenges my notion of safety in sameness. You see, for the last three+ years my summers and falls have been regimented pretty solidly around a training schedule that builds throughout the summer to double-digit miles, has me out most mornings before the heat (in the summer) or the sun (in the fall) are up, and reminds me that squirrels can be unpredictable little creatures when you startle them in the act of nut storage during early morning activity...all this sort of torturous, yet also satisfyingly challenging stuff was some kind of baseline of achievement for my life for the past few years. And somewhere along the way I'd made it up that my life would fall apart if I didn't follow the template.

And then along came the idea to be brave and try something new. To stop being selectively deaf, and listen really closely to what my body and heart might be saying. This is a trend that has been rolling out in a few areas of my life in the past few months. And while I've been laboring over this defer-marathon decision for the last couple of weeks, I saw an example of such straight-up, yet oh-so-subtle courage in the actions of a lady at the studio, that it all kind of became crystal clear. This was not an act of gravity defying pole movement (though I saw plenty of that, too, from other lovelies). No, this was a moment that no doubt passed fairly unnoticed to the naked eye. A woman came in for an intro class. She walked into the studio wearing one of those mask-smiles that so conveniently announces to the world: I'm absolutely bat-sh*t terrified here, but look, I'm smiling...right? She was in her 50s and all on her own, while around her were pairs of fairly young ones chatting away seemingly at ease. As I showed her where the dressing room was, she commented on the cute booty shorts and tank tops that the studio sells and that she was pretty sure she'd never be in any shape to wear them. Of course I disagreed with her...of course that didn't change her mind...of course she thought i was just being nice (didn't get that I was absolutely serious). So she went into the class with one kind of smile on and came out two hours later with a smile of a completely different kind. I'm gonna say it was giddy. It was luminous. It was absolutely bat-sh*t sexy! She came up to reception and the words were uncorked: how she hadn't told her boyfriend she was coming tonight, how she wanted to feel sexy walking down the street with him (and since she lives up in my neighborhood of bodacious Dominican Republic ladies, I know exactly what she's talking about! Those ladies know how to walk! If I wouldn't get the crap beaten out of me, I'd follow them down the street and practice.) She signed up for a level one class on the spot and we all marveled at the fact that she was going to keep this a secret from her guy. See, she had a plan. One that involved some high heels, a short skirt, and a demonstration on the best way to pick up the remote off the coffee table when he was watching the game...and then subsequently stopped watching the game and started watching her (then maybe a walk down the street for some dinner and dancing afterward). Brilliant. But the thing that really inspired me was the look of amazement on her face, the sense that she was doing something completely different than she'd ever done before, and she said a couple of times This isn't like me at all. and shook her head, clucked a little, had that whole pride and surprise of self moment going. And I thought, Damn, look what happens when you're brave enough to go against your own grain.

Well, naturally this followed on the heels of a class where C observed during my dance that my heretofore suppressed sexuality that's only nipped around the edges of my dance is unfolding in a mighty special (and not scary) way. A powerful and sensual way. And I knew why...as if she's a fortune teller who reads what's going on in my life through my body's moves without me having to tell her, she sees immediately that i'm developing the courage to let myself be seen because I've let myself be loved and to love back. Because I waited (this time) until it felt right (and was fortunate enough that he waited, too), I could say yes courageously, taking a road less traveled by me.

So a funny thing happened on the way to my life this fall: During the past few months when you'd usually find me startling squirrels, I've been startling myself. In the land of sameness, the cowardly lion roared...and then grew a pair...or more...of possibilities.

one of these things is not like the other

so funny how things never ever ever look like I either think they will or like they looked before.

Last week was an interesting series of events in the land of Really? First of all, I got a chance to see a friend of mine fly high in a pole competition where she made it to the final four competitors (out of over a dozen). Sitting and watching an amazing group of women—and a couple of men—spin, climb and twirl (along with moves that i can't even pretend to describe the strength and beauty of), while telling a story within that movement, I was reminded how this form of dance has historically been marginalized to the land of strip-clubs and the male gaze (click here for a great view on that by Claire Griffin Sterrett in her Pole Story blog). But really, the movement is so filled with grace and joy (even when expressing heartache), that I wonder at how long the pole dancing cliché will persist. Though I get that very little clothing and very tall shoes on very lovely (tho not always traditionally so) women may be seen as the main course with the movement considered a side dish, the order of things seems to be changing. (And seeing the two solo men perform—one of whom was wearing a killer pair of shoes—brought a corrective moment to my viewpoint that guys can bring the sexy to the pole, albeit in a kind of gymnastically sideways way.)

