by meghanleborious | Nov 8, 2016 | Notes on Practice
“The intention for this workshop is full, complete and unrelenting self-acceptance,” said highly regarded 5Rhythms teacher Kierra Foster-Ba during the course of the one-day workshop “Light & Shadow” at Martha Graham studios on Saturday. 5Rhythms is a dance and movement meditation practice created by the late Gabrielle Roth; and the “Light & Shadows” workshop was a committed investigation of the shadow aspects of each of the five rhythms—Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness. After a series of tightly scheduled events, I found myself en route to the West Village, hoping a miracle would grant me parking; and pondering the fact that there are so many terrifying, uncomfortable, collective shadows to dance at this particular moment. No matter how things go with the election, there is no denying that we have seen some horrifically ugly aspects of our humanity recently.
Before stepping up onto the gloriously forgiving sprung floor, I took several moments to notice the powerful ritual of stepping from the world into the space of formal practice. We began with a brief wave—what we call it when we move through each of the 5Rhythms in sequence—and I found movement easily, though I noticed that I was more introverted than usual.
After the opening wave, Kierra gathered us together to offer spoken instruction and to demonstrate one way of moving in each rhythm. Kierra noted that there were several participants who had never before attended a 5Rhythms class or workshop; and she took the time to teach essential points before moving on to the shadow work. She spent the most time on Flowing—the first and most foundational rhythm. She explained that Flowing is led by the feet, and is an invitation to drop all the way down into the feet in order to connect with the instinctive self. Next, her movements became sharp and she exhaled noticeably, “Staccato is about being in the world.” She went on to say, “Staccato is directional. Letting in and letting out.” The movement of her head accelerated and she began to rock back and forth energetically, saying, “Chaos is about letting go.” She emphasized that if you give yourself over to Chaos, including not caring at all about how you look to others, you are inevitably led into Lyrical—the rhythm of joy, of lightening up. At Kierra’s request, another well regarded 5Rhythms teacher, Jane Selzer, got up to demonstrate the rhythm of Stillness, as Kierra explained on the microphone that breath is the gateway to Stillness, and that in Stillness we begin to let pauses come into our movements.
Having set the foundation of the rhythms, Kierra went on to speak about the shadows. The shadow of Flowing is inertia, of Staccato is tension, of Chaos is confusion, of Lyrical is being spaced out, and of Stillness is numbness. Although the temptation is to see the shadow as a negative aspect of the rhythms or as something to get rid of, Kierra encouraged us to think of the shadows as something with real “nutrition,” and even went on to later describe the “gravy” of each shadow, inviting us to consider that the shadow rhythms might even be as enjoyable as the “essential” rhythm in some ways. She also introduced the theme that the shadow rhythms could relate to parts of us that we are ashamed of and keep hidden, sometimes even from ourselves.
Tuesday was a difficult day for me. I can’t exactly say why. A stressful situation had dissolved a few days before; and perhaps it could only hit me after the fact. My nails were bitten down, my hair’s ends broken, my skin was unhappy, I couldn’t eat as I had something that must have been heartburn, and my lower back hurt. The dentist told me the pain I was feeling in my jaw was not because I needed some urgent dental surgery, but that the likely cause was that my gums and teeth were showing signs of stress. I couldn’t find joy or optimism, especially in the context of work. Everything seemed hopeless and useless. To make matters worse, I couldn’t swim after work, my daily habit for re-setting myself to neutral, because in my rushing movements I had forgotten my swim bag.
That evening, my six-year-old son, Simon, did his very best to cheer me up. He is an exceedingly charming child and tried all the tricks that usually work. “How can I make you happy, Mommy?” he finally asked. “Oh, my beautiful son! You always make me happy. But today I am just not feeling good. I’m not exactly sure why, but I just don’t feel happy. Sometimes it is like that, little one. Sometimes you just have to let whatever it is work its way through without trying to fix it.” After Simon went to bed, I was tempted to call my mother, as she always helps me feel better, but I decided not to. I wanted to have a beer as soon as Simon went to bed, too, but I decided not to. Instead, I practiced yoga for a while, letting the painful, disheartened feelings I was experiencing have full sway. It was not easy to be with the discomfort.
Kierra was transparent about the structure of the workshop; and explained her plans for working with inertia—the shadow of Flowing. She invited us to stretch out on the floor and let ourselves slowly be called to action by the music. There would be three songs to let ourselves be in inertia, then find our way into moving. I started out moving kind of quickly, and consciously tried to slow way down. The gravity and resistance of inertia didn’t feel that different from how I normally experience Flowing—where I love to whirl and grind myself into the floor, partnering with gravity and solidity. I slowly gathered myself and rose to my feet, beginning to move throughout the room. Kierra picked up the microphone, “At this point, ask yourself, ‘What do I need right now in order to find Flowing?” What came immediately to mind for me was, “I need other people. I need to see and be seen—not direct, not confrontational, but obliquely, softly. To be influenced by other people’s gestures, to be swept along by the currents of the bodies around me and to gently affect the currents of the room, myself.” I thought of traces, of mingling, and of kelp plants, waving their tethered arms with the movements of the deep ocean.
To some extent, working with the shadows is about transforming our relationship to aversion; and Kierra again and again visited the theme of loving and supporting all parts of ourselves, including the parts we would perhaps rather disown. In Buddhist terms, aversion is the act of pushing away from what we find distasteful or frightening. Working intentionally with the shadows is to choose to move toward the things we would normally try to push away. Both in 5Rhythms and in many Buddhist traditions, moving intentionally into what we want to move away from is seen as a way to open the heart and mind, not as some form of masochistic self-abuse. Perhaps moving directly into pain—rather than doing everything in our power to get away from it, through over-drinking, over-eating, over-exercising, over-working, gambling, drugs, filling up every space in our minds with churning thoughts, or filling up every space of our lives with frantic activity—can serve us.
Next, we moved on to the investigation of Staccato. The shadows of each rhythm are even less fixed than the essential rhythms; and though we learned that the shadow of Staccato is tension, Kierra also added that the tension can lead to repression and control. I clenched my fists and set to it. I had to keep fluttering my lips and shaking out my head, as the level of tension in my body didn’t feel healthy. My dance at this point was not very inspired. I thought about Gabrielle Roth, how she used to stop and straight out tell people to dig deeper, to give more. At that point, Kierra stopped the music and said, “I’m going to play a song now that is really going to allow us to go there. This might even be a little bit aggressive.” And, oh, was it! Filled with angst and speed and resistance, I became a demon, letting aggression and anger arise, deep, deep in the hips, scraping, clawing the air around me, raking my knees into sharp angles, my head released and flinging itself with as much speed as my hips, feet, knees and elbows. I danced near a friend with a very strong practice and his devotion, passion and energy inspired me to dig even deeper. A giddy, chemical release flooded my quadriceps and soon the rest of me. As the last Staccato song concluded, Kierra commented that anger can be a teacher; and that it can alert us when our boundaries have been inappropriately transgressed.
