Through the looking glass

Yesterday on the radio, I heard an interview with a man who wrote a book about how we (humans) are not as smart as we often think we are. That our level of delusion—or, maybe, rose colored glasses—guide our thoughts, how we go forward in the world, deal with people and make decisions. And sometimes, when we get a glimpse of what others may see in us (also, subjective, since they're seeing through their own special lens)...eeek, we may be freaked or pleased or possibly just plain stymied.

I've had a couple of those come up in the last little bit. One happened when I received the photos above, taken at the day of fun with my pole classmateS. I looked at these and had a moment of instant-look-away shortly followed by a pride. A pondering of what my body looks like and moves like. It reminded me of the many conversations I've had with my female friends about how women, at least in a majority of the generations I'm intimate with, are raised to be humble, quiet about accomplishments, not loud and proud. This has for me and many of my friends seemed to translate into taking that whole bushel and hiding under it. When there's something to be bragged about, to caveat it in all sorts of language that disguises the real message of "Hell, Yeah, I'm awesome. Look at me go."

So I find myself grappling with this ownership of good stuff. Having recently written and had published a magazine article that focused the spotlight again on my love of words and how I use them, I am sitting with the attention of people saying You need to do this more. And I know that they're right. I can feel that, yet my initial response has tried to be: That was just a one-time, a revisit, a perfect storm of timing, history and friendship. And of course that's bullshit. Staying with the thing I love to do and do well is just real, it's not a compliment, it's not a favor anyone is doing for me, it's just a part of my life to own. Even if 90% of the time I don't hear back on proposals for stories, that's not an indictment of my ability, that's just people being busy and a challenge for me to keep on going with my ideas and words.

This sunday is my fourth NYC marathon. MiHoney's first. I've been feeling the fluttery anticipation along with the "Can I do it again?" thoughts because I know—at least geographically and miles-wise—what the course holds. How I'll feel during those miles is another thing altogether. I've been a bit envious of his newbie-ness, everything is novel along the course. And I realize it's so much like life in that when you've done it, and done it fairly well, there's an interesting bit of nerves and ego that accompany the return, the question of at least matching the success of the last time. Whereas when it's the first time, you really can't go wrong. You're setting your own moment in time to do with what you will.

My realization: Every one of these minutes is a new one to fill with braggadocio, pride, and whatever level of confidence I choose to bring out. Ready, set, go...
PS: if you want to track my marathon moments, here's how: CLick this ING link, follow directions for the tracker app and type in my race #55-532.

the wide open

For the last few, I've found myself regularly time-challenged at this time of year. It seems that when I make plans to run the NYC marathon, as I have for every year of the past four—except last when I was on the sidelines—I go forward from July marking training runs on my calendar as if they're merely squiggles on a page filled with squares. Then I follow those squiggles as best I can as the miles expand exponentially. Inevitably summer becomes fall and suddenly those markings take on a life of their own, not to mention fill up to the brim this life of my very own. That I still continue to say Yes to dance luvuh outings, class fun and dining with friends, not to mention the necessary dates or do-nothing nights with miHoney is absolutely crucial for my sanity. Yet sometimes I wake up screaming (alright, I'm not actually screaming, but my eyes definitely pop wide open and my heart beats hard) realizing that I have a couple of paying jobs going right now and that with the publication of my Nirvana piece I've discovered that I actually enjoy writing again and would like to get some proposals out to magazines. I'm not sure how to fit it all in.

I think about prioritizing. Such a big word. And even as i write that, I glance to my left where a large pile of magazines sits that I want to read and get ideas/contacts from. The question becomes: What's important? (and what does that word important actually mean anyway?) My go-to place is that money-making is quite crucial, yet that seems to usurp a lot of time I might spend creating story ideas. The trick, I think, is to shift out of the mindset that I only have now to make money and that I have some faraway wide open future date to be creative. And since, at the rate things are going, as long as I have use of my eyes, I'll be freelancing in some way or another.