And in keeping with the breaking down of that pole dancing misconception, a play project that I'm helping a friend put together (Pole Play: Taking Flight) was put up on Kickstarter, an entrepreneurial Web site that supports independent projects. With a goal of $5,000, the project has made almost $1,600 in one week (with a little over a month to go), which, while incredibly exciting, also reminded me how much fear I have around new projects. In theory, in conversation, in the abstract, it's all very exciting. In reality, I freeze. so this will be a good experiment in being a part of something that involves others, a situation that requires me to speak up and use my gut to communicate. We'll see how that goes. (and now that I've outed myself right here, I'll be sure and keep accountable.)

As the week continued to roll, the theme seemed to be following a pretty solid It Takes More Than One To Get This Party Started trajectory. And here's where that message really hit home for me. After spending an evening with my merry band of dance luvuhs watching Pina Bausch's dance troupe perform one of the most physically demanding shows I've ever seen. Where what was elegant (ladies in beautiful evening gowns) was altered (ladies drenched to the bone while moving through the river that ran through the stage, while still wearing beautiful evening gowns). Where what I thought was strictly dance turned out to be just as much a spoken-word play on life, and where I assumed that after seeing the run time of two-and-a-half-hours that I'd be bouncing in my seat for it to end—and I wasn't, I found myself exiting the theater and entering a kind of face-to-face showdown with a few of my demons and fears.

This unfolding of events wasn't directly related to the show, but instead had its roots in my realization that when I get in a groove (read: going to shows with merry dance luvuhs, continuing to run the NYC marathon no matter whether the training is making me go hmmm, taking S classes), and when I sense that groove is changing, I become terrified and my go-to place is often the land of run-away. Well because the last few months have been filled with amazing moments of newness, in having someone in my life where I find myself smiling and happily surprised consistently, and even though on a pretty accessible level I know nothing stays exactly the same, in fact can't stay the same and can actually get better along with the act&gravity of forward movement, I slipped into an anti-accessible place and freaked the f&*k out about the man in my life. Started to slip into the valley of self-doubt because of a fairly straightforward communication situation. Ahhh. Life. Sharing. Speaking. Showing. All such great words, all of them scaring the beJeezus out of me at that particular moment. And it made me realize how much I still bring in all my past experiences, as if they're happening all over again step-by-step. It was really weird to watch myself go there and know I could actually decide not to dive in, but the funny thing was I wanted to belly-flop into it. I chose to. And after realizing and being reassured that he didn't in fact run off with a Swedish supermodel or disappear having come to the conclusion that he was done here with me, I was able to actually say these things out loud and stay put in whatever words came my way, I felt crazy better (yeah, a little of both separately and a whole lot when put together).

What I thought was happening wasn't. How I think I roll, I don't. When I'm about to make some big-ass decision about the direction of my life...pause. speak. listen. lucky.


(merry band at Bausch-land)

peek-a-boo

This morning the annoying beep-beep-beep alarm went off and it was still dark outside. and it was dumping rain. and the wind was whipping around. and i was meant to go out and run some miles. Now i'm not at all weird about running in the rain. In fact some of my most enjoyable runs have been while sopping wet from the raindrops falling on my head. (One in particular: in central park with my running partner S where we were late to the race due to waiting for someone who never showed, didn't have our numbers because said waiting-for person had them, and it was as close to oz-like, taxi-cabs-flying-sideways weather as mamma nature could muster. yet we said f%$k it and crossed over the start line. We were rewarded for our decision by being so far behind that the elite runners caught up with us during their second round of the park. We pretended we were part of their pack for, oh, 3o seconds until they passed us. they not even noticing us, us noticing that one of these things was not like the other.) But this morning was different. I was cozy and happy right where i was. somehow it seemed ridiculous to leave that moment of just-rightness for an experience that seemed borderline insane.

