by meghanleborious | Jun 8, 2014 | Notes on Practice
June 8, 2014
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and are not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
My last post was about the phenomenon of aversion in dance—how I work with it when I discover that I really want to disengage or move away from someone. Today, I want to write about the phenomenon of feeling a pull to dance with a particular person, and about the times when I very much want to stay in partnership. In my view, although aversion and attraction (or let’s use the word “pull” for now) feel very different, in effect they are two sides of the same coin. As with aversion, either deciding to go toward who I feel pulled to and whether or not to stay with them; or to resist the pull and turn away, can both lead to insight.
Ha! There is my set up. I am just itching to get into this next section. There are people who I love to dance with (I blurt out in an exclamatory rush!) Take the example of a friend I couldn’t tear myself away from last night in class. We have been dancing together for almost eight years now. When I step into partnership with him, it feels like the continuation of an ongoing conversation. Both of us tend to move around the room a lot, and every time we encountered each other last night, we dove into a high intensity dance.
Even after all of these years, we keep finding totally uncharted terrain. He is not always in class, but whenever he is I am overjoyed. The whole experience is marked by joy, in fact. We move about like crazy people, quickly finding something interesting in a movement, in an energy, even in an altitude or in a way of working with weight or momentum.
After so many years, we each catch the other’s discovery quickly, and make it our own, as well. For example, he found a percussive way of moving his arms and elbows that seemed to delight him. I was delighted for him, then briefly tried it on for myself. Repetition might arise if one of us catches a glitch, but I never feel trapped by repetition, as I often do with other partners. In fact, the whole exchange is dynamic. Each thing fully expresses itself, then we move on, never beating dead horses, but returning occasionally to our persistent refrains. We move in response to each other, leaping and falling and spinning and curving down and around or up and back or even away and toward. I have never discussed this with him, but I feel like we at once support, celebrate and challenge each other.
I have written much of my love of massive chaos. This is very much in evidence with this partner. I realize now, as I write, that it is really not just the chaos of chaos, but rather the chaos in everything, in every rhythm that is the timeless, endless, constantly changing dance of the creative process itself—when every single thing that arises is perfect art in its full expression.
The things that come up in dances with this friend may or may not relate to the issues that are presenting for me in the room at large. It is always a conscious expression of spiritual energy, even when it is fun and playful. At times it becomes overtly shamanic. For a time, I came to feel like a portal was opening above us as we danced. I had to scratch certain messages with my feet in the ground—some kind of symbols. I literally became afraid—crazy as it might sound—because I felt like we were creating some kind of message for beings from another world; and I feared I might accidentally be colluding in some kind of apocalypse. Too, I have found many movements that brought me into memories of past lives, such as grinding corn on a stone. Images and visions of all sorts have come up, as well, including jewels pouring from my palms, the engagement of dragons, and the room alive with rainbows, pouring from everyone’s arms.
At one point years ago, I became fascinated by the powerful and graceful way Peter (the teacher) moved through the crowded room—a sweeping, parting of the seas, and I took the liberty of trailing him to see what it felt like. I investigated this with the same partner—only when we were dancing in partnership, it became more about trying to get behind him, rather than following him. It was far from easy to get behind him, and this introduced an interesting force that, for me, pushed the dance into more precision, more awareness and more insightful investigation of edges. To make it even more interesting, he also seemed to experiment with trying to get behind me.
Why, oh why, would I want to leave this partner for another dancer, you ask? Gabrielle said often, “There is only one of us here.” To some extent, developing attachment to one dancer is just as problematic as developing a difficult-to-work-with aversion. It all depends on how you relate to it. Let me say that again, because this is the most important thing in this post. It all depends on how I relate to it! I don’t want to be attached to this partner. Nor do I want to be attached to not being attached to this partner. There is no way I am going to stop dancing with this him, but even when he is present, I hope I will be open to engaging with new people and with people that I have neutral or even aversive feelings toward—or at least that I will notice that I am not dancing with them.