On the note of repression, I thought about an incident that took place during a meditation retreat I was staffing several years ago. We were sitting on meditation cushions in a small group of perhaps ten people, engaged in a formal discussion. We were talking about aversion—again, the Buddhist concept of pushing away what is unpleasant or uncomfortable. In response to one of the comments about the aversive shell we create to keep ourselves safe, I said, “Well, you know. It would be one thing if shutting down or pushing away actually worked to make us happier or keep us safe. The thing is that it really doesn’t work. If it did I would be all for it, but it doesn’t.” I’m not exactly sure how it was framed, but I said something about, “It’s not like it’s the subway in the South Bronx at 2AM in the late 1980’s, when you might actually need a shell around you.” A flash of raw anger shot around the circle; and every single person felt it before even a word was said. One woman spoke up, expressing that she felt that what I said was racist. Man, that hurt. Shame of the most intense possible quality flooded me. My heart started beating like crazy. My partner of many years was a black and latino man. We had shared hundreds of hours in discussion about racism, ranging through many different levels. Secretly, I had always been terrified that on some deep level I was actually a racist. Though I was afraid, I approached the woman during the next break and asked her to talk with me about her feelings. She was very receptive; and after, I understood how she could see my comment as racist. She also thanked me, saying that she was always calling people out for racist comments; and that I was the first person who had ever come and asked her to talk about it.
This terribly painful experience gave me great insight; and a rush of relief flooded me with another set of powerful chemicals. I realized I had been afraid that there was some essential part of me that was racist. Every other essentialist part of my psyche had been rigorously interrogated, but this part remained hidden, obscured by shame and fear. (Note: As you probably know, from the perspective of some Buddhist philosophy “essentialism” is the belief that there is a separate and definable “self” and too, implies that reality has some logical kind of coherence or definability.) I realized that just as there is no essential self; too, there is no essential racism. As I currently understand it, racism is a process—one that affects every single person who lives in this culture. Fundamentally, it is our flawed human tendency to separate the world into “us” and “them” that lays the foundation for racism, not an intrinsic hidden evil; though there is no denying the intensity and complexity of racism as it now functions. It would be impossible to overstate the importance of this insight for my personal path. Even my firmly-held idea that I was a not-racist was limiting my perception of phenomena, and, as such, needed to be interrogated, as much as any other part of me, in the interest of uncovering the deepest truth.
As the songs devoted to the investigation of tension—the shadow of Staccato—ended, I caught a friend’s eye. We both smiled, and our shoulders started a conversation. Without any thought, we stepped into a Staccato dance, with open chests and shyly playful gestures, before sitting down with the rest of the group to debrief the round of exercises.
Before the second half of the Light & Shadow workshop, we took a brief break, then danced another short wave before settling into an investigation of confusion—the shadow of Chaos. For the first song, we were invited to start with the shapes of “I don’t know.” This exercise did not resonate for me—which is not to say that it didn’t work for me. Certainly, it was acting on me in some way. In every class and workshop, even when I am transported by bliss, there are some exercises that have more charge than others. The following suggestion, that we dance an agitated kind of confusion, didn’t really resonate this time either. Maybe it is partly because I don’t actually mind being confused. I am as cerebral as they come, but I don’t mind that I have all kinds of contradictory opinions and experiences and theories. The final invitation during the Chaos shadow work was, “What does it look like when you really don’t know something, but you are pretending that you do.”
Just that morning, I had been bragging that I don’t usually hide when I don’t know something. I saw a friend—the parent of a child in my son’s class; and I couldn’t for the life of me remember her name (it was this friend I was bragging to). We had shared at least four or five conversations, been at the same party or picnic several times, and our children genuinely like each other. Her name has four syllables and seems unusual to me. I felt embarrassed that I still couldn’t remember it, but I came clean right away, rather than trying to skirt around my lapse. We spoke at length about names and naming and identity; and I learned a lot about her home country. And I have finally committed her name to memory, so I will be able to hug her and greet her by name the next time I see her.
At the workshop, we paused to share thoughts on the shadow of Chaos. Kierra was kind enough to acknowledge my barely-raised hand, and I shared, “What I got was…that confusion arises from misunderstanding the nature of reality. The dissolution of all meaning systems. That everything is moving. And that even the ground isn’t fixed.”
Kierra surprised me by asking, “Can I work with you for a minute? To help you find the ground. I want to ask you to go into Chaos.” I stood up and moved instantly into a massively energetic Chaos, with whipping head and whirling gestures, moving from the floor to the sky and back, with occasional pauses of sharpness in a fast-spinning storm. Kierra offered an oblique compliment that made me feel happy, then went on to talk about how the 5Rhythms can also be seen as a philosophy and as a way to live.
I was very grateful for her kind attention, but I feared I hadn’t communicated the emotional truth of my experience very well. That even the ground moves feels like a revelation (or at least a reminder), rather than a lament. For three years, I worked with teens from Haiti who had been in the devastating earthquake, when the ground literally broke apart. Nearly all lost many family members; and some were injured. I have also practiced 5Rhythms extensively at the edge of the sea, where the ground shifts constantly. There, what was once ground could suddenly be underwater, roiling with rocks and sand. I have incredible gratitude for the principle of ground, but believe there is nothing—absolutely nothing—that is fixed. I think that the principle of grounding is a different matter, in a way. When I say there is no ground, I guess what I really mean is that the only ground we can count on is actually an experience that comes mostly from within. Rather than trying to find a fixed external point to attach myself to, I try to build the skills I need to live in a world that is always in joyful, terrifying, ceaseless motion.
Kierra seemed to be wanting to demonstrate that release is part of the secret to finding the ground. I understand and appreciate this perspective, but I continue to grapple with a new level of what “ground” is. Somehow I have to find a way to trust, surrender to, and adore the ground—at once without clinging in any way to the notion of it. Yet another thread that is a work in progress!
To conclude our debrief of the Chaos exercise, another participant raised his hand to share that, ironically, letting himself go into confusion seemed to allow him to find direction and focus.
Then, there was Lyrical—the rhythm that for years was so foreign to me I would pretty much skip it when I practiced independently. During classes, when Lyrical arrived, I would often be stricken with terror, and have to fight an impulse to check my phone to make sure there hadn’t been some horrible calamity. Kierra invited us to start by making “spaced out” shapes. I started with the familiar shapes of feeling verbally attacked, withdrawn completely—disassociated to the point that I literally could not follow a conversation, prompting a criticism I heard hundreds of times, “Oh, great! The ‘deer in headlights’ look again. That is just like you. You…” Our next investigation was of being distracted. I marched anxiously around the room fixated on an imaginary cel phone. During the final song, Kierra invited us to let ourselves space out to see what might happen. I loved this part! I fixed my gaze on some high up, far off point, sometimes in a different direction than the one my body was moving, and soared through the room, high up on my toes.