It made me wonder about that stubborn part of me that has trouble letting go. the little voice that plays peek-a-boo by popping up and deciding i'm not doing it right because i'm doing it differently. I mean, i'm having the time of my life right now—coming at a point when I was ready and capable to embrace the time of my life—and it doesn't really look anything like what has gone before. A dancer friend (who I've also had an amazing run-in-the-rain experience with) mentioned to me that maybe this knee injury has been a blessing, giving me more moments to spend inside of this new and wonderful relationship without disappearing out the door every weekday(end) morning at 6. Even as i write this, i feel the stab of conscience whispering, "but don't get lazy. don't give up your goals." And honestly, that is far from what I plan to do. In fact, my idea is to enhance my goals and be more energized by having someone in my life to share them with. But in order to do that, I have to relax around these somewhat rigid rules i've put in place for myself that are sometimes in danger of interrupting my ability to be ... just be.

I do think we spur each other on in inspiration as long as it comes from a place of support and not fear. For instance, if I'm freaking out about my own stiff restrictions, then i'm too busy with that to be much help in supporting someone else in their pleasure. I know in class that when i watch someone and it takes my breath away, that's because i sincerely love the beauty of what I am seeing, rather than worrying about whether I could do that. And we enhance each other. This same dancer friend who commented on my knee, had also in the past reminded me of the symbiosis of relationships, and i realize that while i do that with my women friends—recognize the equality of what we give back and forth—I have in past relationships with boys forgotten how much i bring to the party. so this is new (have i mentioned that already?), and a really good opportunity for me to lighten up on those old scripts that have piled up on my mind's shelf. the ones that read: Don't do what makes you happy if it could in any way, shape or form upset the order of the boy-moment (rather than: I'm deciding not to run right now because there appears to be a monsoon happening outside) or Be sure to not ask for help because he'll be annoyed and go away (rather than: Hey, if I'm going to get this done, I'll need you to support me, and you'll get to see me even happier, which in turn will make you even happier). And sometimes I'll hear No, and that will be just fine. And sometimes I'll say No, and that, too, will be peachy-keen. And often it won't look anything like I think it will and, wow, that'll be awesome.

And this I can see full on, no more peeking-boo round the corner.

things that make me think

There's a blog I follow called The Pole Story. The latest entry is about a movie called Redlight, a documentary about sex trafficking in Cambodia. The woman who writes the blog, Claire Griffin Sterrett, brings up some really interesting points about how potent and scary it can be to freely express sexuality in the world (primarily, but with a few exceptions, females expressing their sexuality). Really worth reading (click on The Pole Story above).

Another article that seemed to go hand-in-hand was one I just read in the NY Times called "Afghan Boys Are Prized, So Girls Live the Part" that is pretty much about exactly what the title says.

Both of these pieces remind me to be grateful that I have the freedom to proudly live my femaleness in public and explore (now more than ever) my sexuality where I choose. That I have in my life both women and men (& one man in particular) who appreciate the exploration and who are often on the same path. This is lucky and I don't want to take it for granted.

mirrors

well, there aren't any. (mirrors, that is; at the studio, by the way.) At least not the traditional, reflect-your-physical-image-from-a-looking-glass kind anyway. But there are plenty of reflections of other sorts to be found. Once a week I work (for lack of a better word) there. And my view and interactions are totally different from what I see&feel during the time I'm in the studio moving. Whereas my own dance moments are mostly internal, the places I go during the work-dance are mostly observant. outside-in. I find myself thinking "I've been you." When a woman comes in for an intro class and nervously says "I don't know what I'm doing here. I'm not a dancer." Yup, I was you three-and-change years ago. Or when someone is signing up for a session and asks "What if I have to miss a class? How will I catch up?" Oh, my friend, I've been right there with you in that worry. Or when a level one student suddenly panics and says, "Am I good enough to go on to level two?" And, indeed, I have been inside your wiggling self-confidence. And no matter the responses, none of this is small stuff in that moment, because of course all that inner dialogue is investigation. Gets us where we need to be.

And because the studio becomes such a comforting and safe, yet still necessarily challenging, place to be, a lot is rolled out into the space. (Some of it completely and absurdly hilarious. Like the time a UPS man arrived with some new chairs for the classrooms and asked for an able-bodied guy to help move them from the truck, but instead was met with a couple of half-clad ladieS jumping up and down, clapping and saying, "The lap dance chairs are here, the lap dance chairs are here." At which point the very kerfluffled man in brown made an executive decision to do what he could on his own. He acquired the strength of Atlas to move those puppies into the studio all by himself. Until the amazing lady who maintains all things clean in the studio went down to flex her capable muscles. When all was done, he still looked a bit shaken, yet hopeful maybe for a demonstration. But I digress...)

