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)