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.

running away with the circus

wandering around Jacob's Pillow (a dance festival/community/slice o'heaven in Massachusetts) last weekend, i started to wonder about immersion into a thing you love. i had pretty much come to the conclusion that the dancers who come and go there would probably notice if i tried to move into one of the bungalows where they live ("yeah, hi, no don't worry bout me, just wanna see what this is like"...um, no), but it got me thinking about what it's like to be so committed and passionate about something that you give yourself to it completely. Welcome the pain and the pleasure, the bliss and blood. i thought about that as i sat in a barn with dancers not many inches away sweating and breathing through their movements, one of the girls wincing (once) on toe reminding me how precarious it is up there, those five little piggies pressed against that block that's holding you balanced. (and inevitably went to the five-inch platforms i sometimes wear in class and how much i can't stand not feeling my feet on the floor...tho my boots are another story altogether.) I watched these dancers' faces as they moved through insane humidity and crazy heat and damn if they didn't seem (except for the wince) above any discomfort.

I know this is part of performance, tho i also think about what it looks like when you lose yourself completely in a moment while doing something you love and don't think of pain in the traditional way.

A couple of nights later, I sat in the front row in a small space to see the show i'd come to JPillow for: Jacoby&Pronk. they're impossibly tall and lithe and sexy (see pics above) and married to each other and all of that informs the way i watch them. i make up stories (about everything really, like i wonder what it looks like when they dance and are mad at each other? or how amazing to have a job where you get to touch the person you're in love with all the time. how might that work?). I tried to catch their faces as much as their movement, and altho exaggerated in stillness most of the time, the way they watched each other is what struck me. no perceptible change of emotion, and of course i'm getting more now that it's the body that talks, not the face that expresses. at the end, during their bows to the audience, their faces broke and they actually smiled, looked happy and grabbed each other. So naturally being some sort of hopeless closet romantic whose working on coming out of that closet, this grabbing and kissing made me really happy.

But more than that, what was rippling away underneath during this movement that is made to look effortless? and how much goes into masking any pain? while i celebrate my bruises, i also know that there is a place to disappear into when you're really in love with something or at least committed to doing it. it's true that last year, the final miles of the marathon, while always weird and surreal, were almost blissful in that i was completely moving from outside my body. yes, my physical self was obviously carrying me, and if i'd paid too much attention to it, i would have felt it's pain, but somewhere along the way i lifted out of it. during S class i'm often banging against something or smacking some part of my body against a wall, chair, pole. it all sounds sort of spastic, but i'm really not feeling that pain. instead i'm touching somewhere else in there and i'm pretty sure my face is reflecting that. last night after my dance, a comment to me: "i'd like to see what would happen if you danced to 10 songs in a row. you've got all this movement coming out, i wonder if you could spend it all." it actually made me lose my breath a bit to think of that. (And a friend told me later that during my dance she wanted to tell me to breathe. i should just have that word tattooed up my arms, torso, legs.) but i wonder. would it be like the dervishs just spinning and spinning and trancing out? Is that what happens when you love that much? just go and don't care what it looks like. lift off and disappear into it. run away with the circus.

naked

Last night I went with my merry band of dance luvahs to Pilobolus at the Joyce theater. The last performance of the night consisted of the six dancers dancing for the most part naked (flesh-colored g-strings only). At first it was totally startling: four men and two women, all with amazingly beautiful bodies, moving with each other, rolling, tumbling and leaping. Intertwined in each other's arms, climbing each other's body, wrapped around each other's torso. And at some point soon in, i realized i'd stopped thinking about their nakedness physically and started appreciating how naked and raw their movement and expression was.

The thing i've come to adore and appreciate about dance is how it can express emotion, moments, stories, journeys without words—and since i'm a wordy-grammarian type who lives for words, there's that—yet the merest movement of a finger or wiggle of a toe, arc of an arm or angle of a hip can make me cry or laugh and totally get the story in no-seconds flat. (I also appreciate that everyone else is no doubt getting a slightly different story than i am.) I love it when it's gentle and i love it when it's a bit rough...when I swoon and when there are bruises. It's a language that relates volumes.

As I took in the naked beauty last night—and once i moved beyond my inner dialogue: check that lovely dimple in her thigh; holy torso, batman, look at the ripples of her abs; criminy, his arms are amazing; egads, his ass is unbelievable—I started to see it all as a whole. A beautiful landscape. It was as if by exposing everything and riding out the initial shock of all that, er, nakedness, nothing was scary (although a couple of times I winced thinking, Damn, that could really hurt if shifted even an inch to the right or left). It became about staying with the vulnerability and hiding nothing.


So the concept of exposure. Very often I've felt my self getting tired from holding onto the proverbial costume. Layers upon layers: a critical corset, soul-crimping crinoline, heavy drapings of brocaded self-doubt, all topped off with an ever-so-stylish veil of occlusion. But it looks fabulous on the outside...i think to myself. Though it's stiflingly hot in there. very little room for movement! It's like some kind of Victorian nightmare, when what i really want is to strip down to a little Victoria's secrets.

And that reminds me! On my birthday eve I took a class. I'd brought in my platform shoes, stockings and other drapings to prance around in. Right before going into the studio, an amazing dance friend gave me a little prezzy of a sexy burgundy, velvet, underwire bra (with a little black bow) and a matching-colored lace pantie, g-string and garter. oh-mi-gawd. Heaven. (and my song was Cheap Trick's "Heaven Tonight," a slice of my teenage confusion/sexual awakening that seemed ready built for a birthday dance). I draped on my gear, got up for my dance and promptly fell out of one of my shoes. I didn't hurt myself, but suddenly I was annoyed at wearing anything, so i pulled off the other shoe, slid off my stockings, pulled down the skirt until all i had on was the lingerie. It felt fab and i probably would have ended up in my birthday suit altogether if I hadn't kept some sense of being in a somewhat public space. Afterward the ladies laughed about how obvious it was that i wanted to rip it all off. It felt so good to feel my skin against the floor, the pole, my hands. all for me, though yes, people were watching. but they were celebrating, too.

And how I can appreciate this moment for my inner self? By continuing to move closer to exposing myself to myself without fear or judgment. just a little closer every day. My wish? To stay there a little longer each time. And be OK with whoever sees. To dance on my own stage fearlessly, tumbling and rolling and not afraid to get messy and naked with it. Victorian is good for novels, Victoria's excellent for lingerie, victorious is how i'm feeling on this journey.