by meghanleborious | Dec 30, 2016 | Notes on Practice
Typically, after a 5Rhythms class I make a few journal notes right away that I can expand on at a later time, when I tease out themes, follow the threads of narrative, and connect what has arisen in dance to the world off the dance floor. This Friday, however, as soon as I got home, I set about wrapping and finishing a series of small artworks to give as gifts to family and friends. I did not make any notes at all until just yesterday. I hope my memory will serve me, but I ask for your forbearance if I lapse into generalizations—an unfortunate tendency many of us display around the holidays.
Tammy Burstein’s 5Rhtyhms Friday Night Waves class on December 23rd was less packed than usual, presumably because many were already traveling for the holidays or were involved in holiday preparations. I arrived on time and in reasonably good humor. A friend greeted me and asked how I was, “No complaints,” I said, then just a few moments later, said to the same friend, not noticing the irony, “My back is hurting a little tonight.”
I don’t remember very much about the first wave, except that I found movement easily, and that there was notably more space between bodies, owing to smaller-than-usual turnout to Tammy’s usually jam-packed class. One man, who I often find friendly and pleasant, seemed aggressive in his extroversion for the second week in a row. Last week he had stepped on my foot without even noticing while running in a fast circle around a group of dancers he was involved with. As I have written before, it is often helpful to have dancers who move through the entire room and don’t become quickly rooted to one place. Lately, I have been noticing (for myself) when I go too far with a seemingly skillful behavior to the point that it becomes unskillful, for example moving around so much and so fast that I lose mindfulness and start bumping into people. The man who seemed aggressively extroverted stepped happily into dances with nearly everyone in the room, but I wasn’t feeling receptive to him. He really seemed to insist, though, stepping emphatically up to me and trying to make eye contact as he moved. I wasn’t angry and I didn’t insist, but this time I didn’t consciously share a dance with him. It was interesting for me to reflect on my own behaviors, especially times when I have been ecstatic, moving through the room in bliss, feeling porous and unbounded. I hope I was able to respect the people who were having a different experience than mine, who might have needed space and privacy, though I felt so connected to them.
It is just 4.15pm and the sky lights with sunset. I am reminded of the last stretch of driving before arriving to my parents’ house for the holidays a few days ago. Orange-red light in horizontal bands lit the winter trees that lined the road. The places that were hidden from the light by trees on the horizon at the other edge of my vision remained dull grey, exacerbating the glow everywhere the red light touched. I said to my six-year-old son, Simon, “Can you believe how lucky we are? That we get to see this beauty? It is incredible. We are so lucky.” Simon expressed agreement, though I can’t fully know what the experience was like for him. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I didn’t say what I was also thinking, “This world might not be so beautiful for much longer. This might be a memory someday, maybe in the near future. I can’t imagine a more beautiful world. Even in the mundane nature of the roadside, with the blue of sky, the green of grass, the white of snow, there is exquisite beauty.” As I stepped into my parents’ home, I was still choked up as I walked in to find my sister and brother in the kitchen.
Sometimes I think of an original Star Trek episode, when one of the crew members is on a planet where dreams and fantasies are enacted. The world he projects is of a pastoral, green scene by a small river. His expressed nostalgia for the beauty of earth touched me; and I have occasionally looked at my surroundings with that frame, as though I were far from earth, or perhaps in a bleak industrial future, imaging how much I would long for the lush green that is all around me now, even in New York City.
When Simon was first born, I spent countless hours sitting on the deck of my parents’ house, watching shimmering trees and dense green vines while he slept or nursed. Once, a hummingbird came to drink from a flower on the deck just a few feet from me. The grass, though patchy in spots, quivered with sugar. Clouds gathered themselves into forms and drifted by, in constant motion, except during rare moments of seamless blue. Even then, the breeze moved the leaves, insects clambered, the baby shifted softly, and birds threaded in and out of each other’s paths of flight.
Tammy, apparently noting a flavor of inertia in the room, invited us to follow someone. Personally, I love following people. When someone rushes by, I might get swept into their current. Sometimes, I step into the wake someone creates and experience what it is like for them to move through a room full of bodies. The teacher Peter Fodera is particularly delightful to follow, as he moves through the room with both delicacy and force, seeming to majestically part the seas. As the following took shape, there was some open-ness and I slipped around, smiling. Soon, though, it turned into several chains of bodies. Tammy said something to the effect that though some enjoy the season, for a lot of people, the holidays aren’t all that great. For some, they might be painful, I reflected, thinking of someone close to me who all but shuts down every year at least between December 23-26. Inertia gripped even the chains of moving dancers. Instead of pressuring us to cajole ourselves into joy, merry singing and grandiose generosity, making the not-joy even more painful, Tammy encouraged us to investigate the what was actually coming up in that moment, as we followed the person directly in front of us, perhaps in their “holiday slog.”
Moving briefly with this dragging conga line, I soon peeled off from the group with one friend, and we entered an enlivened Flowing in one corner of the room. I don’t know if there is any metaphor in it, but when each person is trying their best to follow the other, sometimes each person winds up both leading and following, in a tight little tangle of forces. In this case, the dance became delightful. We approached and spun, dipping and rolling in and out of one another’s orbits. It felt like when you are little kids playing in the grass and you hold hands with your wrists crossed, then spin around and around and around with your head thrown back and your mouth wide open, laughing.