The rhythm of Lyrical—after many lifetimes of estrangement—opened up for me the summer before last. After sinking several levels into connection with the ground as a result of many years of disciplined practice, space beckoned me. On a wide beach, a man was flying a huge, red kite-surfing kite, the kind with two heavy-duty handles. It became my partner, and we joined in a massive, radial dance of perhaps a hundred yards or more, surrounded and joined by my son and a group of running children. From then, Lyrical became available to me, accompanied by rainbows, and I welcomed it as a miracle. It was only the combination of ground and open space that allowed me access to this gateway.
I recall another experience of space that offered me an earlier glimpse of Lyrical. It was also during a meditation retreat. We had been following instructions about how to work with our minds and bodies for many weekends. During the first weekend, we held our eyes open, with our gaze just a few feet ahead of us. In the second, we raised the gaze slightly. By the fourth, we would occasionally lift our gaze upward, even into the space above us. We went to practice in Madison Square Park on a beautiful fall day. I sat cross-legged on a park bench; and began to practice. At the moment that I lifted my gaze, I drew breath in quickly, in a sudden rush of delight. In a flash, I saw many beings that hovered in the air, above the fountain, above the park, above the trees. The dynamic aliveness of this moment wrote itself into my body.
In the current political context, and also in the context of my work, it occurs to me that the maturity of Lyrical—the full, shimmering, vibrating, sharp, vivid, spectacular, booming beauty of Lyrical has to do with stepping in to joy with full, open-eyed awareness and acceptance of all our pain and of the collective pain of the world. It is only with the integration of the shadow principles, and, too, of our own psychological shadows, that joy can fully arrive—not just the happy-because-something-went-well-joy or the I’m-going-to-look-happy-since-I’m-not-sure-how I’m-feeling-joy, it is not the innocent joy of a child either. Rather, it is the joy that has wisdom in it, joy that pushes nothing away, joy that sees from vast heights, joy that has enough space to hold all things inside it.
As the workshop drew to a close, Kierra invited us to create a circle, saying, “Now we are going to go in, one at a time. You can do whatever you want once you are there, but the rest of us are all going to hoot and holler and really make you feel appreciated.” I was so happy, clapping and cheering as nearly every participant stepped in. I waited for inspiration, thinking I might walk discretely into the middle then turn slowly, looking each person in the eye, then dance whatever came. As it was, I stepped in just as another dancer, too, stepped into the circle. I backed away, but she beckoned me. Instead of our individual time in the circle, we shared the spotlight, leaping and cascading and smiling as we met each other’s eyes and swooped in and out of each other. I briefly circled her shoulder with my arm, turning her to look at the circle, but we only turned through one small arc. She returned to her original spot in the circle; and I cross-stepped back to my own spot.
Kierra drew us together again and invited us to hold hands, close our eyes, and stand in both our light and in our shadow. Then, gathering us together for a final chat, she tied some of the threads together, expressing that it is only when we fully support and accept all parts of who we are can we live authentically, from the heart. Kierra also said something to the effect that the thing that causes us to suffer the most is the idea that we are separate from each other, and that actually we are deeply connected, in ways “both miraculous and mundane.”
Today, as I write, is marathon Sunday. I got to watch the middle of the pack for a little while, and cheered enthusiastically. There is nothing more gorgeous than people being beautiful—living their dreams, perhaps pushing themselves far beyond what they thought they were capable of. My cheers were jagged with little sobs of joy. What a blessing, to be alive. How incredibly lucky we are. To live and to witness others in living.
I had to leave the discussion a few minutes before the end, as I didn’t want to be too late for the babysitter. The friend I shared the spontaneous, staccato dance with stood up and followed me to the studio door while the discussion continued, embracing me warmly before I stepped down off of the dance floor and the sacred space of formal practice, and back into the world.
November 7, 2016, Brooklyn, NYC
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
“A human being is a part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feeling as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.” –Albert Einstein
by meghanleborious | Nov 2, 2016 | Notes on Practice
I gave a little shudder as I stepped up onto the sprung dance floor at Martha Graham studio this weekend and gently eased my body down onto it, tears coming even in these first few moments.
I fell in love at “Heart’s Content,” the 5Rhythms Heartbeat workshop lead by Tammy Burstein at Martha Graham, this weekend. I’m not sure who I fell in love with exactly, but the answer that feels right is “with everyone.” Gabrielle Roth—the creator of the 5Rhythms practice—designed the Heartbeat Map as a way to describe and work specifically with the energy of the emotions. In the Heartbeat Map, each of the five rhythms are correlated to five of the strongest human emotions: fear, anger, sadness, joy and compassion. The weekend was an intensive investigation of how each of us relates to these different emotional states.
The first night began with a wave and also with a series of paired speaking exercises. The wave was, for me, characterized by happiness and freedom of movement. I stepped into several beautiful dances, but one in particular stands out—a bouncing, kinetic, shaking Chaos that I shared with a smiling friend. Because of its forgiving floor, Martha Graham is one of the few studios where I occasionally let myself leap straight up, an exclamation point on a whirling gesture. When we entered the speaking exercises and it was my turn to speak, the main theme was again joy, and also the stamina to sustain joy.
I shared that for the first several years of practice, I could scarcely relate to Lyrical—the rhythm associated with joy. When I practiced independently, I would move through Flowing, Staccato and Chaos, then very glancingly nod to Lyrical and to Stillness. I experienced Lyrical only in tiny glimpses—at times transported—but never really acknowledging my relationship to it. That all changed about a year ago, when the energy of Lyrical came into my experience with a sudden rush, and I began to develop confidence that I, too, like many I had admired, could walk in joy.
I got up to dance with my last speaking partner of the night, who, like me, had spoken from the depths of his heart. We soared, even moving together in a few big gestures throughout the room. My face hurt from smiling.
Stillness in the last wave of Friday night’s session found me very conscious of the pulses in my hands as I moved them slowly around myself, imagining I was healing places of energetic malady in my own physical field.
For the next session, Saturday morning, I was late. Over a half hour late. This was despite Tammy’s repeated requests during Friday’s opening session that everyone arrive early enough to start dancing right at noon. I was in pain as I waited for my parents, who had been delayed by traffic, to arrive so they could care for my six-year-old son, Simon. “What? What time does the GPS say?” I asked repeatedly, distracted from connecting with Simon on these few weekend moments we would share. In the meantime, Simon worked in his art studio, creating decorations for the front door. Remarkably, he created three drawings on small post-its, one for happy, one for sad, and one for mad. Then, he used a red marker to divide a large page into many separate boxes and drew many of the more subtle emotions that he could find images and language for. I had not shared with Simon that my weekend dance workshop would be about emotions, but somehow he managed to pull it from the air around me.
The wait continued. When my parents reported that they were close, I called a car service, as I doubted I would be able to park in the West Village on a Saturday. The car service arrived and waited for several minutes, then left with a skid since I still wasn’t ready to go. My parents finally arrived and I greeted them with strained affection, setting off down the block to try to hail a cab. Having no luck, I called another car (from a different car service) and returned to my stoop to wait. The dispatcher told me five minutes, but I waited, 10, 11, 12, 15…finally I was able to hail an unoccupied taxi.