During our dances, my mind often tells me I “should” disengage and move on. We take up a gigantic amount of space, and although we always welcome others into our dance, sometimes I fear it could be inhibiting someone else in their dance. An old tendency that I have—I have written about it in an earlier blog—to NOT be too big, to NOT take up too much space, gets set off. I felt like Peter (who was subbing for Tammy) was speaking directly to us as he instructed the room repeatedly to “slow down.” I feel guilty for this unbridled, full-on expression of everything, but most of the time the voice is overpowered by other impulses.
In fact, I rarely if ever leave a dance of partnership when I am enjoying it—even if it feels like the dance has come to a logical ending—yet another interesting insight that I can transfer directly to my understanding of my life.
Speaking after class, my friend and I thanked each other for the dance with a sweaty embrace. He said, “There is just no separation,” and I agreed. “It is just sublime. A miracle that we always keep finding new material.”
Feeling pulled to someone can be frightening, as well. There are some people I want to dance with who I am just too shy to approach, but I tend to keep my eye on them, conscious of where they are in the room. This slightly faltering confidence when feeling pulled to someone can also express itself when I am already in a pleasant partnership, and another dancer comes to join us. This has lessened in the last four years, but I used to assume that the two of them would prefer to dance together without me, and continue on my way—like a weak-kneed bow, not recognizing my own value or power.
I am a major advocate of following your heart, of heeding intuition and of trusting your gut, but also notice the limitations. The problem of always letting my heart guide me is that sometimes the deeply ingrained traces of habitual patterns and responses are so unconscious that I mistake their influence as the call of the heart. Every action deserves a rigorous investigation into its motivation and nature—anything less leaves too much of our humanity open to being directed by our own ignorance.
Many life-changing dances of partnership, of a given moment or evolving over several years, come to mind, but I think I will leave this post here, as the story feels finished and it is time to let the page be still.
by meghanleborious | Jun 4, 2014 | Notes on Practice
May 18, 2014
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms organization or teacher.
Friday I arrived to class twenty minutes late. I tried to find a place to stretch on the floor, but the room was too energetic, the mood too ebullient and I felt pulled into it instead. I told myself that I should connect with my feet first so I could be responsible in the way I stepped in. I spent a few minutes investigating the planes and pressure points on the bottoms of my feet to satisfy this should.
I shared many joyful and interesting dances, including two with close friends. One in chaos—we held onto each other’s arms and bounced and bent ourselves, smiling the whole time. Another was with a friend who has been away for awhile—a friend who has been like an angel to me—who has literally been there to catch me at the apex of many instances of difficult emotion that have emerged on the dance floor.
In this case, we encountered each other at the very end of the night, happily, in a similar energetic space. He seemed to dance the experiences he had accumulated on his trip. I listened in movement, then told him a little about what I have been up to, myself, for the past few months. Our arms moved in sync at moments with the attenuated music. We took turns or joined each other on the floor, emphatic though with few edges.
In speaking with him later, we discovered that we had both been unpleasantly triggered during dancing with the same person. We acknowledged that the feeling of aversion that comes up with some people—in dance and in life—really has everything to do with our own perspective and understanding, and very little to do with the person who is rubbing on one of our edges.
In my case, Tammy instructed us to take a partner, and one women greeted me in a way that felt too conspiratorial, too knowing for someone I had never before met or danced with. She locked eyes with me and smiled ironically; and I was instantly pickled with irritation. Thinking about it later—it seemed like a parody of myself, somehow. I made the huge assumption that she was making fun of herself, of dance, of me, of the whole situation. By no means do I think it is a good idea to take yourself too seriously, but there was something there in her flippancy that I found distasteful, some lesson for me.
The experience reminded me that for a very long stretch, the issue of aversion and how I worked with it in dance was of central importance. First noticing that aversion has arisen, then noticing what it does in my body, then deciding what to do about it is a fascinating process. The decision to stay with a partner who is triggering me, and work with the edge that is revealed, can lead to enormous insight. The decision to move away from a partner who is triggering me can also lead to enormous insight. Either decision can be skillful, depending on myriad factors.