This poses the question of balance and paying attention. As I know myself well enough after all these years to sense when I might be using something as an excuse, I'm just gonna come out and admit it: I'm scared of the great wide open. Afraid of finding out that the ideas I have are not that special after all or even discovering that deep down inside I'm actually rather lazy and don't want to do the work it takes to get something from point A to Z. This is why I enjoy deadlines. I have no choice. I've got to get it done. Apparently this is also why I majored in journalism and didn't get my MFA in fiction. I like assignments with end dates.

Which brings me right back around to training for the marathon—which I've always viewed as a metaphor for life—and time. It's now the final days of crunch and while I'm not altogether looking forward to strapping on my sneakers for my 20-mile run today (yes, I know, I need to get going soon), I also appreciate that it says right there in a squiggle on my calendar what needs to be done. But I'm also learning to bend the rules a bit. A few weeks ago, one of the ladies in my S class invited a group of us to her place in the Berkshires. On my sheet of little boxes that stands for September, there was a run scheduled, yet I ignored it and went away for the day to eat, laugh, wander the roads (where swarms of mosquitoes laid in wait), dance and drink. It was a blast (picture at top reflects that), and it was great to play. I realize that it's up to me what I do with all the space—fear or no, squiggles and all—and in some ways it doesn't even matter. I can say the sky's purple and the days contain 38 hours, and while that's not technically true, I can fill up that sky and those hours with a balance of what I need to do and what I want, regardless of whether I can tell the difference between the two. It'll all be just fine...even if it's not.

Old/new, tried/true

Right now a man is lying beside me and it's comforting to hear him breathing deeply and to know there are wonderful, fun moments and crunchy, unsure bits. that that's part of living. Twenty years ago, very close to this actual time, I was eye-ing a particular guy and wondering what it would be like if he were lying beside me. He was giving me all kinds of signs for me to find out, yet I was too awkward, unsure—in that moment at least—to actually take him up on it, afraid of what to do with the brittle not-perfect bits. Thinking I could ward them off by taking more time to make it all perfect, then act. not realizing how overrated perfection is.

A few hours ago, I was sitting in a room with a group of amazing women--some of whom I know and some i don't--listening to an enigma of a lady talk about what a difference we girls can make in this world just by being our messy selves, and i am in full agreement. When I started taking S classes my self did change and so went the world around me. I brought and wrought that change and I'm glad she started something for me to find. But I have no illusions that she or I or what she started is perfect, cuz truth*be*told, that would be boring. it's quite wonderful that it introduced me to myself in a very powerful way, and now I can take that into the rest of the world to investigate what else moves and shakes to my liking.

Twenty years ago, minus a few hours, I was standing in a club listening to an enigma of a band made up of boys that would make a difference to a lot of people in the world, including me. But the difference was, I was watching, not doing. It was a boys boys boys world, and i loved it, but I worked hard to make myself fit into it, which of course was impossible. But damn if i didn't love trying and wouldn't have traded it for anything. The impact was profound and lingers to this day.

I went back to visit that world, and even wrote an article about it and it felt so good to do that because I felt i had nothing to lose. Don't get me wrong, the actual deadline and writing of the piece was all the sweet torture I remember from magazine editors and 2AM mornings of finding the right ending because it's due...in 5 hours. gulp. rinse and repeat. but i had nothing to lose as far as my self was concerned. i felt like a stronger writer because my life didn't depend on it. and, oh back in the day, my life truly felt like it rose and fell with every word. none could be wrong. now i know the beauty of wrong, and raw, and stumbles, and flow. Of falling and getting back up. of sometimes hooking your leg and finding yourself aloft and sometime just not quite getting there and landing back on the floor. of memories and of now. Of listening to my good friend and teacher describe an arch of my back and leg on a pole, my head hovering above the floor and I do it. and i'm safe, and it hurts, but oh so wonderfully because i'm strong and brave enough to try. and I feel good knowing that i can handle it, i can fall, too. i like hearing him breathe raggedy beside me because it's not perfect, it's just living.