I called to cancel the car service request and settled in for the taxi ride, trying to convince myself to shake it off. I was angry, but fighting it. I sent a text, “My parents were late and I am super late to the workshop. So upset and ashamed.” The response, “Ashamed? Go to your workshop and hold your head high. Get all that you can from it. Life happens. All is a learning tool.” Instead of trying to shake off being upset, I let it all in. I realized I was feeling sorry for myself, and, too, defensive. Then, I recalled Simon’s exquisite front door drawing installation of major and minor emotional states; and I realized that the teaching had actually been happening all along.
As I entered the studio, I made a gesture of apology to Tammy (who smiled warmly and continued to attend to the music), then, instead of stepping up onto the dance floor, this time I crawled up onto it, touching my forehead to the floor, prostrate. I sobbed quietly for a few moments, still feeling sorry for myself. The room was in Staccato as I entered; and, after a few flat footed gestures in Flowing, I, too, moved straight into Staccato. Here, I found a ferocious anger and a dance that was filled with edges and sharp angles. My repeated punctuation here was a gesture of sinking down into the hips—knees squared—and with a forced, hissing, open-mouthed exhalation, and clenched, raised fists. Chaos released me. Once again, I found uncontainable joy; and I partnered with everyone who was available to me as I soared around the room.
In a partnered exercise, we were asked to share what we were taught about the emotions. I blathered on about my parents, casting around for something with emotional charge. Sometimes these exercises can be cathartic, and a crucial insight will jump out of my mouth unexpectedly. Not so on this occasion. Later, reflecting, I was shocked at my omissions. How could I not mention the two relationships that for years dominated my emotional landscape and cost me, collectively, over 20 years of therapy? In those two important relationships, I learned distance from my own heart. I also learned how to walk on egg shells, in constant fear of the next attack.
The next wave unfurled. At its end I found myself in gentle contact with a dancer I have known for many years. Softly, we turned one another and turned around one another. Once again instructed to partner in speaking, we settled onto the floor facing each other. I gazed into his kind eyes—dark with a light blue ring around the edge of the iris—and he gazed into mine. Asked to speak to the question, “What do you fear?” his words moved me deeply. I, too, spoke of my fears, though I held back slightly for some reason.
Tammy gathered us and spoke about Staccato. Sometimes Staccato has the stigma of being officious, administrative, pushy. But on this day, Tammy talked about her love of New York City, of its creative life, of its heartfulness, of its staccato pulse. She has said on many occasions that she identifies most strongly with Staccato, and this time she said as she moved, rocking into her front foot and drawing back, “Even after all these years, I sort of have to rev myself up and back into Flowing.” This seemed like a perfect description to me. She talked about anger, too. She said, “To cut out anger is to cut out the heart,” and proposed that even anger has something to teach us.
I ate lunch in Hudson River Park alone. Leaving the studio building, one perfectly nice woman from the workshop fell into step beside me and began to make small talk. I felt non-verbal, attuned to the sacred, and a bit like I was tripping on acid. After we crossed the street to the park I said, “Have a nice lunch!” and walked to the left, then found a shady bench seat for myself. I ate the food I had packed and watched the heaving of the river’s waves, the shimmering edges as they rose up.
After lunch, we danced a short wave, then set upon an investigation of “No!” We were invited to partner, then each danced our personal version of, “No!” After each person’s dance, the other was told to share if they “believed” the dancer’s version of “No!” After my dance, my partner told me that she was convinced, and that it was a “very dynamic version of No.” For the second round, Tammy invited us to remove all of the tension, but do the same dance. This time, my partner said, “I was convinced this time, too. But this time it was like you were telling me your boundaries and inviting me not to hurt you.” For some reason, this touched a nerve and a ragged sob escaped me. This is something I have really been working on: how to create and maintain boundaries without aggression. Since my family is very symbiotic, this is a not a skill that comes naturally. After years of trying to rise to the occasion, I have finally set a healthy boundary with someone who has lacerated me again and again and again. I think I might have made a tiny bit of progress. After we each had two turns speaking and moving, my partner and I moved into a sinewy dance, with strong eye contact, approaches and retreats and a continued investigation of “No!” though as we moved it began to dissolve itself, moving into Chaos.
As we approached Chaos, I joined with another friend, echoing her swaying diagonals. I realized that I like to get very close if I can curl inside my partner, sometimes in a slow, furled spin, even in the throes of Chaos.
Tammy gathered us into a big circle and we took turns stepping into the middle, letting loose in Chaos, each seemingly responding to the question of anger in our own way. I was tired, but I had promised to dedicate a dance to someone close to me, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity, especially given that he is, at times, plagued with anger. I watched and supported my fellow dancers, then entered the inner circle, moving sincerely, but without inspiration. Moving back to the outside of the circle, I noticed that several people had not yet entered the center. I held back briefly, wanting to make space for them, then decided that I could simply let everyone be responsible for their own needs. On the third go, I found a gigantic dance that was almost demonic, with a fast flipping head and a massive range throughout the circle’s interior.
We explored a number of tribal exercises, when one person assumes a simple gesture and a group follows. I tend to lose interest during Tribal, but I tried to be a good sport and to open myself to the experiment. When we first transitioned, I was in a natural position relative to the dance floor and to the group to take the first lead, and I stepped up with only mild reluctance, finding a simple gesture that everyone easily followed. In the past, it was agonizingly difficult for me to pick one simple movement and I often blundered around at length, in complex syncopated maneuvers that no one could follow.
In another speaking exercise, we sat in a group and each person took a turn expressing what about anger they would like to transform. Someone took a breath to speak first, and I realized right away that I was the last one in the lineup. Tammy let us know when to change, but the second person went way over his time. The next person went over her time, too, and I got anxious, concerned that I might not have a turn to speak. When the second to last person was finished speaking, Tammy said, “Raise your hand if you need more time.” I raised my hand and said I had just started. I lost my train of thought and the group kindly helped me to re-gather it. I again returned to the theme of creating boundaries without aggression, realizing that “if I am confident about the boundary I am making, then I don’t have to be defensive or to police it. I can trust that it simply is, that no one can breach it without my collusion.” I realized that the grief I had about separation when I created a boundary with someone close to me had dissolved; and that I was not mad any more. I no longer needed to be furious to justify my position.
On Sunday, I arrived with time to spare. Although in the early afternoon we were immersed in the investigation of sorrow, for me the entire day was characterized by joy. At Tammy’s invitation to all of us, I sat back-to-back with a woman I had never met, and we moved together in Flowing. Then, we turned to face one another and each spoke to the question, “What moves you?” I was touched by her attention and by her words. We turned to listen to Tammy, then; and I assumed we would break for lunch. I was very hungry, and starting to get tired. I was shocked when I looked at the clock and realized we had only been dancing for two hours. Instead of sending us to lunch, Tammy set us off into another wave. This one started tiny, with the gentlest, released flowing head movements. Tammy skillfully guided us into the emotional energy of sadness, and many sobbed loudly. A few sobs moved through me, too, but as I rose slowly to my feet, I returned once again to the emotion of joy. I soared from partner to partner, as Tammy instructed us to “change” and “change again.”