I wondered if my friend loves the holidays like I do. I am very much in the minority, but I have always loved the winter holidays and found true, imperfect joy with family and friends, despite the overwhelming pressure for fake, perfect joy that causes so many to suffer. I even enjoy the lead up—this year, in particular, I planned ahead and had a number of presents I was excited to offer.
Flowing opened up easily for me again. I knew I had to leave a little early if there was any hope to complete the series of small artworks and prepare gifts in time for a morning departure from the city. I stayed just a little longer, then a little longer, then a little longer, finally leaving as Staccato transitioned into Chaos in the second wave of the class.
I am surprised there is so much to say this time, given that I had no notes and many days elapsed between the class and the writing. Just as in stepping in to a 5Rhythms room I never know what will happen, so, too, in stepping in to the creative process of writing, I never know what will arise. There is a long list of sad items I could dwell on at the moment: my grandmother has just entered hospice care, many near me are suffering with depression and various issues, and, of course, the alarming state of the world. Despite all of this, joy has visited me in glimpses. I am happy to be able to receive it, happy that sometimes joy can arise even independent of external circumstances. To disdain my own joy would be as much a mistake as trying to force myself into it. It seems that lived experience is always much more interesting than the expectations I set up for myself. Living itself is much better than a happy cliché, even when it is messy, even when joy is a risk.
December 29, 2016, Broad Brook, CT
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 | Dec 23, 2016 | Notes on Practice
“Imagine the conversation we’d be having if we weren’t debating facts.” –Masha Gessen
“The impulse to normalize” was the subject of a radio interview I heard in the car on the way to class at the Joffrey in the West Village. In the interview, Masha Gessen, author of “Autocracy: Rules for Survival,” encouraged the press to continue to report lies and inaccuracies, but at once to analyze language and missives for hidden intentions, and to include reporting on the deeper stories at play. In my mind, racism, misogyny, xenophobia, economic opportunism, and hatred should never be seen as normal.
These thoughts preoccupied me as I stepped in to the Sunday Sweat Your Prayers class, taught today by Mark Bonder. I began to move in looping circles, occasionally changing level or direction with a drop or rise of weight, absorbed in gentle movement, my entire body released before Mark even stepped into the room. One song brought me to the floor to stretch and move in continuing circles and arcs, then I was up again, continuing an endless, weighted spin.
During Flowing, Mark put on the Herbie Hancock version of Bob Dylan’s 1964 protest song, “Times They Are A’ Changin” with the female vocalist Lisa Hannigan. Her gentle voice broke my heart as I considered that in 1964, though there were many challenges and obstacles, times seemed to be changing for the better, at least in terms of prospects for oppressed communities. Now, in post-election 2016, times are again changing, though from my perspective, not for the better. I encountered a friend and remembered the powerful tide of emotion she expressed during a discussion at a spring workshop because of the outbreak of overt misogyny directed toward Hillary Clinton. Hugging each other softly and rocking from side to side, we both cried, understanding each other’s grief without any need for words.
According to the 5Rhythms Heartbeat Map that was created by Gabrielle Roth, the originator of the practice, each of the rhythms corresponds to a fundamental emotion. For example, Flowing corresponds with fear, and Chaos corresponds with sadness. For me, however, these two are reversed. In Chaos, I find relief from fear, the release of trapped emotions, and the expression of previously repressed energies—which might include grief. The sadness and grief that are intrinsic to human experience, or that occur in current events—both personal and collective—for me, that all finds its expression in Flowing.
Flowing—of the five rhythms, the rhythm that is perhaps most foreign to my nature—has been a solace for me lately. Once I begin to move in circles and feel my feet on the ground, I often move around the room, awash in humanity, floating in a sea of gestures. There is a brushing, touching kind of seeing-and-being-seen. It is not the direct, individual eye contact of Staccato, but rather the humble seeing-and-being-seen that drifts gently, letting in without judging, framing or resisting. I move patiently, saying to each person (whether I meet their eye or not) “I see you there; and I am grateful for it.”
When Staccato arrived, I groaned inwardly. Lately, I have not wanted to move into Staccato. My mind wants to argue, “Isn’t it enough to be alive now? To be moving and finding some small joy? Must I find direction on top of it all? Do I really have to act?” My yoga teacher yesterday delivered a staid, yet impassioned call to arms about the state of the union. In principle, I totally agree with her. Yet the fact is that I have no direction at the moment. At some point, I have to stop reeling and pick a point to move toward. In Staccato, the music featured big, clear beats, then some small skirmishes. I focused my attention and tried to step directly on the big beats—no small accomplishment, given my affinity for syncopation. I had a useful insight as a result: in addition to being expressive, bold and sometimes uptight, Staccato can be methodical.
In a culture where we are encouraged to live from the heart in a hallmark sense—to be bold in flashy gestures—the heartfulness of methodical action—of discipline—is often overlooked. In the last couple of weeks, I have been seriously considering quitting my current work and finding a way to earn a living as a healer. I very much want to be immersed in practice and in work of spirit. However, I realized within today’s Staccato dance that chucking everything and starting a new path wouldn’t necessarily be the most skillful way to follow my heart. In fact, in my current work I am very much a healer already. If I continue to water the seeds I have been planting, I will realize my dream within my existing context, without even having to defect from my profession.
