Monday, January 24, 2011

goals and such


My intention with this blog has been to write (at least) one entry per week. Last week no story/observation/tidbit/nuthin' was offered from me because I didn't think I had anything to say. And on thinking about that, I realized that I don't have to have an "event" or some such thing to happen in order to spool out words. There's plenty swirling around to string together moments of observation.

And a good place for some seeing is the subway (not usually as empty, graceful or shiny clean as the picture at left. you rarely/ever want to go barefoot there). Looking into the faces of New Yorkers (what you can see of them considering that 6 degree weather doesn't encourage a lot of face to see), I'm struck with the reflection of stoicism—a little bit of just-get-through-it attitude—mixed with the sense that we all seem to move in our own bubbles despite being surrounded by hundreds/thousands/millions of people. I love to look at people and make up stories about them, and though I've no doubt I'm far from right about anything I come up with, it can be a study in character building. And sometimes as i'm watching, a person will meet my eye and we hold it for a split second. Like last week when what I thought was a really full-of-himself, haughty guy pushed his way on to the train as I stood across from the door watching the people pour in. I rolled my eyes and the woman who came on after him caught my gaze and rolled her eyes too. then we both smiled, like we had an agreement. Then we promptly looked away, even more determined to not glance at each other ever again for the rest of the ride.

I don't know if it's fear of space invasion regarding a stranger coming in too close—or them thinking you are—or whether intimacy of looking at each other is just too intense, but that kind of connection is fraught with stuff. A week ago I'd doubled up on classes at the studio and came smack up on this very situation. Mind you, the room is dark, the space is safe and fun, and the ladies all in the same position (as it were), but I was doing make-ups and didn't know any of the women in class, which can be both freeing and intimidating. In one of the classes, the teacher had us double up and do some combination of moves for our partner, who was sitting in the chair. The kicker was that every movement involved us in some way showing ourself or coming in contact with her, whether through looking directly in her eyes or letting her see a part of us as we slid and twirled on the pole inches from where she sat. The woman I paired off with immediately started giggling as she did her thing, which I found charming as an ice-breaker, but also a bit distracting. I found myself saying all manner of encouragements like "beautiful" and "ummmm" and etc. to fill up the space as she moved. (we probably sounded like some weird-ass radio frequency that doesn't quite land on one channel or the next.) When it was my turn to dance, I found it near-on impossible to meet her eyes and actually, maybe sensing this, she closed them for a portion of the time. Afterward we figured out that the way we reacted was exactly how we do in the rest of the world when we're uncomfortable. I make nonsensical, mostly supportive noises, she apparently giggles uncontrollably. We both close our eyes to the discomfort and no doubt trip over stuff and/or miss the good stuff altogether.

A couple of days later, in another class, I was asked by the teacher after my dance if i knew who it was who'd been sitting in the chair during my dance...and I didn't. She wondered about that, acknowledging the immense fear of intimacy that exists in all of us, but also suggesting that it's pretty important to notice the humans in the world around us. I realized that even (maybe especially) with the person I'm most intimate with, I've had trouble looking into his eyes when I dance. It's almost more naked than being naked. So this exposure in life, whether total strangers or closest lover, becomes a test (or treat, depending) on seeing in both directions. Not having to have a goal of what wants to be seen or said, but instead just opening up to it, whatever comes. I oftentimes have latent reactions to things, so that I sail through in the moment, then the wave comes and slaps me from behind a couple of beats later. When I think about keeping my eyes open and watching as the swell approaches and appreciating that I'll be fine, well, it's something to keep in mind whether there's a story there or not.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

limb to limb


hard and soft / rich and poor / empty and filled
stripped bare yet protected.
all these things i struggle with, yet celebrate. i see that tree in the neighborhood completely uncovered, i see right through it, and it lets me see more of the sky and what lies beyond, tho in the months that it's green and full i notice the actual thing itself supporting life and I may only look at what's there.