Madge

There are certain TV ads that stand out as markers in my life (PlopPlop, FizzFizz=watching The Sonny and Cher show with my grandma on a summer saturday night when I was little. Clap on/Clap off=newly moved to NYC watching The Mary Tyler Moore show at 11.30PM after a waitressing shift at Yaffa Cafe... and on and on.) One chestnut that's popped into my brain lately had the tag line "You're soaking in it." The premise was this: a lady's getting her nails done and complaining to her manicurist, the oh-so-wise Madge, about the state of her hands after doing dishes. Madge suggests she switch to Palmolive dishwashing liquid. When the woman looks doubtful, Madge says, "You're soaking in it" at which point the lady recoils and reflexively pulls her hand out of the goo, because soaking in dishwashing liquid is not her idea of what happens during a fancy manicure...naturally. Madge simply rolls her eyes, chuckles and pushes the lady's hand back into the bowl. Nuff said.

Lately I've found myself needing a little touch of Madge in my reality as I agitate around the idea of what life is supposed to look like. My expectations of how job interviews are supposed to go, the way story assignments are meant to unfold, what intimacy in relationships feels like and what communication between friends is meant to be. I've found myself taking a turn down Frustration Avenue and, no surprise, discovered a dead end street there, having stopped breathing in the air of joy that I really do know exists.

Today as I ran around Central Park and really paid attention to how gorgeous the day was and took in some deep deep breaths, I started to find my way back to the realization that things don't often look or feel like you think they should or would, and actually that's rather amazing. That in choosing to go down that particular avenue of F that I was chasing a mirage of how I thought things should go, at the mercy of other people's timing and ideas, forgetting that I can choose to accept things as they are and keep my hand there, or pull my hand out if I'm honestly not feeling it. And inside of all those moments there is real wonder, excellence and joy plus challenge, too, as long as I pay attention and let it come, let it be.

Life, I'm soaking in it. Thanks, Madge.

slip and slide

This is the view from the bedroom window during a particularly steamy summer 2011 sunset. It's gorgeous, eh? (That's New Jersey across the Hudson River.) When this pic was taken it was during a week when the temperature had reached about a million degrees (actually 100-and-something including humidity) and the Hudson was uninhabitable for the regular kayakers, jet-skiers, and even swimmers (oh, yes they do) because a sewage plant had sprung a leak of toxic materials that had yet to be stopped or cleaned up. Yet still, when you look at this picture, it's a beautiful thing to see, shimmering light, heavy-weighted clouds, and hot sun)!

I'm currently having moments that remind me that day-to-day, minute-to-minute, the challenge is how I see things, take them in, trying not to bring enormous amounts of backstory and judgment to the situation. If I take the picture apart, I guarantee I won't let myself just appreciate what's in front of me. For instance, I've always had a picture of myself writing a blog entry at least once a week, that hasn't happened. Of course that's been on my mind for the last few weeks and I painted myself a bit ugly because of it, but at some point I just thought "I'll get to it" and now I'm here.

While that was one I let myself off the hook on fairly quickly, it appears there are other things in my life that I feel I have to root around in, get dirty with, wrestle to the ground, and somehow, er, tame/understand/solve. And, even as I write that the snarky voice in my head says "Right. How's that workin' for ya?" actually, not so well, as I found out this last weekend during class. I thought I needed to revisit a song that carried a lot of history and weight (oh, taskmaster-self, why do you rule me so...when I let you? ). I thought I'd make it my own. The thought process went a little like this: Look at how far I've come, healed, I'm gonna dance it out to that song that floods me with uncomfortable memories and make it my own....

And wow what a weird ride it was. First of all, the notes started and I absolutely froze, paralyzed, couldn't move. I'm lucky enough to have a teacher who recognized this wasn't moving me anywhere anytime soon (in fact she said "It's like foreplay that goes nowhere" which I thought brilliant, since that about sums up why this song is such mindf$%k for me). She switched it to a something similar, but much more cathartic for me. But then I went nuts and suddenly their was anger rising up and spilling out, which was okay except I wasn't really paying attention to myself, taking any care of my body (and, if the ladies there weren't so excellent knowing this room is where it can all roll safely, I'd have sworn that I became very scary). In that moment I was so angry that I couldn't solve this thing. Make myself all better. I raged against it.

And here's the thing that finally came to me as I unpacked it all in the hallway with my teach: there's nothing to solve. I'm fine. It's done and I didn't need to revisit anywhere (hence my paralysis as there was nowhere for me to go). I've moved through this stuff and while some slip and slide happens, there are times I need reminding that a moment in life is just a moment. It won't be wrestled and tamed. Doesn't need to be. Can just exist in its own space, though I may touch-pearls-and-wave at it once in awhile just to know I can. If I take the picture apart, thinking I can put it back together again the way I want it to look, I'm just going to lose a piece here and there and it will come out all cubist. It's fine how it is.