Staccato, Chaos and Lyrical toggled back and forth in the first wave. I joined forces with a new friend and we leapt and flew, including dramatic stops, extensions and emphasis at the far edges of our gestures.
In Stillness, I drew inside. My eyes nearly shut, a litany of symbolic gestures arose. I imagined that I spun a thick cocoon around myself, then created an exit, stepped out of it, and left it on the floor. Revealed, exposed, I felt as though the Gods could fully see me, dancing in a light body, though I told myself that if I needed it, I could always re-gather the cocoon, which was laying close by on the floor.
In the second wave of the class, Chaos and Lyrical were braided together. A few days previous, in the elevator with a friend, we talked about the current political situation. “We’re fucked,” she said, trying to sound casual. I said, “Lately, whenever I have had a moment of Lyrical, of joy, amongst the Chaos, I’m like, ‘Wow! I’m actually happy! Let me just appreciate this!” I was delighted to find pockets of Lyrical even inside of intense, prolonged Chaos. At one point, Mark played a rollicking, jig-like song by the Swedish band Hedningarna and I soared, along with many others, sailing, flicking, fluttering—with every possible pattern of ball change, high up on my toes, then we moved back into heavy Chaos—clearly, the rhythm of our time, reflecting that the only thing that seems “normal” to me at the moment is the inevitability of Chaos.
December 4, 2016, Brooklyn, NYC
(Image of Bob Dylan on winning the Nobel Peace Prize from consequencesofsound.files.wordpress)
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 | Dec 4, 2016 | Notes on Practice
“Dancing Chaos is the survival art of our time.” -Gabrielle Roth, creator of the 5Rhtythms dance and movement meditation practice.
“I know this is going to sound a little weird, but the Novocain will work better if you get up and move around a little,” said my dentist this morning as I faced the possibility of an emergency root canal—something I fear viscerally, despite my logical mind’s arguments. I had been giving myself a pep talk. “You are not going to die from this, Meg. Pain is just a sensation. It will pass. Consider it a chance to practice.”
“No problem, I’m definitely a mover.” I got out of the dentist’s chair and began to dance in the tiny office, noting that I was able to be very expressive, even in the small space filled with things I shouldn’t jostle or brush. My lower abdomen found a whole new way to open itself as I stepped diagonally forward and back—raising my arms—in the narrow space between the dentist’s chair and the counter, my feet finding rhythms and patterns, weighting back into the heel, bounding forward. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” I wondered, moving into Chaos, letting my head release. I took my seat again, feeling much more relaxed and properly numb. I even had the thought, “These small challenges are an opportunity to build up my inner reserves for the much bigger challenges that will surely come; and I am grateful for it.”
Earlier in the week, at the beginning of the first wave of the Tuesday night High Vibrations Waves class at the Joffrey Ballet in the West Village, I found a quiet spot on the floor and entered Flowing slowly. I crouched on my knees, bending forward and undulating, finding as much movement as possible in my spine. Twice I rose to my feet, but returned to the ground again, not yet ready to be upright.
Visiting my family for Thanksgiving, I went for a run on Thanksgiving morning to visit one of my favorite places—a little network of trails along a river my grandfather loved to fish in. On the way, I noted that I was actually feeling good. Breath was available, nothing hurt, and I felt strong. Then, I saw a political sign that brought me down—spray painted on a big, ratty, old board, proclaiming the residents’ allegiance. Entering the river park, where I am usually alone, a plaid-shirted man wielded a leaf-blower, clearing fallen brown leaves from the entrance road. I was annoyed at this destruction of my peace, and connected the man to the disturbing sign I had seen a few minutes earlier. My mind revised its annoyance quickly, as I realized that the man couldn’t possibly be employed by the town and working on Thanksgiving morning. I considered that he might be the caretaker of his own volition. Running on soft ground through the woods and trails, a white sky inspired me; and a prayer of gratitude formed.
Back to the High Vibrations Waves class, Tammy Burstein, who was subbing for Jonathan Horan, dropped us abruptly into Staccato. Unlike in my previous class when I resisted Staccato’s arrival, I stepped right into it. Lately, I have been working deep in the belly, and deep in the feet. I had a sense of fire in the belly; even holding the image of a warm sun behind the navel.
Tammy invited us to partner several times in the first wave. After two or three partnerships, I joined with a man who I perceived as nonchalant. I took on his oblique eye contact, his head slightly tucked into his shoulder, and played with my own perception. Tammy asked if we were “pushing or pulling” and we began a very engaging dance of both pushing and pulling, deep in the hips and attentive to the ground.
The rhythm of Chaos had important insights for me, especially during this first wave. Continuing the exercise begun in Staccato, Tammy invited us to partner with the person closest to us, telling us to change partners again and again with increasing speed. At the end of the trajectory, she told us to just keep changing; and I continued to move around the room, pausing frequently to partner. Chaos, for me, is the most internal rhythm, and the one I am least likely to partner in. I often find a spot, not too far from Tammy and where there is a little pocket of space, where I can really let loose on my own. I found my spot and moved with a very gentle, released Chaos, most engaged when the driving rhythm fell away and the music became tonal or harmonic, still deeply in Chaos. As the music became more energetic, I began to move very quickly around the room. I was superlatively fluid and softened. It was crowded, but somehow I did not bump anyone at all. Instead, my gestures were precise as I moved very close to the bodies around me. It helped that there were many long-practiced dancers, who tend to move with the energy of the group instead of staying anchored in one place, keeping the whole room alive. The quality of awareness that I had at that moment also helped to protect me from causing harm, despite close proximity and speed.