I often find myself startled by a reflection from someone else that looks a lot like one i've tried to avoid noticing in myself at various points in my life. And I'm Alice climbing through the looking glass to see the view from another vantage point. A particularly poignant moment happens when it's someone's heart that seems to be breaking. I want to hold the person and tell them it's going to be fine, but of course I don't know that, nor would I expect anyone to believe me. And I watch them trying to keep it all together. Trying to focus attention elsewhere as the veil falls down to reveal the cracks. And I want to say, Yes, let it all come down. That's the only way. But I remember the times when I wanted more hands to keep up the mask, more fingers to stave off the flood, more humor to distract from the schisms, more tuck to roll away from the feelings, and I watch them, realizing it's all a beautifully blind journey.

And now when the conversations start, when we're all sharing and yearning and hopeful. When I talk about my current joy quietly, yet proudly, with these women who I've grown intimate with, most of whom I know only for these few hours a week, I see how their happiness for my falling and rising and staying with it is reflected back. My very own house of mirrors.

patience

the stillness. the waiting. the knowing it's all as it should be. Even as my heartbeat speeds up and wants to fling myself forward, the pause and appreciation of the space all around.

Used to think that the space between me and what I wanted would close up like one of those hatch doors that action heroes are always rolling under just in the nick of time, while you're on the edge of your seat yelling Go! Yes! You're finally safe now! Yay! (But then, inevitably on the other side of the door another challenge was waiting. oh, movies, why do you metaphorically reflect our life?) My plan was always to go toward the thing I wanted, ignore the squirming as I held it tightly, while claiming, You're mine now! Often it would go limp from lack of air. oops. That worked well...not so much.

My movement in studio reflected that as well: urrr. stomp. grab. roll. shake. my song. my angst. my head banging on the floor. ouch. The way I rolled in running has also been with some impatience, not as far as speed, but regarding endurance. Run through the pain, get to the finish. Right this moment, my body is teaching me about patience as I recover from a funky pull in my right knee that's keeping me from marathon training for a minute (OK, going into my second week). And, frankly, it's frustrating to realize I'm not the hardcore, what-me-injured-pshaw person I've thought of myself as (hello? this is your ego calling). But the flip side is that my body in the studio is showing me how luscious it is to take my time. Reach and stretch in a move and stay there, hold it even, but not throttle or grab. There's still urgency, but where i've agitated then pulled away for not trusting I'd be able to stay grounded in the moment, now the energy is all curiosity. Hmmm, what might happen if i just stay here, let the music wash over me and see where my next move comes from.

And now to the translation of this within my inner landscape. a place where wide-open skies used to just make me want to build a busier skyline. I'm suddenly finding that desire and space can coexist when there's communication involved. Another used-to moment was my thought that if i didn't pull a dazzle-and-grip, maybe like a wrestler's take-down move, that the object of my affection would fade away. Moment lost never to come again. (The memory of my previous urgency is so exhausting that I almost need a nap just from the remembering.) And truth be, there is a nibble of impatience inside me for wanting more now of this new and awesome presence in my life, but i'm also pretty sure that the sweetness in the process of getting to where we want to be is just right.

This last weekend I floated on a pond in the middle of trees and under a blue sky. I looked across to the shore and saw a person I was impatient to touch, but i felt lazy from the sunshine and happy from the knowledge that there he was and there was no rush. Then he swam out to meet me.

and the story continues...

(***central park)


there was a time (a lot of years ago) when i never answered the phone because on the other end would be either bill collectors or high-maintenance rock types. They both seemed to be asking for things that i either didn't have or want to give. When friends would call, I'd more often than not let the machine (remember those) pick up as well. A fact that led one friend to leave messages that went a little like this: "Pick up, pick up, pick up. I know you're there." At which point I'd retreat to the space inside me that was decorated with guilt and stubborness ("No, I don't want to talk. you can't make me," yelled my 5-year-old self. "ooooh, you're such a bad friend," muttered the 20-something me. That room was pretty crowded with voices.) On top of that, i'd often make up fairly elaborate stories about why I hadn't answered. Ones having to do with the running of bath water, small explosions out the window and general mayhem in the streets. People maybe thought I lived in some kind of Calgon war zone.