I stepped up to a man I have been seeing around for some time, but had never spoken with. He was tall and athletic; and I nearly dismissed him because of it. I thought, “Ok, this guy must play a sport. I think it is something with his shoulders and diagonal movement. I am game. Let me get into this. I will swing my shoulders, too. This seems like his thing.” I sort of felt like I was humoring him. To my surprise and delight, the dance caught fire quickly and took off in several directions at once. I realized that I had totally underestimated his capacity. (This has nothing to do with any shortcoming of his, but rather with a prejudice of mine that I notice springs up around certain men.) Staring into one another’s eyes, we were suddenly very close, very connected, and very, very light. We bounded around an entire section of dance floor in loping circles, like we were figure skaters, sometimes in perfect unison, sometimes in opposite gestures. Lately, I have been finding a kick and direction change in the air, with gestures pulling strongly through my heel; and this movement repeated, in different combinations and cadences. We began to include touch in the dance, and moved around and behind each other, softly touching our forearms together and moving into looping arcs. There was a lot of creativity in the way our feet touched ground, in the leaning into each other, in the angles, in the pace changes, in the different levels we toggled through. I stood up to him gently. He led often, but I had input, too.
At one point the music shifted and I started to move away. He lingered and I realized I wanted to continue the dance, moving back toward him again. Moving from Lyrical into Stillness, our dance stayed just as beautiful, but it came back to ground, losing its bounce. We came into more contact.
Instructed to partner in speaking, we were invited to express our feelings about sorrow. I looked into this partner’s eyes, rapt with attention as he spoke. When it was my turn to speak, I barely touched on sorrow, but instead (again) spoke of joy. “I have always been very, very comfortable with sorrow, with grief. I have no problem with opening up to the sadness of the world. I have even—at times—danced the grief of spirits. For me, joy has been much more challenging. For ages, every time the music shifted into Lyrical, I would freak out. I would suddenly have an overwhelming compulsion to check my phone to make sure something terrible hadn’t happened to my small son.” I went on to say, “I also felt uncomfortable with joy, like being joyful was an affront to all the people suffering in the world.” And yet, here it was, this absolutely flowing river of joy. Drenching me completely.
I had a delightful lunch with this partner, watching the rise and fall of the shimmering river once again, and chatting mostly about our relationships to 5Rhythms practice.
Lunch passed quickly; and the final session was also very beautiful. I shared an unbridled, quivering dance with a friend. At one point, I played an invisible violin concerto, making fun of myself for my own melodramas. Later, I found a spot on the floor where I could move gently back and forth from strong sun to shadow; and I rocked between the two with my eyes closed. I also shared a playful dance with a friend who I had to step purposefully into and who pretended he was giving me the stiff arm, then walking away. I pushed against his hand in full suspension as he resisted; and we ended with laughing smiles.
At the end of the day, Tammy gathered us into a big circle, grounding the group’s energy. She offered closing remarks, then sent us back into the world, on our own to integrate the weekend in the coming days and weeks.
September 27, 2016, Brooklyn, NYC
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
by meghanleborious | Sep 22, 2016 | Notes on Practice
“Ouch!” one teenager cried out as another slammed her into the hallway wall, smiling not kindly, her arm shooting straight out from her shoulder as she passed, not even looking as she struck. The teen who got slammed walked not ten paces, then slammed another girl into the wall as she passed, using the same gesture she had been slammed with. Aggression seemed to be ricocheting around in rip currents.
On September 11, Daniela Peltekova taught the Sunday Sweat Your Prayers 5Rhythms class at the Joffrey Ballet in the West Village. Loving the extra space of Sunday’s class, I stretched out on the ground, rising and falling in the shape of a moving starfish. Daniela lead us through a very fast wave at the beginning of the class, wasting no time. Traveling around the room, I noted a little tourist tchotchke of the World Trade Center—part of the visuals for the class that a member of the crew had created—and remembered with remarkably little emotional charge that it was September 11th.
The music faded and Daniela began to speak, stepping into the middle of the room with all of us surrounding her, still standing. She expressed that the events of September 11 are unavoidably heavy—something that lives in our collective memory as New Yorkers whether we were actually there or not. Although I don’t recall her exact words, she also expressed that there was some aspect of beauty in it, too, something about pain and struggle that gives us grit—the inspiration to push deeper.
My own experience of September 11th feels remote by now, but it definitely marked my life indelibly. At the time, I was working in downtown Manhattan. I rollerbladed to work, as was my habit, and paused on the way to look at what I thought was a fire at the Bell Atlantic building. I even took out my sketchbook and did a few drawings, standing in the middle of the bike path that parallels the East River. Concerned I might arrive late to work, I continued on my way. It slowly began to dawn on me that things were not right. People seemed to be walking slowly in many different directions, some with white stuff (which I later realized was ash) on their hair and shoulders. Skating up Chambers Street behind City Hall, a man was yelling at the top of his lungs, “Get out! They’re lying to you! It’s terrorists! Get out! Save yourselves!” I moved more and more slowly, not processing the information fully. A few minutes after I heard the man yelling, I finally realized that I wouldn’t be going to work. I began to retreat and make my way north. Streams of people now seemed to have direction—they were also moving north, away from the World Trade Center. No one ran, no one screamed. Almost no one made eye contact. The scene devolved into silent slow motion.
I skated north, more or less. I had just given up my cel phone, believing it a passing fad that was having a negative impact on my consciousness, so I tried to use a payphone to call a girlfriend, my sister and my parents. The payphone just buzzed angrily—tied up with system overload. Skating in the East Village and on the Lower East Side while searching vaguely for a working payphone, radios were on everywhere. Many people stood beside their cars with the radio on, staring into space. Everywhere I went, people gathered in silence or walked north in droves.
Eventually, I made my way home to Brooklyn across the Williamsburg Bridge, skating slowly. Stranded and shell-shocked commuters made their way across the bridge on foot. A group of people stood silently on a section of the bridge just before the descent into Brooklyn where they could watch the two burning skyscrapers. Many hooked their fingers on the caged safety wire as they overlooked. I don’t remember anyone speaking. I went to my favorite café. There was a TV on the counter. No one was speaking. I went to the health food store on Bedford Avenue. There was a TV on the counter. No one was speaking.
I went home and climbed up to the roof. I had a full view of the burning towers from there, and stood watching as the first tower turned to toxic dust and crumpled, buckling sideways, then down. Nuns from a church on the next block stood on their own roof, also watching the building fall, their royal blue, full nun’s habits flapping in the wind, emphasizing their frozen gestures.
My mother’s hair turned white that day.