When I was little I had a summertime toy called a Slip'n'Slide that was basically a strip of long, flat plastic, the width of a body, that you ran a hose through so you could, er, slip and slide down the length of plastic, picking up speed&getting soaked as you hurtled toward the end. As I remember it, when I first got it I mistakenly placed it facing the street and if I'd lived on a busy street--instead of one little-traveled--would have ended up being dumped straight into traffic and flattened by a car, instead I ended up with some scrapes and a mouthful of pebbles. But that didn't stop me from loving this toy and using it almost every day during the summer (after unfurling it in the backyard away from traffic). This, to me, becomes a metaphor for the here&now (and beyond) because I will slip and I will slide and I will end up with a mouthful of pebbles and some scrapes and I will end up squealing with joy and getting soaked, too. Even as I go back in time to look at snapshots of my life, and even write stories about them, I'm not going to wrestle with them or try to repaint the picture. My gallery of life.

One of my dance luvuhs sent me this article that ties into soooo perfectly and worth the (very quick&lovely) read! Tiny Wisdom: Letting Go of Painful Memories

a funny thing happened on the way to 50

This is my foot. This is my foot at 50. I have two of them, but the picture didn't come out so well with both of them featured. Here's the thing that you maybe can't see: this foot is pink with sunburn because, apparently, it doesn't matter what age I am, I still forget to put sunscreen on those tender bits that never see the light of day, like the tops of feet. hmmm.

These feet, though, have carried me through a whole lot of adventures. They've danced, run, skipped, and walked many streets. They still do that, but in the last couple of weeks they've also been put to the test of resisting the desire to run away (more figuratively than literally) as it seemed the wheels were coming off the (metaphorical) vehicle that had been carrying my day to day forward. The new job I'd started which allowed me to earn a comfortable sum while also having time for my writing came quite suddenly and unexpectedly crashing to a halt; the book proposal I'd been crafting and had turned in seemingly ready to peddle was rethought by the agent as needing a complete rewrite; the apartment I own (which, by the way, is mortgaged by an institution so onerous that even a money manager I spoke to said "Oh, they're...er... tough...," when I told him how many times they'd denied my petition to lower my rate), anyway, the tenants who the day before were ready to re-sign the sublet lease changed their mind and said they'd be moving. This all unfolded over a few day period and I swear I felt a little like I was living in a wack-a-mole game, as if life's mallet was landing squarely on my head over and over. MiHoney said, between giving me cocktails, kleenex and hugs, Sometimes you need to shake things up, get through the logjam and get to the other side. Philosophically, even spiritually, I knew this to be true, but I still didn't want any of it to be happening. (He also said "Do three things" which seemed highly doable. action. i do like that.)

So I was in it. A few days away from the half-century mark of my life and I had a choice: a) feel sorry for myself, b) get on with it, c) change my identity and have those feet carry me away. I went with a) for a bit, ruminated on c) for a second, and settled on b). So the wheels came off the vehicle that I thought was carrying me so securely, it was time to fashion another one. And a funny thing happened as I investigated how that might look: I got a call from an old friend who works for a London magazine asking if I'd be interested in being sent to Seattle to write about the 20th anniversary of the release of Nevermind; a woman who is singing at the Metropolitan Opera this fall is going to sublet my apartment; the onerous bank is quiet for now as my accounts are brought up to date. Three things and beyond.

Then the weekend came for my birthday and it was glorious! Blue, blue skies, the sun shining, and fluffy clouds. And after a brief period of motoring, mihoney and I ended up at a ritzy beach village where many adventures ensued. Watching the local firemen douse a spontaneous car fire, I thought that was a kind of apt, though maybe over-the-top, way to welcome us to the area (no humans or animals were hurt in the process, only a very cool, old Corvette suffered), a moment that was followed—in no particular order—by amazing swims in the ocean, a stay in an old, awesome bed&breakfast, sipping G&T's on our terrace, laughing a lot, wandering the town to find limes and tonic (we discovered the people of this town have no concept of distance), Rudy Giulliani blocking our path on the sidewalk, bum-rushing an art opening where free champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries were enjoyed, helping a bicyclist who was grazed and dumped off his bike by a car, watching a valet relay race outside a ritzy party, eating amazing food, and, did I mention floating and paddling in the vast and magical ocean? Oh, and getting a little sunburn...