But my truth was purposefully painted over in these vivid diversionary colors to cover the earthtone existence underneath. Really, I was simply sitting on the couch watching TV, listening to the phone ring and choosing to speak to no one in that particular moment. Imposed isolation didn't mean I didn't love my friends, but it did mean that I wasn't exactly sure how to say No to those other intrusions ("I don't have the money right now." "I don't want to write about your band."), which also spoke to a general unsureness about my power in the world.

Old habits—really more stories I've made up about myself—are starting to (thankfully) crumble. First of all, I was surprised to find that when a certain someone recently entered into my life, he took up some residence in my little telephone (this followed the initial appearance in the land of internet ether, then a live appearance on a bicycle), and his first message left for me said something to the effect of: "I know you don't like talking on the phone, but..." This was a wake-up call of sorts. I hadn't realized i'd been so strident that on an early date I'd just announce (apropos of very little I'm sure) that I didn't like talking on the phone. Jeez. It made me wonder about the brushstrokes I use to paint the impression of me in the world. And how really one-dimensional that picture can be. A velvet picture of dogs playing poker rather than an endless horizon.

Where i see I'm still getting trumped: the hand of money. Because although i'm actually answering the phone now, I'm still often explaining to the people on the other end that No, I can't swing that right now. So I'm tired of this conversation and have to stop playing these cards of lack. Stop seeing myself as someone who can get by with a bluff. Whatever it is that has me still feeling somehow heroic about just making it is not working anymore. Made even clearer by the fact that as I hold a handful of hearts close, realizing how wonderful it is to feel love and return it, I remember how blithely I'd convinced myself that this state of being was something I didn't need. Other people could have happiness like that, but why would I? Have I mentioned wake-up call? So why, I wonder, do I put myself in a place where I don't think I deserve the financial ace of spades as well? It's a bit of ego that says I'm not like anyone else. I don't need love or money. I can get by without. This is not true. I'm finding that. I'm ready to rewrite that fiscal part of the story, too. Because the old one told of someone scrappy who could survive in the land of lack by choice (rather than risk being turned down at the border of more). The new story is someone scrappy who thrives in the province of prosperity. Because I can.

And while I realize that rewrites take patience (a thing I'm learning about while I patiently...ugh...wait for my knee to heal so i can run and dance again. oh, but i feel my agitating impatience tugging on my feet.), I also know that whatever I've thought I didn't need or deserve is worthy of another storyline. I'm reveling with the full house of hearts because I was ready, now I'm ready to pull in a flush of financial prosperity as well. I will answer that call.

(*** these images remind me of how beauty & grace can coexist with often overwhelming surroundings. They're part of The Ballerina Project. so beautiful.)

Brooklyn (above)

Manhattan Bridge (right)

East Village (left)

Inwood Park (below)

exo(e)rcise

last night in class a few things popped. one of them was my right knee. it happened at the end of my dance in a particularly cathartic moment after i'd pulled a pair of boots off and slid down a chair....oops...i felt it happen. it was more startling than painful, yet i did think, Hmmm, i wonder what happens next...still working that part out.

In the meantime: other things were a'poppin' on the inside as i was moving through. Many many years ago, D gave me a pair of stiletto boots (which is what was being removed pre-knee popping). At the time, although i thought they looked sexy and all, i was supremely uncomfortable in them. Didn't know how to walk properly or balance in those 5-inch heels. I looked less va-voom and more ba-boom when i wore them. The va-voom was a side of me that i was nervous about. It held sexual power and, quite frankly, i didn't know what to do with that. In the fantasy of myself—the one i played out in my head—i knew what to do, but in the light of reality, my sexual being overwhelmed me a bit. So when the boots were unwrapped, i felt more apprehension than exhilaration. As I strapped them on and teetered from one holdable surface to the next, D joked that men invented high heels so women couldn't run away. Now here's the part where i stopped paying attention: Where some inner voice in me might have responded Wha? think about what he's really saying...instead i went with Well, yeah, that's his twisted sense of humor. ha-ha.