Partnering in dance and even forming groups is something that happens all the time, but when the teacher actually instructs us to join whoever is closest to us and stay with them until the next instruction—well, all kinds of things arise. When I pair with someone on my own, it tends more often to be who I want to dance with, rather than necessarily who I need to dance with. At times, I have felt un-safe. I can’t exactly explain why. It can feel like aggression, like threat, even if my partner’s intentions are scrupulously kind. I might back up, I might sharpen my elbows, I might force myself open and feel myself tighten up, I might force myself open and wind up connecting joyfully. I might stay in a totally different orbit, nominally connected. I might even spend the entire time praying that the teacher would instruct us to change partners so I wouldn’t be stuck at length with the object of my aversion. Sometimes it is absolutely magical—like the person with the greatest charge for me instantly appears, and perhaps an important insight arises.
Then there are the times that I walk away. Sometimes I take on the challenge of doing exactly what my intuition indicates in every interaction during the entire evening’s dance. On such an occasion, if I feel averse to a partner, I leave them and dance alone or pair with someone else. I notice that I never want to risk hurting someone’s feelings, and sometimes it feels harder to walk away consciously than to stay in an unpleasant partnership—interesting information for me on my own path.
Once, just days before I formally broke up with my partner of eight years, I was dancing with a woman I felt little connection to. A friend, the angel I mentioned previously, happened to return from the bathroom. Without pondering it, I abandoned the woman I didn’t feel connected to and joined my friend. For me, our dance expressed dimensions of human grief, pathos, heartbreak and impossible beauty. My broken heart poured out, and I found myself tender, shining and at ease.
by meghanleborious | May 8, 2014 | Notes on Practice
April 29, 2014
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms organization or teacher.
Jewel Mathieson’s Word Dance 5Rhythms workshop this past weekend was a journey that I have few words for. This is ironic since I am usually brimming with words the second a workshop ends, eager to live it again in my narrative and to mine it for beauty, pain, intensity and insight.
Again, we were at the beautiful White Wave studio in Dumbo, Brooklyn. On Friday night, the teacher Kiera lead us through an opening wave. I kept trying to figure out who Jewel was. I had only seen cropped head shots of her, and it took me awhile to hone in on the right person. Eventually, there was no question who she was because she began to speak, with tremendous animation and very playful, confident authority. She introduced herself and said that 5Rhythms founder Gabrielle Roth’s drummer and friend, Tsonga of the valley—along with his son, Tsonga of the city—would be providing rhythm while she read some of her poems. She also invited us to move if we felt inclined as she shared her words.
This is one of the poems she read on Friday night:
We have come to be danced
Not the pretty dance
Not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
But the claw our way back into the belly
Of the sacred, sensual animal dance
The unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance
The holding the precious moment in the palms
Of our hands and feet dance.
We have come to be danced
Not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance
But the wring the sadness from our skin dance
The blow the chip off our shoulder dance.
The slap the apology from our posture dance.
We have come to be danced
Not the monkey see, monkey do dance
One two dance like you
One two three, dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
Tearing scabs and scars open dance
The rub the rhythm raw against our soul dance.
We have come to be danced
Not the nice, invisible, self-conscious shuffle
But the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
Shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
The strip us from our casings, return our wings
Sharpen our claws and tongues dance
The shed dead cells and slip into
The luminous skin of love dance.
We have come to be danced
Not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
But the meeting of the trinity, the body breath and beat dance
The shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
The mother may I?
Yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance
The olly olly oxen free free free dance
The everyone can come to our heaven dance.
We have come to be danced
Where the kingdom’s collide
In the cathedral of flesh
To burn back into the light
To unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
To root in skin sanctuary
We have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME.
This is no joke. Seriously. And she didn’t just read it, she performed. Guttural, moving every part of her body with emphasis, her long pony-tailed hair flying, even screaming at some points. I loved dancing to her words and to Tsonga’s rhythms. I felt wild, creative and explosive and found ways to move that I had never before investigated.
After Jewel read, she told us about her remarkable life, and talked about what she imagined for the weekend. She also told us that she would never actually stop the dancing for dedicated writing time, and that we should write whenever we wanted to. The drummers played a long, rocking groove. I experimented with dancing sometimes and writing sometimes, but didn’t feel like it was working well for me. It seemed like I was half-writing, half-dancing instead of doing both or either. I loved the music, but lost the thread of the groove, digressing occasionally into vague movements.