It felt good to be in the collective field, very much in sync, and at the same time, very much on the high edge of Chaos—the rhythm of our time. To some extent, the gem of personal achievement has lost its luster recently; and I find myself moving more than ever in the collective field. The ability to actually move around inside of Chaos—conscious, aware and even with direction—are skills I hope to build on. Also, the ability to give up territory and be flexible, even in the face of intensity, is a skill I will need in the months and years to come. I see the need to practice Chaos now, perhaps more than ever.
Lyrical brought its own delights. I crossed paths with a dancer who moved with sinewy resistance. He kept locking into his back hip and knee, and curving up from there. I played with his gestures, experimenting and appreciating the chance to expand my own range. Before long, a dragon joined me, curling around me, nudging my sides to guide me forward, and overlapping me at times. I again rushed through the room, curving wind, whipping, cascading down in the spaces between people’s legs, rising up into the spaces above us, fixing my gaze on a spot far off in the sky and racing toward it in a rolling turn, still not bumping or crowding anyone, somehow. With a quality of fierce spaciousness, I did passing through practice, letting each person stream through me and streaming through them in turn.
I shared the blessing that had come to me in the woods with my family before Thanksgiving dinner. One cousin—a no-longer-recovered-alcoholic—heckled me as I began to speak, but I moved forward gently, trusting the form that had arisen by the river. I shared new research on the science of gratitude, that there is now empirical evidence that gratitude helps us to have more positive emotions, to express more kindness, and even to improve our immune systems. “In this time of great challenge—both personal and collective. I feel called on to work on the few things I can control—especially being grateful for the many blessings I have, and building up my relationships and communities.” Next, I listed some things I am grateful for, including my brand new niece, my adored son, my young cousin, all of the family members present, the wonderful food, and the family members who are no longer with us who built up our traditions and bonds. “And now the prayer,” I said, “Lord, Heavenly Father, the Christian God who has been so kind, and, too, any other Gods who are willing to help our cause, please help us at this time. Open our hearts and help us so that even our painful current circumstances may serve to awaken us to our highest purpose.” “To our highest purpose” I said very softly and slowly.
On Tuesday, having moved through the first wave, faithfully attending to each of the five rhythms—Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness—I moved into the Flowing phase of the second wave. As I moved through the space in curving lines and circles, seeking the empty spaces, I noticed each person, saying internally, “I see you there, and I am grateful for it.” Someone I think is totally full of shit stepped into my orbit, and I noticed my internal judgment.
Twice, I bumped into people. The second time, I was greeting one friend with my eyes while moving in a different direction, where there was already another body. Although it had felt so good to be part of the collective field within this big, roving Chaos, I realized that it was no longer available to me. Maybe my mindfulness had diminished. Often, we think of moving through the space rather than staying in one spot as skillful, but it seems I had taken it a little too far, perhaps I had even gotten attached to the idea of it. I wasn’t mad at myself, but I got the message. I found a spot on the floor, and explored moving there, partnering with the people close by or with those who happened to pass.
The rest of the wave unfolded in sequence. In Staccato, I moved alone and with others with ferocity but without tension. In Chaos, my energy dipped and I crossed paths with the man I had earlier read as nonchalant. He carried me along, and I found inspiration, movement, and totally new forms. We were wild, with dramatic extensions, expressing pattern after emerging pattern. In Lyrical we continued to move together, athletic in flight.
Alone again, the bottoms of my feet whispered against the floor, my weight held on one foot as the toe of the other delicately etched written words, messages, and pleas into the worn surface, my feet never losing contact with the floor. My hands curled softly—the thumbs touching the first fingers. From the view above, the prayer read, “Help! Please help! We need help here. I need help. Please help me to be of service. Please help us at this difficult time.” I saw my tiny dance, one of billions on the green, curved earth; and the little square I danced on began to glow. My arms extended, gently casting up in arcs as I spun, transmitting the prayer to the heavens, from feet to sky, in full view of the Gods.
“Well, it looks like you just need a filling, not a root canal,” my dentist said. My arched back settled back onto the dentist’s chair. One small crisis averted, I dig deep, releasing to ground even in the midst of Chaos, preparing for whatever comes.
November 29, 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 | Nov 23, 2016 | Notes on Practice
The morning was brisk, with nearly violent wind. The sky was white and opaque, hiding the spacious blue that surely existed behind the low, dense clouds.
There is a personal ritual that I go through on stepping into a 5Rhythms class to mark the shift from the space of the world to the space of formal practice. For today’s Sweat Your Prayers class at the Joffrey Studio I had to repeat the steps several times before mindfulness even began to dawn. For many, it has been a hard week, as the reality of the recent election continues to settle in. Also, I had dental surgery on Monday. By last Sunday, I was in pain that far surpassed the pain of natural childbirth. The dentist tried to remove a tooth, but, after drilling and pressing and some very alarming cracking, failed, and sent me along to an oral surgeon. Bleeding and with a tooth half extracted, I made my way to a different office, then sat for two hours, waiting again to be seen.