So part 2: Listening. Hearing what someone says. Not just the words themselves, but the space in between those words, the atmosphere that surrounds them, the feelings that are carried along. how they make me feel. really feel. I do that with music, listen and move between the notes, sometimes enjoy the stuff that happens all around and inside the actual music more than the song as a whole. Paying attention. Because realizing that just because something is draped over or around me (clothing, words, emotions) from the outside doesn't mean i need be smothered by it. I have the power to look at it and decide if i want to wear it or not.

Those boots had kicked my ass a bit with reminders of who i'd been. I'm still the same person, but now i realize that things don't hold power, I do. And by bringing them into the room and exorcising them, my ability to claim the space around me and stay in it was palpable. I created a whole area for the good stuff that's currently rolling in on most-excellent feet. And I felt light. i might have soared right out of the room, had not a little something tapped me on the knee and made me stay put. I'm not always good at that staying put part because i can be really impatient. But this morning when it was suggested to me by someone whose entry into this newly found space is introducing me to a lovely language that i haven't spoken in...er, maybe ever...that i pause for the day, i paid attention. got out the frozen peas for my knee, threw a couple of pillows under my leg and laid back and thought of England (OK, not really. that saying just always makes me realize how far we've come...us ladies*).

Some of what i thought: now I not only can walk in 5-inch heels with confidence, but when i do, I enjoy it. and i'm not trying to get away. my sensuality unfolds in myriad ways without being scary. i'm so much more ready (and able) to be present in a moment and stay there with my eyes and ears open. so even if it means my physical self reminds me it's there with some bumps and bruises (and pops), so goes my emotional self as well. And the whole of it knows what to do to heal, as long as i respect and let it happen. a bag of frozen peas can go a long way, but even better is the pause and pay attention.


* see "Origins of the Phrase"

on beginnings....

Yesterday morning on the subway, I glanced up to see a beginning unfold before my eyes. It seemed pretty brave and it made me smile. It also made me realize how often seeing a situation happen outside of myself shines a bit of illumination on something going on right in my own self's neighborhood.

Onto the crowded morning-rush A train came an amazing girl (no disrespect, she was probably in her early 20s.... plus us ladies are all girls in our own special way, and i actually like that word almost as much as i like dame or babe or chickie or, well, i'll add to the list later). anyway, i was sitting down, she was standing above me and as i glanced up i saw this awesome confidence in just how she swayed a little to the music in her headphones, how she knew people were looking at her in her tight jeans and white t-shirt, but played coolly unaware. Probably used to attention. One stop later, a guy got on: her age, impossibly smooth looking, ear-buds in place, in his own world. They ended up next to each other holding the same pole. somehow in the course of more stops/people on&off, they became face-to-face. He was throwing some furtive glances at her, she didn't seem to notice (but of course she did know). At one point as the train lurched, her hand slipped down the pole and brushed against his. She looked at him, mouthed I'm Sorry. He smiled, nodded, then went back to the cool facade, then stole another look, then went back to being cool, but only for a minute. It was as if he maybe realized that at some point her stop would come...the moment would be lost. he took out his earplugs, leaned in and asked her name. She didn't respond at first, but then slowly took out her own earplugs and said something. By this point I'd totally abandoned reading my book and became this sideline cheerleader. Come ON, I kept thinking. Hurry Hurry, she's gonna get off the train. Then came my stop, which was hers, too, because as i looked back i saw him typing madly into his device, his cool demeanor of the last half hour gone completely, as she moved toward the door telling him what he asked (I assume/hope). And she looked pretty pleased, too.
Yay!

Beginnings: heart beats. My friend B wrote to me earlier about how exciting they are, and I could finally agree with her because i find myself in the middle of a beginning that is really different from how i've begun before. Usually I would be someone who'd claim to really not like them: something new, uncomfortable, not sure of the lay of the land, not sure how to act, what to say, who to be. It would take a while for me to relax into it all and be myself. But suddenly, amazingly and surprisingly, I find myself in a place where I'm not negotiating how to be in this beginning. I'm just in it. Eyes open. I realize that before in similar situations, I've held back and watched cautiously because i wasn't sure i'd be met in my desire. i'd wander down the relationship road keeping a distance and observing a bit from afar looking for clues. A little bit of the safety dance: one step forward, a little shuffle back.