In the first wave, I had stepped cheerfully into partnership with a tall, white man. We began to dance together again just as Daniela began to speak. In concluding her remarks, Daniela invited us to turn to whoever was closest and join them. I smiled unshyly and stepped my foot next to his, by way of introduction. He stepped his foot in relation to mine. I stepped again, turning my foot and noticing how much darker my skin was than his—tanned from a summer spent outside. In this case, we moved in Stillness first, gently around each other, back to back, side to side, rising and falling in response to silent currents in and around us. Then, we moved together into Flowing and into Staccato, receding and advancing, smiling and looking into each other’s eyes.
A friend cut in then. Bereft, she clung to me, sobbing. I held her tightly and rocked with her side to side, wondering if she was feeling the post-trauma of September 11th.
The music got heavy, resistant, hard with only short bits of rest. One song lead me back and forth between dragging, clawing, harsh gestures to brief, uncompressed, spacious movement. I was deep in the hips, gyrating and jiggling. I thought of the song, “My Name is NO!” that I had spent the week dancing to along with my six-year-old son, who has developed an entire choreographed staccato routine to the tune, including a dramatic spin with a hard end-stop.
Chaos was a collective exorcism; and on this day there was no way around it but through. It went on and on and on, sometimes spiking in intensity, but holding back from Lyrical. An idea for a project I have been wanting to make burst through; and I got excited about new possibilities.
I very much wanted to dance with a friend I had met several times in an interesting pocket a few months before—a tiny, contained dance of precision and restraint. He did not seem available, and I stepped into another partnership, realizing that the same unique, quirky dance I was sharing with him came into my partnership with the woman I was then dancing with, as he continued to dance nearby. I thought about how much energy slips around, how mercurial it is, how much we are subject to the currents that race through us.
On September 11th after I watched the first tower fall, I skated to Woodhull Hospital to volunteer. There, I found empty, parked ambulances and paramedics leaning on them with crossed arms. No volunteers were needed, as there were so few survivors. I lingered for awhile, then skated to Prospect Park and looped it again and again on the bike path, watching the smoke rise across the river and hearing the rush of military fighter jets racing overhead.
When Daniela finally lead us to Lyrical, we tipped right over the edge of Chaos and found flight. It contained the beauty that can only arise from maturity, from the clarification of intense pain and perhaps from opening—instead of closing down—to grief, sadness, fear and insecurity.
September 18, 2016, Brooklyn, NYC
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
by meghanleborious | Jul 31, 2016 | Notes on Practice, Uncategorized
Otherworldly fog took over the landscape on Monday. After dropping my six-year-old son, Simon, off at camp in Dunhill, I went to the unmarked beach again. Suffering from heavy anxiety, I paused to look out over the vast beach from the top of the steep cement stairs, and the line of vision was severely blocked by the heavy white cloud.
Exploring and seeking an inspiring place to dance, I walked west, passing several beaches that were framed by giant, fallen boulders. I came to a cave (or perhaps the shaft opening of an old copper mine) and investigated briefly, then suddenly realized that I had no phone reception whatsoever. I was nervous about being out of contact while Simon was at camp. Lately, I have been unusually nervous about keeping us safe, given a series of mishaps. Simon has also been nervous, asking me to sketch out endless scenarios of what would happen if one of us got hurt or died during the trip; and he has been unwilling to be apart from me in any room of our friend’s 300-year-old cottage, as he believes it haunted. I have tried to calm his fears, but at times I have also felt afraid. I held the phone in my hand and walked back toward the cement stairs, staring at the screen and pausing whenever it said, “searching.” I settled on a still-remote-from-the-stairs spot with very black sand where the signal flickered in and out. I put the phone on a rock where I could check on it, created a large circle in the sand that I could dance inside of, then settled into a patient Flowing. As Staccato arose out of Flowing, I went to check the phone and realized that it was again saying “no service.” I tried to talk myself into letting go of the nervousness about being out of contact.
In the end, I was able to re-connect with Flowing despite pausing to check my phone. I danced a brief wave, moving through each rhythm: Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness. Resuming after the pause to check the phone, I realized that despite the fog and mist, the day was warm. I took off my clothes. The feeling of the cold mist on my skin helped return me to my senses and release the anxiety I was feeling. It was exhilarating after being so wrapped up in garments for so many chilly days. Before long I returned to a bathing suit, completing the wave fairly quickly. Stillness emerged vividly and the felt senses of the cliffs, the sea, the mysterious and heavy air, and the rocks and boulders found their way into my movements.
Then, I moved to the opposite end of the beach, where it was much less remote, but where I did have reception. For this second wave, as with the first, I started by creating a circle in the sand to dance inside of, though I did not stay inside it except for in the beginning of Flowing. This wave was definitely practice. Bits of beauty flecked it, but I was not particularly inspired. I was left thinking about how anxiety blocks receptors to everything—to danger, to joy, to fluid experience, and to the constant stream of information we receive from the world around us.
In the brief time I had before picking Simon up from camp, I made an unsuccessful attempt to find an ancient site that my friend had urged me to visit, but the next day (Tuesday) I was determined. I re-traced my driving steps, remembering not to turn down the tiny, stone-walled lane where I had aroused suspicion the day before. I had a map my friend’s archaeologist neighbor had given me, which included all of the small rural roads. Even armed with it, it was very difficult for me to navigate. I was told the site was just next to a cow field, and that it was locked gate but that there was a stile—a gap in the gate—that allows people to enter. That description seemed to match pretty much every gate I passed. I asked a woman who was walking on the road if she knew of the site, and she scrunched up her face, looking upward to think and pointing downhill. “I’m not sure, Pet. I think it might be down there, but they’re building a house there now. I suppose you could go there and ask if you could enter.” I felt discouraged, but decided to go just a tiny bit farther down the road. Shortly, I actually did find what I was looking for—indicated by a discreet arrow sign that said, “Gaulstown Dolmen.” I walked through the stile, down the driveway, through another entrance, then down a wooded path.
The monument is remarkable. It consists of six very large, flat stones that were placed in a Stonehenge-like configuration around 5,000 years ago. No one knows exactly how, as they appear to be extremely heavy. According to the archaeologist, it is likely a burial site, based on nearby similar sites that have been excavated. There was a small clearing around the dolmen, but it was very much enclosed with grown over trees and grasses. I sat for a few minutes, then got up to walk in a circle around it. Prickers caught my long skirt; and I moved into a flat spot to dance in Flowing. Absorbed, I imagined a low, chanting hum as I listened and sensed the place. I saw a moving black shape out of the corner of my eye that could have been the farmers’ dog, but that got me to thinking of ancient spirits. Staccato was brief but expressive. In Chaos, I stepped right inside the dolmen, wondering if it had also been intended as a portal. I was slightly afraid of the possibility of possession and at once totally fascinated. In Lyrical a flash of creative energy entered into me. In Stillness I moved with reverence—an homage to the ancients. I was left feeling like I should do what I can to develop my capacity as a mystic, and that all I need is available in every moment, if I know how to pay attention properly.
Later, I went again to the secret beach. Reception was better without the fog, and I choose a spot that was not as remote. Still, the phone came in and out. The day before I’d told myself, “Maybe I can be ok with being out of reach for a little while.” When it came to it, I was still nervous, and couldn’t bring myself to practice until I found a spot where the phone would have at least one bar. I stayed in Flowing for a long time, returning to the image of the dolmen again and again.