so there's that. i feel lately as i slip and slide between really feeling what i'm capable of and actually owning it, that the dichotomy between my desire and my power rises up to challenge me. The fact that i struggle with it, wrestle with what i perceive as the gulf between the power and the desire, only makes it that much more real that it exists. I've never felt so full of myself and possibilities and happiness, while still so unsure of what's around the corner. I know, i know ... this is the point. the dance i've been twirling around for the last year (plus) as i've been writing words on this blog situation. but, hey, a girl needs to remind herself every once in awhile (OK, a lot) that just because i had a kick-ass dance last week, there's no guarantee of anything near that happening the next time...or maybe it will. When i leave the studio or the apartment or the office, I walk my walk differently every time. Nothing is as it's been before. there's no telling that the passion i feel looking into a pair of eyes this morning is going to hold the same intensity the night that follows, but trust that those eyes will still be there to look into, there just may be a different view. and that's actually a good thing. that's the point i think ... maybe even the beauty. i'm sure we'd all just flame-out into little green spots if we lived in that intensity all the time.

and the fact(?ha) is: i'm scared of not holding the eyes of intensity in a steady gaze because my ego whispers in my ear that if i blink first, all that passion will disappear—as if that's the thing that rules me. me of little faith in space and what lies between. what exists in the dark. my sense that i can control anything, that somehow doing it on my own is a brave thing, when in fact it isn't courageous at all. What is, i'm finding, is to stay with eyes wide open, aware of the who around me, bare yet full, being seen through while still very much present. the hard, soft, rich, poor, empty, filled moments touching me over and over without me losing sight of what i have to offer inside of that. and so it goes.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

acclimate


Sometimes you just need to find a place to burrow. somewhere to tuck in and survey your surroundings...or rest...or be watched over. sometimes you just need to give in.

having recently relocated with my furry beasts (and pole soon to follow) to lovely new surroundings, i'm wrapping around what it means to step into somewhere new, to look around and appreciate feeling slightly off balance though also completely present in the place I stand (or fall, or recline). while this transition is enhanced in a major way by the person whose abode i now share, the sense of taking the time to appreciate and explore my own presence in the landscape is key. If i followed my furball's three step process, it would go a little like this: first a tiny bit of hiding, then the picking of a spot to make their own—never to let a human displace them, occasional forays into other nooks and crannies, but always a return to that original place (while outright ignoring the fact that another body might actually be taking up the space) to sleep...and sleep...and sleep. But see, I'm not that tired and i'm actually curious about the intersection where change, comfort, challenge, and balance meet.

I used to gloss over moments of change because I wasn't sure what to do with the crunchy bits. if it didn't feel altogether good, then i sure didn't want to know about it...even though the sense of unsettled would burrow down somewhere, usually poised to rise up at some weird inopportune moment (like at the dry cleaners or grocery store or some such awkward place where i'd experience a sense of emotional vertigo and misfire some grumpy-ass-ness at an unsuspecting human. sorry, people to whom i've been less than gracious). But i was so unused to handling my own discomfort that i'd try to hold on tight to a zombie-happy state where the only antidote was a swing to the irrational. When i moved from the house that was the scene of my disintegrating marriage, i gave nary a backward glance. And while i was hugely relieved to be in my new digs, loving every view from every corner and window, I had lots of wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night dreams to do with being lost and not being able to find my way out/in/over/around. then i'd tuck all that away, roll over and go back to sleep. I was in fact burrowing, but i wasn't giving in. Nor was I resting or letting myself be watched over.

so in the here and the now, as we all negotiate space on the love seat that has apparently been claimed outright by the four-legged ones, i'm rolling up to that intersection and stopping, and looking in all directions to take in my surroundings. as long as my hands are still on the wheel and i've come to a complete stop, it's ok to be off-balance (a thing I've also discovered in class recently in the wearing of the tall boots, which has freed my body to move&stumble in ways i can't predict). I'm presently completely enamored of my surroundings and am still scoping out the space where it's fun to burrow, to watch, be watched, give in and partake depending on the moment.