Eventually, I did arrive at the class, at least enough to proceed into the room. I moved gently, perhaps hesitantly, investigating the space. Before long, I found a place on the ground and began to move in rising and falling circles, notably engaging my abdominal muscles as I found new angles to stretch, letting the circling overtake me. Taking advantage of the fact that the Sunday morning class is less crowded than the night classes, I began to move throughout the space, remaining entirely connected to the floor, almost like I was oozing into the empty spaces—amoebalike, edgeless, more a cloud of forms than the expression of any particular shapes.
At one point, I looked at the clock and realized we had been in Flowing for 25 minutes—an exceptionally long Flowing for the opening wave of a two-hour class. However, when the teacher, Jilsarah Moscowitz—who was subbing for Jonathan Horan—initiated the first Staccato song I groaned inwardly, not wanting to leave Flowing for anything, feeling like I had just started to find the ground, like I needed much more time. Kicked out of the nest, I tried my best to step up in Staccato. Distracted by pain and anxiety about my tooth, along with the long-lingering shock of the election results, I did not find Staccato easily, and instead felt disoriented and detached.
As I have experienced in the past, when I honestly didn’t know if I had anything to give myself, it was my friends who pulled me through. One who has been practicing with depth and integrity for many years, and who is also a 5Rhythms teacher, stepped up to me, beaming. I was happy to see her happy. She has lived with a disability for her entire life, and if she could be happy in the face of such challenges, who was I to whimper over a little tooth problem and the small matter of possible world destruction? Her attention and presence inspired me to move; and I was surprised to find the expressive fire of Staccato, that I then carried with me throughout the room, partnering with many—sometimes in just a gesture or two, sometimes in longer turns, sometimes in groups of three or more.
I found a friend who I’d shared a meal with the night before, seeing her for the first time in four years. Our conversation made me feel inspired and connected; and the dance became a continuation of the same back and forth. In Staccato, we became fierce, gigantic, toggling through many levels and quickly moving from ground to sky. I considered the many forms still available for my life, making rapidfire life resolutions, realizing profoundly the need for action, courage, and vision during this time of massive upheaval and change. We moved into a wild Chaos, whirling and still moving through many different levels, stepping up for one another, forms rising up and dissolving into the heat and speed we created. Though we were powerfully engaged, our dance remained attentive to the dances around us, occasionally responding to a gesture of a nearby dancer, slowing down to notice and take in, the occasional dancer passing right through the middle of our cell and turning there with us before moving on again, the membrane permeable.
Still in Chaos, we separated, being subsumed again by the room. Jilsarah played part of a speech with lyrics about “Caring for our fellow man,” and grief overtook me. On the way to class, I had heard an interview on NPR with Jared Taylor, a “white nationalist,” whose blatant, scathing racism had my jaw locked open in aghast horror—ingénue that I am—for a number of minutes. I couldn’t help but think of recent federal appointments of men with known ties to white supremacist groups. A groan of agony rose up, totally unintended, tearing through me and becoming a rending cry. I moved like a demon then, low, and with incredible speed, my head a blur of motion—bringing to the outside the fear, anxiety, pain, panic and anger that had been moving inside of me for nearly two weeks.
Lyrical arrived then, seeming like a miracle, like brightly-colored flowers growing on a big pile of shit. I moved into a dance with one of my all-time favorite dance partners. We exhaled sharply and even snarled as we circled one another. We jumped in and out of the center we created, down to the floor and up, in what seemed like primal, defensive gestures. Athletic, emphatic, massive, I soon injured my big toe. My friend moved away; and I lavished care on the toe, curling my lower leg into my arm and rocking it. Laying back, I moved my leg, with attention on my hurt toe. It did not dissipate immediately, but after several minutes began to recover. I watched the process, grateful that this one small injury could run its course and return to neutral in the space of a few minutes.
I noticed that I was working very deeply inside my stomach, to the point that my abdominal muscles are sore now. I took a sip of water, tipped my head straight up, felt the cold water go down my throat, and followed its path into my belly. Moving, I felt the water sloshing there. In Stillness, I rounded my spine and contracted all of the muscles of my stomach, pulling my fist into the hollow created there, re-creating the feeling of being hit in the gut, metaphorically or literally. I also noticed that I was incredibly stable on one foot, capable of all sorts of balances and twisted extensions, first avoiding weight on the foot with the hurt toe, then including it, too.
With many of us continuing to move in Stillness, Jilsarah read an excerpt from “Connections” by Gabrielle Roth—the creator of the 5Rhythms practice—that included this passage, “Hidden in your Chaos, like the eye of the hurricane, is the moving center, your power center, a place deep in your belly, three fingers below the navel, where all the good stuff is waiting to be felt. It is in the moving center where all polarities converge; light and dark, good and evil, male and female, elephant and mouse. It’s the place of perfect equilibrium and harmony. If only we could resist the temptation to choose one side or the other, we would be here more often” (p. 87).
Stillness lingered on in traces even as we moved into Flowing, beginning the second wave of the class. Like many, I moved gently throughout the room, being swept by gestures and currents, feeling very much a part of the whole. I met Staccato once again with resistance, but Jilsarah made it easier for me by playing an appealing Staccato song with Lyrical overtones. In Chaos, with bits of Stillness threading through it, I passed a tall man who was new to me. We shared a gesture and started to move on, then instead turned into each other and shared a graceful dance in Still Chaos, our hands absorbing the others’ gestures, turning in slow arcs, disappearing from each other and re-appearing. After this dance, wandering along, I found my energy low; and a man who was jauntily swinging his hips and knees came into my field. I matched his twittering gesture, smiling, kinetic. Another joined us with great enthusiasm, and another. We were four, then three, then two with a different partner than the one I had started with.