Here's where the change has happened: In the middle of this beginning, I'm being heard. Being received. And I'm getting to do the same in return. And there's time. None of the Uh-oh, better-dazzle-in-order-to-make-this-stick-quickly-before-he-fades-away feeling. Slowing down and letting myself be seen&see, felt&feel. I've been really moving toward that in my darkened room of dance, but this is the first time i've brought it out into the light of day and wrapped it around another human being. not as a net, but as an embrace.

bubbles

No, that title isn't meant to reflect what my stripper name would be if i went into that line of work (besides, as most of you know, i already have a more-than-suitable moniker, which works for the sheer fact that it'll never be used for that purpose), the title is instead to point toward joy. the effervescence of life kind.

A few months ago, talking to my friend Mary during a particularly crunchy emotional time, she reminded me to continue to let my bubble of joy be present and i began to realize that i'd been bouncing around looking for it for some time. weird how the default position had always been to treat joy like a mirage, some fleeting glimpse of something that would rumble deep inside of me, begin to move up to the crown of my head, but somewhere around my heart (probably) i'd pop it. write it off (indigestion? too little sleep?). so i didn't fully hold it for very long. more honestly, i'd write it off because i was sure it would go away, so better to puncture it first. now i'm discovering that joy is all about the ebb and flow, come and go...if i allow it to stay it never disappears, just changes shape. Also, for me, i've found that my joy is more bubbly like Orange Crush all tickly in your nose and stuff, rather than big and encompassing like the Boy in the Plastic one (oh, John Travolta...what a fleeting little crush i had on you back then).

This summer i was at a barbecue where i watched this kid operate some huge bubble machine-gun. really...two hands were required (cuz i borrowed it to see how it worked). twas a bit more effort than the little wands in the bottles with the soapy water that i know better. Also, the big bubbles seemed laden down and didn't float as high as the baby bubbles. But i did appreciate the cool fractured rainbow colors that came off these large floating objects. And that's the thing, I realized that the joy floats in all shapes and sizes. All colors. and when the collective moan happens after the bubble bursts, it's only a second of ahhhhh, how sad. then we begin again to breathe into more joy.

I really appreciate and am paying more attention to how the feeling of lightness when i find my flow and lift from one move to the next (whether in the dance studio or just in the studio of living) happens with less fear of the consequences of bursting and going boom. what might get bruised, how silly i'll look. jeez, I get some good bruises just checking the mail, tho those aren't the ones i celebrate. instead i'll wave the wand, let life make more bubbles. tickle my nose.


one faction of my bubble crew from this summer.

holy holy

This article "Why It Is Wise to Worship a Woman" (click on title to read) is incredible. Please to read and enjoy (& maybe some tears, of the sort that, for me, realization brings). Because really, it occurs to me how important and amazing it is to honor how I move through the world without fear of being female. of having intuition. of taking. it. slowly. I don't have to convince anyone of my intention or self, i just have to live it. And while inviting someone in to love and be loved by is something i want, i also know how important it is to take my time and have fun inside of that. and i don't think i've ever done that before. wheee!

a shortie

Just now on my way to the laundry room, a wee little person (maybe 4) came out of a door down the hall and said Hello to me as if we were long-lost friends who hadn't seen each other in far too long and she was just thrilled to lay eyes on me. Well, Hello! And I was momentarily stopped. Not just because of the absolute awesomeness of being greeted so happily and enthusiastically, but because it reminded me that there was a time when being open to the world and the people and places in it was just the most natural thing ever.

My mom told me of a time when I was about that size and i had just gotten over the chicken pox and felt it was important as i rode on the train with my grandma, to show all the other passengers the red little bumps on my belly by pulling up my dress and informing random strangers all about it. first of all: who takes a train in LA? second: although i don't remember this moment, alrighty then, why not?

when I was little, i have a dim memory that it was my world and i was just glad you could stop by. although selfish, i don't think egotistical, because my ego wasn't that fine-tuned yet. hell, i didn't even know what that word meant. but tell me i couldn't play or say the way i wanted to, and that would be a problem. it was also a time when there was no real fear of rejection, as i remember it. as the shields come up over time, both to protect and inhibit, i stopped being so fear-less, which no doubt helped me in countless growing-up ways.

but still, my little neighbor reminded me tonight how awesome it is to just be completely present in that moment of walking out the door and welcoming what comes. what's the worst that could happen? they don't say hello back...i'll live.