As with previous dances, threads of Stillness continued to present, for example during Flowing when I witnessed a bird soaring absolutely in place, not moving at all, buoyed by strong wind. I realized that at times I have confused Inertia—which can present as a lack of energy and is considered to be the “shadow” of the rhythm of Flowing—with Stillness. Stillness, as it continued to present during my many dances with the land and sea in Ireland, was very much invigorated and alive.
The rest of the wave unfolded. Staccato started only after a long time in Flowing; and I returned many times to Flowing even after I had fully entered Staccato. Staccato was not very energetic until Chaos began to appear, then the last burst of Staccato was very vigorous. I covered vast ground, moving far beyond the little circle I had drawn in the sand at the beginning of Flowing, all the while taking in the landscape even as it flashed across my field of vision in Chaos. In Lyrical I again played with my version of Irish step dancing. In Stillness I experimented with concentrating my energy field close to my body, then extending it far beyond my own edge. I ended the wave with my feet firmly planted and wide apart, holding my hands together in front of my chest, standing still and facing the sea, sensing myself as a colossus—taller even than the high, green cliffs.
The next day was the final day that I was able to dance in Ireland during this trip. As soon as I dropped Simon off at camp, I went to the secret beach, where it was again overcast and deserted. I spent some time creating an artwork, then drew a circle in the sand around myself and began to move in Flowing.
From the beginning, this wave was alive. In Flowing, I moved with ease and freedom far beyond the outlines of my little circle. The weather started to improve and a few people made their way down the cement stairs. Shy about occupying so much territory, I moved back behind some boulders, though I was still partially in view. Flowing shifted into Staccato and I covered even more distance, discarding my concerns.
I tracked the subtle shifts of energy, moving intuitively. The wave followed this pattern, if I recall correctly: Flowing, Staccato, Flowing, Staccato/Chaos, Staccato, Flowing, Flowing Chaos, Chaos, Flowing, Lyrical, Chaos, Lyrical, Chaos, Flowing, Flowing Lyrical, Stillness. I let everything in, deeply sensing the enormity and vast power of this incredible place. I went into Lyrical two or three times inside of Chaos, rising up onto my toes. In Stillness, I returned again to the original circle I had drawn in the sand. I invoked deities, helpers and guides, including Gabrielle Roth—the creator of the 5Rhythms practice—asking for help on my path, a clean heart, and the courage and insight to live my life in service to love.
I picked Simon up from the little, rural camp a little early since it was his last day. The camp included only children from the small, local villages; and most had multiple siblings. I told Simon I was incredibly proud of him for having the courage to step in and find his place there. As we moved toward the car, many of the children hung over the fence, waving, and calling out, “Bye, Simon!” The next day, we set out for home.
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
by meghanleborious | Jul 17, 2016 | Notes on Practice, Uncategorized
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Yesterday we woke to blue skies for the first time since we have been in Ireland. After dropping my son, Simon, off at camp, I set out to explore the local beach again, hoping to find a place to dance. Given the fair weather, there were several people enjoying the beach and I didn’t feel comfortable dancing there. Because it is exceedingly dangerous, I’ve sworn off the unprotected cliff path that departs from the east end of the beach, despite its compelling beauty. I spotted a different cliff path at the west end of the beach and decided to at least try it. This time, most of the path was set back from the cliff’s edge (with the exception of one short section) and I felt more at ease. The vast horizon was striated with deep emerald and turquoise water. Views from the cliff walk included huge rock formations topped with greenery, toppled boulders, squared green fields, rock walls and the endless crashing waves far below.
Absolutely by chance, on the secluded cliff path I ran into a childhood schoolmate of the friend who is hosting us and we chatted briefly. “I think it is a little bit dangerous up here. There has been a lot of erosion lately,” she shared. I nodded and told her that I decided I wouldn’t go on the other cliff path anymore; and that I am trying to play it safe, given a number of holiday calamities.
Reaching the end of the cliff path, I saw a beautiful, unpeopled beach far below. There were only sheer cliffs in front of me and there didn’t seem to be a way down, so I decided to try to reach it by way of the road. Returning, I avoided the one very dangerous section of path by detouring through a heavily prickled patch. I turned off the path and walked through a field, hoping I could avoid returning all the way to the beach I’d started at, but a wire fence that I feared might be electrified blocked my way. I returned to the beach where I’d started, then turned onto the road and tried to find the secret beach. I regretted my choice to walk, as a long section of the road was treacherous for pedestrians, but I jogged along in my flipflops, hoping to get out of the way before any cars came barreling along. I got off the road as soon as I could, then walked parallel to it through someone’s field. Again, I reached a dead end, totally blocked by impassable shrubs and brambles. Determined still, I returned to the cottage and got into the car. Driving west, I spotted a nearly concealed, unmarked road in the middle of a hairpin turn and turned onto it.
The graveled parking lot was at a 45-degree angle and I made sure to engage the parking brake to the last possible “click” before getting out and gathering my things. This was, surely, the secret beach that I had seen from the cliff path. Despite the first-in-many-days blue sky, there wasn’t a single person besides me.
There were two graphic signs on the stairs leading to the beach below indicating falling rocks and strong currents. The stairs were made of concrete with big, coarse rocks cast inside, and were very, very steep. The first flight was relatively intact with the exception of a few crumbles, but on the second flight the stairs were severely eroded, smoothed almost to a flat ramp in some places by powerful high tides.
The beach itself was remarkable. Soaring and crumbling cliffs formed its north face, with fields and endless plants and grasses visible above them. Green-topped rock islands jutted into the sea at both its ends. Rocks and boulders were cast throughout the water, causing the powerful waves to act erratically. Thankfully, it was near low tide, since based on the most recent high tide line, the beach would be treacherous at high tide, if at all accessible. On a stormy day at high tide, the waves could reach the top of the long stairs, pummeling the cliffs and beach and making access impossible.
Looking up, I could see the crumbling cliffs with the turf edging hanging down like thick carpeting. I resolved once again, firmly, to stay off of high cliff paths that are right on the edges of cliffs.
I wasn’t totally sure what stage the tide was at, and I eyed the sea warily. This is dragon land, without question. I ventured a short way down the beach, but chose a spot to dance that was a short sprint away from the steep, cement stairs in case high tide came in fast. I made a circle of stones for myself and also noted a cluster of round stones a short distance in front of me. If the sea reached those stones, I decided, I would call it day and head for the stairs, no matter what phase of the 5Rhythms wave I was in at that point.
I broke the crusty surface of the warm sand with my bare feet. As with the previous day, moving brought tears almost immediately. I don’t know how long I was in Flowing, but I do remember that it was characterized by totally unselfconscious, fluid movement. In Staccato, I moved along the beach so I could dance on the unbroken sandy crust instead of in the sand that was already churned up by my circling feet in Flowing. I felt a tiny bit restrained. Respectful of the danger around me. Chaos, as in the previous days, was slightly restrained, also. I endeavored to release my head, but never moved with wild abandon. In Lyrical, I traced the gliding movements of birds with my hands while raised up onto my high toes, seeking sections of unbroken sand to help with lifting upward.