On the way back from this wonderland of fun, as we were a few blocks from home, mihoney asked me to remind him to make an appointment with a physical therapist for a hip situation and I asked him to remind me to file for unemployment, and it suddenly seemed funny. How that was just a snapshot where we are in our existence. The ups, the downs, the sideways. And I smiled to think what a good, strange brew this life can be.

the ladies in my life

A couple of weekends ago the annual Mermaid Parade took place in Coney Island and I got an e-mail with the subject line: Was it really 15 years ago today?! You see, a decade-and-a-half ago a group of friends and I climbed aboard a Cadillac, donned some fishnets and glitter and became a part of the parade. The fact that the car wasn't really ours and the parade wasn't really a parade (in the drive-down-the-road-at-a-steady-clip-while-doing-a-touch-pearls-and-wave-move-to-those-on-the-sidelines sense) only served to bond us more closely. We became known as The Mermaids. That we're only sometimes in touch with one another these days does not alter in any way the great and hysterical moments we had together. Moments that had begun before that fateful day in the sun when we painted up a car that one of us had, er, won(?) in a poker game, drove to Coney Island in very small amounts of clothing and fishnet stockings (under which most of us had forgotten to put on sunscreen so that at day's end our legs looked like we'd been beaten with a fly swatter), climbed on top of the metal machine that felt to be at least 180 degrees Fahrenheit to the touch, found ourselves creeping down the parade route at no more than 5 miles an hour while swatting away creeps who kept spraying us with beer and trying to take liberties while one of our amazing ladies who was driving and who happened to be pretty rad with the boxing gloves got out of the car every few feet and said "You wanna piece of me? You come any closer and that's what your gonna get." and we smiled and waved and then... we ran out of gas (apparently we were so busy forgetting sunscreen that we also forgot gasoline). the fact that we were pretty much at the end of the route—and our last nerve—motivated us to, as I remember it, abandon the car on the street and go ride the cyclone, then have some drinks, then i don't know what else. But I do know that the car was never seen again. And I'm not totally sure why...but i also know that from that day was spawned a series of monthly Mermaid dance parties at a club in NYC called Don Hill's that became legendary for fun and fabulousness.

And in thinking about this time and looking at the pictures of us (one of which is above), I realize how incredible it is, and how lucky I am, to have the ladies I do in my life. While the group may morph and ebb and flow into varying women at specific times of life, the thread that runs through it is the experience of that moment. The mermaids came at a time when the music business was my life, and we all inhabited that world in one way or another. We brought out a sort of fearlessness in each other that I still call on to this day, a confidence born of camaraderie that felt invincible.

And it wasn't only those five women at that time: there were at least a half-dozen others for whom I'd have (and still would) give&do anything. My two oldest friends who I'd known in Cali and who'd moved to NYC around the same time as I did—and who I'm still lucky enough to know today—were the bane of countless friday nights at our regular bar in the east village (next to the laundromat where miraculously my friend and I managed to get our clothes clean between shots). And the dinners I get to have today with two friends who I also knew/met in music biz days that now have amazing kids and lives that, though seemingly different from my day-to-day, bring me right back to the comfort zone of who and how we are. These four ladies remind me of just how awesome it is to be curious about what's next. We know where we've come from and what we've come through, we don't know what's to come, yet the humor and wonder of us gives me hope. And no matter how long between coming together again, whether by phone or face, brings the joy of picking up where we left off.

My dance ladies inspire another level of connection that is born out of newness, though the years they do roll, and the discovery that our passion for what we do physically and see in others and onstage is ongoing. This wrap-around brings me the confidence to keep finding out what my body and mind are capable of, especially when I start to go down the road of time&age, yet any misgivings I have disappear when we're all together. And, in fact, the studio introduced me to a type of friendship that had nothing to do with movement in careers and everything to do with movement in body&soul. Again, though many of the women I knew in my original class are rolling and tumbling out of my sight, they're not out of my mind&heart and those initial days I think about with amazement because they were minus the competitive streak that can so often come from women's groupings.

