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.