Stillness in the first wave took its time. I let in the energy of everything around me—cliffs, ocean, sky—and it was almost overwhelming. I had the thought that if you really let in the reality of the absolute, you let in the reality of your own death, too, and let in the reality that those you love will one day die. I staggered a little at the enormity of it, and at the wondrous enormity of the landscape around me. Perhaps that is why it can be so frightening. Sometimes. For me.
One of the biggest benefits of practicing independently is that I can really work with the mercurial shifts of energy as they arise. I realize that (in previous days) it made no sense to “hold” myself in Flowing. The fact is that even once I did move into Staccato, I moved back into Flowing many times. It wasn’t an all-or-nothing thing. Even when I got to Chaos, I still found myself going back to Flowing. I have often felt that I needed to keep myself in Flowing longer than felt intuitive so I could be responsible and find the ground beneath me before taking on any other investigation. Here, the stakes were different. I needed to attend to the many small subtle shifts of energy as I fluctuated between different rhythms. And in doing so, the energy of the land started to reveal itself to me.
It was not what I expected, to say the least. The land or anything else about Ireland. I have contemplated my relationship to this place at length. My Irish American grandmother and aunties were very Irish identified, but as I became an adult, I related uncomfortably to this heritage. I can see how identifying strongly helped them to feel empowered (perhaps in the face of discrimation), to connect with their families and community, and to find meaning and purpose. For me, though, several generations removed, taking it on has felt more like an identity decision, not a real connection to a living culture. Before this trip, I thought, “Perhaps I could connect with this lineage in a real way, and claim this one of many parts of who I am.” I felt strong emotion in the Waterford museum in Dungarven reading about the famine, the independence movement, the seafaring history. And in talking with one well-dressed, sweet, old Irish lady, who strongly remembled my now-gone beloveds. And again, at a country fair, seeing teenagers in a dance performance—jaunty, alive, lyrical. The peasant history, the mystical strains, the aching land. I know all of this in my body. And yet I have felt distant. And more afraid here. I hope I haven’t betrayed my ancestors. My heart wants to be open, though. Perhaps there will be a breakthrough.
The second wave emerged organically. Again, in Flowing I moved in linked, concentric circles, totally unselfconsciously. I found a melody that has appeared in independent practice again and again, feeling like an ancient song. Since I was totally by myself (except for one lone man in a blue jacket, a tiny dot far on the other side of the beach), I sang it with full force. It morphed into a chant—an homage to the sun that had tremendous density and power, and that persisted for most of the second wave. A thread of Stillness passed through as I danced with five black birds who soared together overhead—crossing, dipping, and gliding. The gestures of Chaos arose totally from the angles of my feet in the already agitated sand. In Lyrical, I again found lift, in my own joyful version of Irish step dancing. In Stillness, I let the waves pass through me; and at the end of the wave, I sat briefly in meditation, cross legged on a towel on the sand.
Today, I went again to this achingly beautiful, secret beach. First, I carefully checked the tide charts, since I did not want to be caught far from the stairs in a rising tide. This time, the sky was not blue, but white; and I walked west instead of east. The horizon was a vague shift in densities. Although according to the tide chart I should be ok for over an hour, I continued to fear the possibility of a quickly rising tide and watched the sea carefully. I explored at length, passing the first open beach to a set of giant rocks that would surely be islands at high tide, and on to another open beach (this one with black sand) and to another set of giant rocks. Everyone makes such a big deal about the greenness of Ireland, but here, the power of Ireland’s ancient rocks and stones presented. The stones became anthropomorphic as they began to reveal themselves, and I saw not only people, but animals and otherworldly creatures. I shot them with the phone camera like I was doing portraits; and they revealed themselves even more.
I crossed paths and chatted briefly with the man in the blue jacket that I had glimpsed far down the beach the day before. I noticed that he was attractive and we chatted about the weather. He asked if I planned to swim. In keeping with my recently established personal guidelines about safety, I asked, “Is it safe to swim here?” He said, pointing, “Well, you don’t go out too far, just in that part there.” I didn’t fully take it in, believing the sea much too cold, and said, “Well, have a great morning!” and moved on.
I finally had my fill of exploring, and selected a place close to the sea-damaged escape stairs. In fact, I found another cement staircase and the remains of a man-made walkway that had been totally pummeled and melted by the sea. I fell in love with it—this sturdy man-made creation that was easily felled by the raging power of the ocean. It was both humbling and heartening. Humbling because of the failed hubris of creating human structures on this wild beach. Heartening because nature so quickly reclaimed and restored itself in the face of human intervention—making our constructed foibles look like mere flashes in the pan.
In Flowing, I was happy and at ease. I felt no exertion, no inertia and no self. In Staccato, I felt no urgency or strain.
I saw the man I had spoken with swimming far down the beach, and began to feel like we were sharing a dance. After a long while in Flowing, I realized he had finished his swim and was standing by the escape stairs, drying off and watching me. This was an interesting development. I let Staccato emerge fully, rushing into space far beyond the original circle that I occupied in Flowing, some bold back cross-steps and deep squatting gestures working their way in, as I grew taller, smiling and engaging fully with the sometimes conflicting gestures of breaking waves. I kept glancing at the man, very aware that he was watching, but never made eye contact with him. I wanted to speak with him, to connect with him, but I lost my chance. As Staccato transitioned, I saw that he was walking up the stairs. I had suspected that he was naked but at this time it was confirmed. I waved good-bye to him, wishing he would come back and telling myself, “Oh well, he’s probably married anyway, like almost everyone in Ireland.”
This got me to thinking of physical love, and of the many memorable lovers I have met in my travels over the years. I thought about another beach meeting, near Puntarenas, Costa Rica. In that instance, I was on a long vision quest on the beach, lone, ecstatic, far from the village I was staying in, when a beautiful man literally rode up on a black horse, stopped short and said, “I want to dance with you!” Yes, I said, “Como no?” (Ironically, I never had sex with the horse riding man, who I quickly fell in love with, but instead entered into a primal tryst with an itinerant surfer from Argentina who sold jade jewelry to tourists and lived in a lean-to on the beach.)
For a spell, I was distracted from my senses. Chaos did not so much arrive as support my intention to complete the wave. Spinning, I quickly grew dizzy on the tilted plane of the beach, then found a familiar way of moving in Chaos that I realized is just a very articulated and weighted way of spinning. I moved in and out of Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness again and again, letting the flow of energy have its way.
This place, where two twisting strands of my ancestors hail from, is not what I expected. The pre-digested Ireland of cartoon leprechauns and Blarney Stone kisses is only a tiny piece of the story. In reality, it is much scarier. Much darker. Incredibly beautiful. And still, totally foreign.
July 16, 2016, Annestown, Co. Waterford, Ireland
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