When I got tired or distracted, I was tempted to shift into writing; but I decided to resist this impulse. I set up a rule for myself that I would not use writing as a means to escape if I was feeling checked out of the dance. Instead, I would write only when inspiration or intuition moved me to, or when I was specific and connected to my dance. In effect, this meant that I spent very little time writing. When I felt inspired and specific, the last thing I wanted to do was to stop moving and write.
This was a bit of an affront. A good one! For many years, I have thought of myself as unusually driven by and connected to words. In this case, I was much less inclined to stop moving and write than my peers. This is a subtle point, and I don’t know if it narrates well, but an assumption about myself, a component of my schema for who I am, ceased to be valid.
The founder of Shambhala, a meditation tradition with Tibetan Buddhist origins, prohibited meditators from writing during practice time. I think he believed that we need to take time to rest in awareness, without trying to produce anything or understand anything. There are stories of Alan Ginsberg sneaking his notebook into the Shambhala shrine room, but Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, the founder of Shambhala, argued that if a thought is important, it will still be there when you are done meditating.
I think this train of thought was my brain’s way of mounting a half-hearted resistance to Jewel’s methods, though it did not last very long. Part of me is afraid that if I put too much pressure on a given poem, I will frighten away my muses. After Friday’s dance, I sat with a friend who listened patiently while I blathered on about this topic. He listened so carefully and with such strong attention, that I felt guilty for barking myself up a tree I knew was not valid. I ended our conversation with, “Yeah, but it is always good to stretch yourself and try on something new. You can always reject it later, right?”
Friday, I left tired. When I got home, I showered, just in case some lingering emotion my body was done with resided in the night’s sweat and needed to be washed away.
On Saturday morning, I had to attend a required training for work, so I arrived late. I think I may have missed some key instruction, but it did not feel jarring to step into the space or to join the dancers on the lovely, sprung wood floor at White Wave Studio.
I began to move right away, feeling creative and alert. I sensed Gabrielle amongst us, and decided to ask her for a message or a sign. Instantly, it was as though a big towrope was attached to the middle of my breastbone, and I was pulled in a straight line to the other side of the dance floor. I didn’t even look where I was going, but when I got there I found Jewel and another dancer (the same who was so patient and earnest when I barked up a ridiculous tree the night before). I decided to hold off on thinking about my dancer colleague, and to consider that Jewel might be an important teacher for me.
Saturday, Jewel’s focus was helping us to find images for our poetry; and to find key metaphors. People drifted in and out of dancing and writing, often pausing to stare into space. I noticed that it was harder than usual to connect with a partner, since most of us were involved in our individual, interior journeys.
I realized that I have a great deal of faith in my ability to find meaningful things to write about. In some ways, my concern is more what on earth to do with all of the material I have generated. A quick informal inventory: more than 200 volumes of journals, 1500 or more poems, two books, multiple novellas including a book written to my son while I was pregnant with him, short stories, essays, interviews. I also do an automatic writing practice about creative work that is now hundreds and hundreds of pages long. And that’s just a quick overview from memory.
Jewel shared that she often takes several months to write a poem. This made me think hard about my own poetry practice and what I want to get out of it. Each day I write a poem. Often they are very short. Some of them are beautiful, some are not.As yet, I have not gone back and edited any of them. I love the practice because it keeps me open to poetry all day, looking for key images that stand out. At this time, however, the quantity is overwhelming. They are all on paper, in journal books. I notice that lately, I have not been writing every day. I think I don’t want to add to a bigger backlog, as I keep wanting to get them from the notebooks onto the computer.
I love the daily-ness of it, the directness of it, the rawness of it. I also love the discipline of the practice. Each day, all I ask of myself is that I show up. Once I only wrote the word “poem.” Just as with dance, I have no control over what will happen once I am in it. The work of showing up complete—I can just relax and investigate whatever arises.