Lyrical arrived, once again, like a miracle. It occurs to me now, how significant it is that Lyrical—the rhythm of joy—contains too the awareness and acceptance of deep pain. It has the space to hold all of it. It is joy with the flavor of wisdom—of a panoramic view from a high mountain on a clear day. I danced around the room, meeting every eye that was available to me, passing through each person’s field of energy, and allowing others to pass through me. Eventually, I totally let go of even the directionality of what I call “passing through practice” and allowed everyone to stream in and stream out of me, to let myself stream through everyone—in a whisper of total porousness, of energetic exchange.
Stillness in this last wave found me internal, my eyes shut, in a private ritual of release and completion.
Stepping outside after class, caustic wind again rattled me, reminding me that winter is coming; and that I had better prepare myself and learn to light an internal fire in case nothing external works to warm my spirit in the coming months.
November 20, 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.
(Image borrowed from pinterest.com/sacredchocolate/sacred-heart)
by meghanleborious | Nov 15, 2016 | Notes on Practice, Uncategorized
“What? This can’t be. Oh, my God, this can’t be. How could this be? This can’t possibly be. What are all of these overnight text messages about. They are no longer celebratory, as they were last night. This can’t be true. Let me look at the internet. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Please, no. Please, this can’t be. So many people would suffer. This is impossible. How could Americans elect this person? How could anyone vote for this man? Please this is just a nightmare. Let me wake up. This can’t be. Let me text back to some of the texts. Please let it not be so. It can’t be! My God! No, please, this can’t be! So many people would suffer! The economy! Unchecked hatred! Please say it is just a nightmare!”
Often before I start a new text for this blog, I write automatically for ten minutes. Writing automatically usually helps me to find an entry point, a theme, maybe even an idea for a structure, but today my mind remains scattered, dulled by its struggle to accommodate the new reality that my fellow Americans have elected Donald Trump to be the next president of the United States.
At Kierra Foster Ba’s workshop “Light & Shadow” last weekend, Kierra took us on a journey through the shadow aspects of each of the 5Rhythms—the shadow of Flowing, which is inertia; the shadow of Staccato, which is tension; the shadow of Chaos, which is confusion; the shadow of Lyrical, which is the quality of being spaced out; and the shadow of Stillness, which is numbness. In addition, she introduced the idea that the shadows might have to do with the parts of ourselves we would rather keep hidden or disown completely.
After the workshop, I wrote feverishly, very much wanting to deliver a text on the shadows work of last weekend before Tuesday’s election results, realizing that no matter what happened, anything written before Tuesday would become automatically outdated. Although I was very nervous, I wrote with the assumption that there would be a Hillary victory in the end, and, too, with the assumption that after the election that we would have to find ways to work with and address America’s unleased collective shadows of abject hatred and opportunism.
Before the election, my psyche simply could not accommodate the possibility that Donald Trump might actually win the election. It was simply too surreal—too much the stuff of nightmares. It simply could not be. Americans certainly would not go to such extremes, even in the face of anger and disempowerment, that we would actually elect such a person, someone who does not believe in and would threaten our very democracy, who is the confirmed perpetrator of countless, outrageous crimes and abuses, possibly even of rape.
The lively activity at my polling place in Brooklyn made me feel like Hillary would surely win. The better the voter turnout, I argued in my head, the more likely she would prevail. I brought my six-year-old son along with me, regaling him with stories of when Obama was first elected—the long, happy lines to vote; and after the results came in, the streets filled with celebration, people thronging Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where I lived at the time. I told him excitedly, “This is a moment you will always remember, when we voted for the first woman president!”
The memory of the first 5Rhythms class I attended after Obama was elected in 2008 seemed like a totally different lifetime. It was Tammy’s Friday Night Waves class. For days, I had been walking around the city sobbing for joy. It would hit me, buying a tea, waiting for the walk sign, standing on the subway. Talking with everyone. Beaming. Not only had we—a nation built with the blood and sweat of slaves—elected a Black man, but we had elected an ethical, competent, intelligent leader, who was intent on building consensus, examining the minutiae of evidence on the many matters that faced him, and with the stated intention—and possibly the skill—to extend the prosperity that a small number of Americans enjoyed to a larger portion of society. That was the first time since I was a baby in a leaf pile playing with my parents, that I had ever moved in pure joy. The room was filled with a different kind of vocalization than what we experienced in class this week—hooting and hollering that moved through the air in waves of its own. We were a glowing mess, drenched, crying, leaping many feet off the ground, the entire wood floor bouncing, the music getting louder and louder. It was paradise. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was—to be alive in this time, to be part of this seismic shift, this uncontainable joy.
A few sleepless, dark morning hours after learning the results (during which my son and I sat on a meditation cushion together, my stomach in knots, him reading quietly or practicing meditation along with me) one of the people I am closest to—a Black and Latino man—entered the house. He shared an opinion that I have since heard echoed by more than one person of color—that this was no surprise, and that “Black people in America have been dealing with this level of hatred and injustice all along. Now, it is just out in the open.” He also reminded me that his joy when Obama was elected had been mitigated by his prediction that there would be a monstrous backlash after Obama’s term.