In writing my book I'm coming across many examples (in fact my entire thesis is based upon) the fact that so often women do things in competition with each other: fashion, body modification, money making and love making being at the top of the list. And while a little rivalry can sometimes be a healthy moment (read: when I did a pole inversion I hadn't done in awhile—and didn't think i could actually do anymore—because I was in a group with two women that I was determined to not flail in front of), I know I've been incredibly lucky to be with women who just bring the equality. Maybe I'm just naive and missing some cues, but overall I've felt that no matter where I am financially, professionally or generationally I'm in the company of women who teach, support, inspire and entertain me and that makes it so much fun to give it right back. Even as I write this I think of more and more ladies I want to mention who are in/and have been in my life, yet that would make this post go on until next year. In essence, before I'm tempted to start belting out a sappy "wind under wings" kind of ditty, I'm going to wrap it up knowing that the smiles, memories and fun continue!

the men in my life

oh my cool and groovy dad (check the sideburns). He's still cool and groovy, though the sideburns don't look quite the same. He instilled in me a lot of things: love of reading and all things words, appreciation of art (him being a graphic designer and all, though I can't draw a straight line to save myself, i like how they look. i like the squiggly ones, too), a passion for music, and most important, the ability to look around me without judging the who or what I see. Even though this last quality is something I fall down on all the time (and I suspect he has his share of that, as well), it's something I'm so appreciative for having grown up with that I keep on paying attention. As an only child there were plenty of chances for me to get spoiled. Then as an only child of divorced parents, the scales shifted slightly, but the luck fell on the side of me never feeling pulled by one parent's judgment toward the other. Instead I had a pretty great freedom in taking each for who they were, untainted by the crazy anger you often see/hear about in really gnarly splits.

As life rolled on, my dad's cool factor maintained even into my teenage-hood. The fact he bought me almost all of Elton John's albums (yes, vinyl. yes, I melted for Elton John. I also adored Freddie Mercury. Big crush on both. Wanted to marry them.No idea that I was on the wrong team. This confusion regarding radar may have lasted into my later years...) and the memory of me explaining to him the profoundness of the lyrics to "The Bitch Is Back"—yikes, I wish I could remember what made them, er, profound—makes me realize how determined I was to have him understand the things I enjoyed. Even when he came, decades later, to meet me for lunch at the airport hotel where, as a reporter with Spin, i was stationed for a music convention featuring many metal bands, and the elevator door opened into the lobby where he stood and watched me step out followed by all manner of crazy-haired, tattooed, leather-wearing rock guys did he seem to doubt my choices (though I think he did ask "What exactly are you here to do?"). And that, I realize, has instilled me with a great fearlessness.

Although I'm often confused about my choices, usually in retrospect (see Elton John, Freddie Mercury mentions above), I do think that taking my first steps into a decision, taking a chance, grabbing an opportunity even if it vaporizes in my hands, is something I've been given because of his belief in me. That while looking at the situation with clear eyes is important, if there's an inkling that it can be achieved, enjoyed, learned from...then why not?

It's taken me quite awhile to let the right one in as far as my romantic heart goes. I've given it away plenty of times inappropriately even if the receiver didn't realize I was actually giving it (again, see EJ and FM mentions above), but I've never given and received equally as I'm getting to do in my life right now. I'm also making the acquaintance of the part of me that could be referred to as my masculine side, which I think is more just about that inner power that feels dominant and is more expressed by men. In the studio lately I've been a bit of a beast. Not in an altogether menacing way (tho I did try to follow one of my classmates around for an entire song and take over whatever chair or pole she was using, but she seemed to enjoy the give and take). It feels more like in an exploratory investigation where it's fun to strut and beat my chest a bit (not quite literally) and because this activity is assigned mostly to men, it's thought of as a primarily male attitude. But I'm enjoying the outlet and am quite absolutely sure that because of the men in my life—really all of them in one way or another, but two very particularly right now—that I can enjoy that part of me without fear of judging by either myself or someone else.