At this point, however, I think I would like to process the poems further. In fact, Jewel told us we would work on a poem over the weekend, and most people worked on one piece. I, on the other hand, was pulled all apart. I worked on one at length Saturday and wound up returning to the very first version.
We sat down in a circle to share at the end of the day, and I was reprimanded for not paying attention to the reader and instead looking through my little book for something to read. The truth was, I didn’t realize we would have a chance to share and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity for an audience. The end of the day totally snuck up on me. It was like all the little bits and pieces were separate things—I wanted them to be heard together but didn’t want to nail them down and force them to commit themselves to one poem. I was like an unabashed polygamist, unwilling to marry just one.
People shared some beautiful bits of things, some shared entire poems. One woman—who clearly was a practiced reader of her own work—got up and performed admirably. Between each reader, I tried to find something I wanted to read through my many pages of notes, then put the book down again quickly as someone started to read. I wished I had asked for five minutes to organize before the arrival of this moment. This happens to me so often—that I am thrilled with the process but am caught off guard when a deadline jumps on me. I was riffling through again between readers, when I realized that everyone’s eyes were on me. I still hadn’t decided what to share, but chose:
I have been burnishing the back of my breastbone for months now
Scraping off blood, fur and muscle
With 1000’s of arcing gestures
My prostration, my prayer.
I was grateful for the supportive attention.
Leaving on Saturday, I felt zonked. I stepped out the door and looked to the left, there was sunny rain, and started to search for a rainbow. To my right, a spectacular rainbow emerged from behind the power plant across the street from the studio and disappeared again behind some buildings. I opened the door and hollered, “Come quick, all of you! There is a rainbow!”
I had just re-read a poem from 2010:
I thought of rainbows.
They came dancing in.
Sunday I actually arrived a little early. Though I feared seeming ridiculous, I decided to bring my entire set of poem-a-day journals. I crossed paths with Jewel on the way in and rushed into showing them to her before she’d even put her coat down. I needed to create a desk for myself, so I took a chair from a stack and posted up at the edge of the dance floor. I feared I was taking up too much real estate—especially since I know Elyce, the producer of the workshop, likes to keep the space as tidy as possible. However, it was a necessity and I decided to get over my shame for using as much space as I needed, and any apology or defensiveness about it.
I lit into my journals, beginning at the beginning, when the practice first organically evolved four years ago from a shared haiku game with my sister. I felt nostalgic, not for wanting to live it again, but for the sheer beauty of it. When Simon was tiny, when this practice first arose, I spent hours and hours every day while he was breastfeeding or sleeping on my lap or on my shoulder just breathing, noticing and reflecting on the awe of an exquisite new human. Before I even got through reading the first book, I was sobbing. I sought an appropriate poem to share, but couldn’t extract myself from the very emotional experience I was having. During the beginning of this practice, as well, I was in the process of leaving my relationship of eight years with the father of my son. It was the saddest, most poignant, most beautiful break up, and there it all was, pouring back into me. Snots were pouring down my lip and I had risk a trip to the Kleenex. I tried to avoid everyone, snot covered and sobbing raggedly as I was, but a friend greeted me with a tender hug and asked how I was, “Crying already,” I said, laughing softly through my tears. He commended me, I think.
Then, I put my big stack of books away and stepped into the dance. We moved through a wave, then Jewel instructed us to spend some time preparing to perform our poem, and shared some of her own process. She explained that we would work in groups using a ritual theater format favored by Gabrielle Roth. Each person would read their poem, and four others would follow their direction, either moving a certain way, repeating a gesture, or holding a particular shape. I spent another period going through poems, instead of preparing to perform one. We had a short lunch and I finally selected a poem. I went to an alley behind a big building to practice. As I ran through it, I changed it and added to it.
After lunch, we began with a wave. This was a tender and lovely room. Everyone who had been writing feverishly was in the dance now. At one point, we were instructed to look in a partner’s eyes, find a shape, then move on. I connected with one friend and was reduced to tears. Her big, shining eyes did not waver. I could tell she didn’t really want to be touched, but both of us had our hands folded in prayer and I linked our little pinkies together. Then, we rolled away from each other and I stepped right into a playful partnership, and for the first time ever, found that I could keep eye contact while turning around by tipping my head all the way back. I have attempted this maneuver many times in the past, but always found glitches around 4 o’clock and 8 o’clock if 12 o’clock is my nose. A delightful development!