Since the election, hate crimes have surged, according to the New York Times, USA Today, CNN and a long list of reputable sources. “Make America White Again” has been scrawled on a whiteboard in a University of North Florida library, and in countless other places countrywide. My father told me with grave consternation that there had been a KKK rally in my parents’ small town in Northern Connecticut, to my knowledge an unprecedented event.
During and after the “Light & Shadow” workshop, I grappled with the concept of ground, wondering if in clinging to the idea of ground, I might be limiting my perception of reality. Kierra sought to share her insight, and an insight likely shared by Gabrielle Roth—the creator of the 5Rhythms practice—that the ground is always there; and that it is possible to find the ground even in an earthquake. Instead of only finding the ground in Flowing, where we traditionally establish it, Kierra lead me to also consider finding it through releasing into Chaos. My idea of “the ground” as Gabrielle Roth intended it continues to evolve, but I realize that the idea of ground is compatible with the realization that absolutely everything is in constant, dynamic flux; and that there is truly nothing to cling to. The ground is the foundation, from which we hear and trust our instinctive, physical selves, and from which we come to trust the fundamental correctness and workability of reality. Truly, finding the ground and being at ease through releasing into Chaos is a powerful tool, as we seek to navigate (at minimum) the next four years.
Driving alone to a 5Rhythms class, my first since the election, I bawled and keened, my face contorted, tears streaming down my cheeks to the point that my skin actually started to itch from all of the salt. My mind raced, “Would I choose to leave the US? What steps would I have to take? Is there anywhere in the western world that is exempt from this impulse toward xenophobia and aggression, this reaction to globalism? Should I stay and be part of the resistance? What would the resistance be? What would happen to all the people without insurance? Would my son be safe from racism, hatred and violence? Would New York City be safe, once Trump started provoking countries around the world? Would I lose my job as a result of recession? Would my friends lose their jobs? Would all of my parents’ lifelong hard work for social justice be wiped away, just as they are growing old, beginning to tally their contributions? Would they lose heart and lose faith? Would I? Do all of the people who voted for Trump hate women? Do all of the people who voted for Trump hate me? Do they all think that the sexual trauma I have suffered in my own life is no big deal and that the pain I have struggled with for a lifetime is just someone’s lark—locker room pranks—without accountability? And how, in this crazy world, would I counter this monstrous influence on my small son? Is there any way to protect him?” I had no schema for any of this. Through years of diligent practice, I had developed powerful faith in the basic goodness of human beings. How could I reconcile these seemingly contradictory realities?
Arriving at class, I took my time to enter the studio, noticing the powerful ritual of stepping from the world into the space of formal practice. I was not wracked by grief. There was no catharsis, as I had in a way hoped for. Instead, the group moved through the first wave, breathing in and out, trying our best to release into Flowing and then into each of the other rhythms. I noticed that my version of Flowing was agitated, and I made an effort to slow down, to let it in. To let in the reality of my stress and grief-wracked body, and the reality of the outcome of the election, which I still could not fully grasp. Staccato barely arrived in this first wave, finding me fumbling, unsure of my feet for once, disassociated, perhaps still in the throes of shock despite my stated willingness to let in. Chaos was loud and energetic, though mental activity continued to churn, in disjointed snippets and unruly threads. The tiniest hint of Lyrical emerged, and it crossed my mind that somehow I would have to find a way to let joy in, too, despite everything, or I would lose four years of my life, perhaps even causing an atrophy of joy that I would not recover from. I reminded myself that expressing joy is not an intrinsic affront to suffering, and that being miserable, angry or sad wouldn’t help me to control anything. It would just make me miserable or angry or sad. Whether I find Lyrical or not—the situation is very much outside of my control.
On Wednesday morning, arriving to work, I went straight to my one strong work ally. Hugging him, I sobbed. Although there were a few people there who were also devastated by the results of the election, I felt very alone, both at work and in the context of the country. On parting, I said, “This is a call to arms. We must each become a warrior of the heart. That is our only hope at this point. As of today, any kindness is now an act of political resistance.”
At the class, I felt like a whole layer of neurosis had become outdated, along with everything else that happened before November 8, 2016. Most of the people I was moving with were allies, and could be trusted. Petty irritations seemed extra pointless, considering the need to build community. Despite this, some irritations did arise, and I wondered if they were a last sprint of a certain kind of ego, or if they might be a way for my psyche to work on some things that I couldn’t manage to confront directly.
In the interim between the two waves, I sat leaning in a little pod with a small group of friends who happened to be seated near me; then, began to flow back-to-back with one friend, at first just gently swaying from side to side. I was still disassociated and not capable of fully releasing to ground, but did my best to show up for my friend and for myself. Eventually gaining our feet, we moved around each other with great energy, then smiled thankfully, beginning to move separately throughout the room. I spent part of this wave considering disaster preparedness, with a long list of specifics, despite the shared intention to really see each other, to really give to each other. In Staccato, I found ferocity in bursts, but still felt disassociated. I partnered with one friend, and marveled at her fire. Inspired, I grew gigantic, too, forcing it ever so slightly, trying it as an experiment, an intention, rather than as my full expression in that moment. Even so, I recognized the need to step up in every way, to step into my power, to help the people around me to step into their power, to organize, to defy, to build community, to speak, to listen, to offer, to receive.