Jacoby & Pronk - Mia Michaels Rehearsal

so you think you can dance?

I get a weekly astrology e-mail from Rob Brezny that I take in certain doses of seriousness (depending on my mood, etc.). But this week's actually resonated in a way that had me reading it over again a few times:

CANCER (June 21-July 22): I'm not a big fan of the "No Pain, No Gain"
school of thought. Personally, I have drummed up more marvels and
wonders through the power of rowdy bliss than I have from hauling
thousand-pound burdens across the wasteland. But I do recognize that in
my own story as well as in others', hardship can sometimes provoke
inspiration. I think it may be one of those moments for you, Cancerian.
Please accept this medicinal prod from the ancient Roman poet Horace:
"Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents that in times of prosperity
would have lain dormant."

While I'm not living in the land of deep adversity at present, I am in a mode of needing to unearth some talents that I wasn't sure I had. A lot of it is beginning again/facing challenges that are a bit unnerving.

I started a new job and while it's happily working a part of my writing/organizational brain that's lain dormant for awhile (ok, actually i'm also excavating a part of my brain that's never been used: namely the left side having to do with medical terms and such), I also realize how impatient I am regarding my own learning curve, basically that i only give myself about an hour before i think i should have it all down. It's like i know logically that's an outrageous demand, somehow my ego thinks i'm different and capable of superhero-like immediate intelligence.

So, there's that. Then there's also this moment with my book proposal: the agent I contacted is awesome and giving me good notes on what to do in order to give the overview and chapters the most punch so publishers will say YES, let's buy this idea and have this woman write the book. The thing is...i hate rewriting because somehow i think of it as having to...yes, start again. (Even though i realize revisiting is really more what's going on. Reworking. Remodeling. Reaffixing.) Again, my ego says What? it's not perfect the first time? Well, no, it's not.

In other movement: I'm taking a class taught by one of my favorite people, and she's kicking my ass. Breaking down moves that i kind of thought i knew but realize i'd fallen into a habit of laziness with, and i'm surprised at how resistant my body has gotten about correcting. I've had moments where i thought Did I ever know how to execute this spin correctly in the first place? At the S studio, I'm also in a new place, and that's a lovely challenge on a whole other level to do with honesty and rawness.

There's new territory being forged with mi honey. And the heart-land is a place that scares me like no other. it's a landscape so totally foreign to me (read: trust, patience, resting in each other's arms) that it's like starting a new language. Even if we're learning it together, it's still a surprise.

I'm getting that life is always about the flexibility and willingness to grow, move through things, take the learning, leave behind the stucked-ness. Start again. Right now, although it seems that everything's rolling at once, i know there's a rhythm to it. It's just me slowing down and appreciating, paying attention to, the steps. not being afraid to do a little cha-cha-cha.

I'm including a video (see above) by my favorite dancers choreographed by a woman who I think brings the challenge of movement like no other: Jacoby and Pronk with Mia Michaels. (also recently posted on one of my other favorite blogs: Arial Amy)

SeeSaw

This morning on my run I passed a sign for a nearby playground with a picture of a seesaw on it (the fact that there wasn't actually a seesaw in the playground, or come to think of it, ever a seesaw that i've seen in an NYC playground made me want to find one somewhere. but i digress). It got me thinking about the nature of trust, balance and what we see and don't see right in front of us.

In the last week I've started this new job where I work primarily on my own and that can be really peaceful, but also somewhat stressful in that I'm not totally sure the process of how the whole thing works yet. But it's coming slowly and I'm starting to trust that I'm not completely f$*&ing it up, yet I realize that not having the ability to just walk across an aisle and ask someone is actually a bit awesome&terrifying. I've been ruminating on the nature of dependency: How there's sometimes a little buzzing need under the surface of the skin to be able to look out and see yourself reflected in another human, whether that's someone doing a similar something or just someone you want to be there.

The thing about the seesaw is that there is someone working with you, balancing out the activity, and you might have your eye on them, but you can't really get any closer than you are. there's trust they'll do what they need to in order that the rhythm keeps going, or you agree to stop. And, as I remember it from my seesawing days, sometimes the someone on the other end drops out of view, below the line of vision, for just a split second—or maybe that was just when I closed my eyes—but in any case, the sense of flying solo, yet being supported is magnificent.