Then, we assembled into groups and instructed each other about what to do. I wish I could tell you the names of the four women in my group because they were exquisite, but I must be discreet, of course.
Right before we began this part of the day, I randomly opened Jewel’s big dictionary to the word “offering.” After we prepared our parts, we all arranged ourselves in a semi-circle with the wall of high black velvet curtain behind us. I believe there were 26 of us including Peter and Jewel. The offerings were tremendous. One friend wrote about her struggles with debilitating sickness, another of her impossible ache to connect, another of how it hurts when something dies. We were the second group to present; and I felt very connected to the four members of my group during our performances. I was last, and initially delivered my poem while moving since I had—to some extent—memorized it. Peter and Jewel both asked if I could please repeat it, either much louder or without moving around. I was grateful for the opportunity, and could feel the energy of it vibrating in my throat. This time, my voice quavering but strong, I began,
Sometimes I dance the grief of spirits—
Those who no longer have bodies to dance for themselves.
Sometimes I dance the pain of the living,
Including my own.
It was not so much that I danced a healing dance for him,
But rather, that I danced as him.
I feared that my heart would shatter with grief-
(His and mine, not separate)
Instead, it broke with beauty.
Standing atop my father’s moving feet
As he teaches me
I dance now
The infinite heart of tenderness.
I felt like I was seeing myself from a little bit above and at an angle. The whole experience was intentional, precise and compressed; and to me it felt shamanic and epic.
I stepped back to my group members; who had been moving around the space as though they were dancing on their fathers’ feet; and we held hands and stood quietly regarding the audience, then returned to our place in the semi-circle to make space for the next group.
I was moved to tears many times by the integrity, inventiveness and vulnerability of my colleagues. One apparently unassuming older woman who was visiting New York from Australia stood up to speak and I thought, “this is going to be amazing.” She delivered a visceral, wrathful narrative admonition with maximum volume and intensity—a roaring witch of the highest caliber.
Instead of dancing another wave right away, we gathered in a less formal circle to share anything else we wanted to. My spot in the circle closed and I got up the courage to go and sit next to Jewel, where a spot was open. I had danced with her and spoken with her at moments, but found that I was shy around someone I respected so much. She hugged me and complimented my efforts. Many of these poems, too, were beautiful. One woman stood up and shared a compelling new song. My own last poem was:
I am too tired for poetry now
Maybe if I can just hold this pen upright.
The universe will flow through it.
Jewel then shared that she had been trying to find a metaphor about the death of her adored sister two years ago. She left the poem aside and told us the story-half poem, half narrative. She cried out her pain, and all of us cried along with her. She honored us by saying that she had been trying to get to this place for a long time, but it was the first time that she felt the kind of supportive space that allowed for it.
We officially said good-bye after this chapter, then danced one final quiet wave.
by meghanleborious | Apr 14, 2014 | Notes on Practice
April 6, 2014
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
Dancing 5Rhythms with my small son has made me a better and more reflective parent; and has helped me to use parenting to become a happier person. I went through an agonizing period during the first months of pregnancy when things were volatile at home and I was besieged with anxiety. My first inclination when I learned I was pregnant was to discontinue dancing, as I’d heard some vague rumors about loud music causing fetal brain damage. After a few weeks off, I was in too much emotional pain to stay away from dance, and returned to attending a 5Rhythms class at least weekly. I even did an intensive workshop during the 6th month of pregnancy. At times, when the room was wild with chaos, I would dance in a quieter adjoining room, moving with great spinning momentum. Since I was able to work consciously with the changes in my body and the balance of weight, I never moved like a pregnant woman, though I certainly looked like one.