Today, as I write, I have a bone infection in my jaw. It is incredibly painful. Instead of succumbing to self-pity, I remind myself that there are many people around the world who at this very moment are also experiencing excruciating dental pain. Maybe also on top of other kinds of pain, too. The great Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron teaches a Tibetan meditation practice called Tonglen. In Tonglen, instead of resisting or pushing away pain, negativity or other afflictive emotions, we breathe them in. Then, we breathe out equanimity, positivity and pleasant emotions. In the process, we work against our conditioned impulse to push away what threatens us, frightens us, or rocks our fundamental notions of who we are. In doing so, we transform our relationship to aversion—the energetic pushing away or non-acceptance of things we usually can’t escape anyway. An aspect of Tonglen that acts as a counter to despair is that we remind ourselves again and again that we are not alone, that whatever pain we are experiencing, there are countless others who feel or have felt the same pain. As such, it is impossible not to call to mind the billions of people who suffer or have suffered under the leadership of corrupt, greedy, dishonest or incompetent leaders. I am not alone. We are not alone.
I have been very careful to write about the nation as “we,” though it is a stretch for me at this moment. One sneaky form of aversion is setting up a group of people as “others” who are distinct from “us.” This is a fundamental premise of postmodern identity politics and of post-colonial theory—the idea that in order to construct ourselves a certain way, we set up groups of people as “others” as a counterpoint to the “us.” It is like we can only have an identity by defining who does not have our identity, excluding certain people from our experience completely. I am using “we,” and thinking of the many complex causes that gave rise to this moment, rather than succumbing to the temptation to simply revile Trump’s supporters to make them “other.” Truly, this is a phenomenon that all of us have participated in producing. This place we find ourselves is not an anomaly, and is not simply the result of someone else’s misconduct.
The Black and Latino man I wrote of earlier and who is one of my most important allies again shared his thoughts on the current political moment, reminding me very much of the teachings on the shadow aspects of the 5Rhythms. He said, “The thing is, people of color have always known it was this bad. It always has been. The good thing is that we know that the only way to change things is to first actually accept how bad things are. That’s the thing that white people just haven’t realized; and that’s why so many people are so shocked. It is only when we can really accept what is actually happening that real change can finally occur.”
Gabrielle Roth often expressed that the rhythm of our time is Chaos. As volatile as it inevitably has been, she believed that our era is also marked by possibility and creativity. I try to imagine what she would say now, if she were still alive. Perhaps that no matter what, we have to keep moving. Perhaps that to shut down and lock up would be the real death of us. Perhaps that the best way to work with Chaos is to release directly into the middle of it. Perhaps that, ultimately, nothing and no one can take away our freedom or peace of mind, unless we ourselves allow it.
Rending, guttural screams flew through the space as we moved in Chaos. I found the floor, pulsing vigorously through my middle back, on my hands and knees and crouched into the hips with my pubis almost touching the ground, then I would leap and spin, finding all the while stops and edges inside my own maelstrom. The friend who was so ferocious in Staccato moved with just as much vigor right next to me. I moved to the floor and up from it, leaping quickly, perhaps in a primal defensive gesture, landing first in a deep squat, bursting upward, my head a car on the speeding rollercoaster of my spine, then moved back to the ground. I remembered Kierra’s words about releasing into Chaos, and as the rhythm played out I found more softness, less edge. If I was tempted to check myself out of this intensity, I reminded myself of the critical importance of releasing to Chaos as a tool for survival.
Lyrical came, too, and then Stillness. I partnered with a friend who I love to dance with, and we beamed as we moved together, more expansive than in our past dances. High up on my toes and both finding discrete patterns, we played in and out of each other’s orbits. In Stillness, I moved unselfconsciously, pulling away from a friend who wanted to partner, giving myself a quiet moment to turn inward.
Though there will be times that we all need to turn inward, community has become critical. Right before the election, I had invited several friends to a series of dinner parties because I had realized the need to re-focus my priorities on the people around me, rather than on my very stressful job. Now, after the election, having a way to gather together and cultivate our relationships seems even more important—in fact, like a matter of emotional and political necessity.
At the height of dental pain, I decided to take a yoga class. I reasoned that I would try it, and if it was impossible I would just leave. The pain was an 8 or 9 on a scale of 1-10 most of the time, but at moments it receded to the back of my mind, as I attended diligently to the poses and to the breath. I was surprised that I made it through the entire class, despite the pain. The teacher, who I trust deeply, said, “It might be hard to hear this right now, but the truth is that we are made for these times. This is what we have been practicing for.”
On Saturday, I attended a candlelight vigil and rally at Fort Greene Park, where thousands of all races, classes, ages, religions and orientations came together to affirm our commitment to oppose injustice and hatred in all its manifestations, to affirm our commitment to love, and to support each other in resisting the temptation to feel isolated or incapacitated. A heartful voice sang out, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…” We all joined in, raising our candles in the falling night. My voice was ragged, the words barely coherent. A friend from the neighborhood I hadn’t realized was right next to me turned and embraced me. I looked to my other side and saw another friend—this one from college in Boston—and I turned and kissed her cheek.
We are not alone, my loves. We are in this together. In the words of the woman whose light guides me, the woman who continues to show my heart the way, Gabrielle Roth, “There is only one of us here.”
November 13, 2016, Brooklyn, NYC
(Image is a photo I took at the “Vigil for Hope & Human Kindness” that took place in Fort Greene Park on November 12, 2016)
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