I've been having that seesaw reminder in a particular relationship at present, where a certain amount of trust is called into action because although that someone may seem out of emotional sight lines for the moment, they haven't jumped off the ride altogether, and hopefully are gaining some momentum and free-flying fun of their own. Yet then when eyes do meet across the space, there's a gladness to know said person's there, figuring out the right balance, speed, etc.

Often in class during the dance i feel the give-and-take presence of who's on the other side, balancing out the rhythm in the room. and while my eyes are often closed, I can feel they're all there and putting just as much faith into the movement as I am. they might be surprised that we're going faster or slower, but generally we're all in it together.

As i lift and fall through these moments I'm glad to know I'm sharing the balance, yet can also feel my legs getting stronger with each proverbial push.

a Goldilox moment

Looking for the just-right. Interesting how that can be such a time-killer, a way to put off the settling down and in. Yesterday was the first day of some newness. I've taken on a freelance job that is not dependent on me showing up anywhere and I got a go-ahead to polish up a couple of things so that the agent I'd submitted my book proposal could shop it around. Both of these things are awesome, and also dependent on me getting on with it! So, of course it was crucial that I spend the first half of the day wandering around from location to location to find a spot that would be perfect for me to sit down and work. It had to be a table with a chair, some sunshine, but not too much that it would obscure my computer screen, maybe some music on in the background, but not too loudly...easy, right? hah. First I went to a local cafe, bought coffee, set myself up and found out they didn't have wi-fi access. hmmm. ok, took my coffee and wandered by Starbux. no. Came back to the apartment and went into the common garden. Literally went from table to table (there are three) and chair to chair (there are six, and two benches) and sat down at/in each. looked around at the view. What did I want to look at? What did I want to feel? By this time 2 full hours had gone by (and the kids at the play area next door were let out to frolic....oops, too much noise). After finding a table that worked, I sat there for another hour until I realized I was freezing and hungry. I finally came upstairs and settled down at my desk to finish off my work. Seriously: too big, too small, too hot, too cold...looking for the just right and realizing there's really no such thing from the outside in.

I kind of remembered this thinking about how when i'm in a writing groove, I could probably be hanging from my ankles (more about this later) and still go forward with the story. Which also reminded me that the romantic vision of how freeing it is to be your own boss is often much stronger as a wish than a reality. Writers might be singularly set up to be solo creatures, yet it can still be eerie to not speak to anyone for hours on end.

So yesterday I realized that just-right is whatever i decide it is, which will help me to stop avoiding the just-get-down-to-it.

And about hanging from my ankles (really this will tie into the just-right moments as well): Yesterday, while challenging/spinning/climbing through a new class (what's become one of my favorite hour's of the week), my teacher was watching me swing through a move i've done (in theory) many many times before, tho not under her tutelage. As she observed that I was stepping off on the wrong foot, and as I listened and corrected and then proceeded to step off on the wrong foot again and again, she said, that instinct must be somewhere deep in your body. Yes, see, i always thought i was doing it just right...and somewhere inside i stubbornly couldn't let that go, even tho i totally understood that it wasn't correct, in fact made the move harder. After class I was lucky enough to be in attendance at an open rehearsal for one of my favorite set of dancers, Jacoby & Pronk. As I sat in a dance studio with only about 15 other people watching these amazing bodies talking through routines and practicing over and over choreography they'd done many many times before, they became stuck on one move.
Drew Jacoby said, "Hmmm, maybe this motion is too deep in my body and I can't get to it anymore." And, there it is, i thought, the just-right. we think we've got it, but even if it shifts ever-so-little, it'll trip the whole thing out of focus. so spinning into the too big, the too little, the just right and making it our own, that's the challenge.

Now I'm off to eat some porridge and break some chairs (metaphorically speaking).

PS. if you're anywhere in the tri-state NYC area this saturday (14th), try to go to this Jacoby&Pronk performance/fundraiser. they're so deserving of the support and spotlight that will be shining on them! Here's a link:
http://jacobypronk.com/go/party.html