Although the difficulties at home continued, I was able to connect with the magic of pregnancy. When a stranger on the train started in about the inconvenience of swollen feet and the trauma of childbirth, I explained that I felt sacred and connected to the fabric of life in a way that I could not explain. It was exquisite to have two heartbeats; and to be so intimately overlapped with another human. I got to know some of his favorite movements, such as arching his back and pushing his head and butt out, resulting in an oddly distended and imbalanced belly. To soothe him, both before and after birth, I would spin and rock. My mother was concerned when she saw how vigorously we danced, but she had to admit he was content, even cradled in my arms inside a wild spin.
During the pre-natal period, Simon danced with all of us. Many of the people I partnered with weren’t sure if they were dancing with one or two people, in fact. After he was born, it continued to be unclear if we were partnering as one person or as two. For the first several weeks after he was born there were many blizzards and heavy storms and we were essentially shut in. During that time, I danced a wave every day—sometimes holding him, sometimes placing him in a baby seat next to me while I moved. When we danced, I totally let go of red tape. The tender, patient presence that we shared was indescribable, and Simon would nuzzle his tiny head into my neck and shoulder as we moved in Flowing. Even out of town, dancing in a room filled with family history and personal memories, I felt inundated by the river of time and humbled by my place in it, moving and weeping with love. A few close friends even came and danced with both of us when he was brand new and the miracle of birth still clung to his aura.
When I sat down today, I thought I would write about the many insights and experiences that have come through dance during Simon’s first four years of life, but I find that it is too big a topic for one post. I have only written into the first delicate weeks of infancy.
By the way, I was in labor for less than 5 hours. Simon was born at the Brooklyn Birthing Center, without any drugs or medical interventions. Between the strongest contractions, Flowing, I danced.
by meghanleborious | Mar 30, 2014 | Notes on Practice
March 30, 2014
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
Writing is so much like dance, in that I never know what will happen when I jump in. If I am lucky, I dive into a current and get sucked blissfully along. I arrived ten minutes late to Tammy’s class on Friday night, which often makes it harder to get a groove with the energy of the room. In this case, Tammy’s husband, Jason, was leading the music for the first time, DJing on Tammy’s computer, and it swept me away. Instead of finding a spot to stretch and rocking myself into Flowing as I often begin, it was like I stepped on an electrified surface as soon as I stepped into the room.
For the last several weeks, I have been writing about working my way back from an injury with restrained acceptance. Nonetheless, all along I tried to conceal my pining wish for the gift of exuberance. On Friday, nothing hurt! Not the tangle of recent muscles pulls, not my lower back, not the knot in my neck that plagues me, not the ligaments of my feet, not my left Achilles, not my knees. I got to step into the gigantic dance that feels like home.
During the short interlude between the first and the last wave, Tammy said something like, “I’m not sure how people do it in other places, but in New York, it tends to be full-on! We go deep and all out. We keep looking for the edge and even going over it.” I expected her to say something like, “but it’s not always like that. It can be quieter, it can be subtle,” but she didn’t. Instead she said, “And that’s just how it is.” Music to my wild ears! She also said that it is about showing up authentically in the dance, whatever that means in the moment. When you give me the space to be the full expression of myself as Tammy did in this instance, then I never have to insist on it. It comes and it goes, like weather, like emotions, like love.
At one point, early on, I overdid it, bending forward tautly and backing up vigorously like a giant male peacock. Then, I accidentally stepped on the foot of a friend. I apologized and knitted my eyebrows, and returned to the humility of Flowing and of feet. Shortly after, I found myself back up on an exuberant tide, with a little more dissolved awareness and a little less freneticism.
There were other beautiful images that I offer now as vignettes: Tammy’s discussion of the sometimes fragile, sometimes very strong threads of light that connect us. Tammy’s loving acknowledgement of her husband, Jason, in his musical debut. Experimenting with Flowing as feet arcing in half-circles, and of course, as always, looking for the empty space—the doors to movement that open for us in every moment, inviting us to explode or to whisper, as our feet and our hearts demand.
Thank you, dear body. Thank you, Tammy. Thank you, Gabrielle. Thank you, Jason. Thank you, dancers with years of practice. Thank you, new dancers. Thank you, spirits and bunnies and moon-swept tides and ancient songs and Madonna ballads. Thank you, thank you, thank you. From the bottom of my feet!
