Word Dance Workshop

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.

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.

Parenting (Pregnancy and First Weeks)

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.

Exuberance & Gratitude

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!

Lessons Arising from Injury and Even More Notes on Flowing

by meghanleborious | Mar 11, 2014 | Notes on Practice

March 9, 2014

This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms dancing path, and are not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms organization or teacher.

Dancing on Friday night, I moved with about 60% intensity, as I am still tentative after a recent groin/quad muscle pull. The lesson of the injury has arrived slowly; and has evolved over the past few weeks. As I wrote in my last post, it has made me grateful for the many times I have been able to move with full intensity; and eager to fully express myself the next time that I can.

It has also given me new physical insight. I did a motion I realized I had to back off of—a spinning leap that begins with a fling and a push from my big toe, engages the muscles of my upper leg and rushes me into an athletic spin that rises and twists. I am surprised to learn how much time I spend in my hips, how much movement and articulation I have been able to find there. It is remarkable, exhilarating even. I can’t wait to investigate further.

I have also been thinking about aging. At some point, if I am lucky enough to get old and lucky enough to be old and dancing—I will not have the same athletic capacity. This injury was a sudden and temporary drop in ability, but as I age this drop will unfold over time. It has been like a little preview. It frightens me, frankly, and I wonder how it will go.

About halfway through the class, when the whole room was engaged in dances of partnership, someone took a big back step and landed squarely on my left baby toe—undoubtedly breaking the poor little digit. I will say that the same toe has been broken several times and was unusually fragile, even so, it hurt. Bad. He briefly acknowledged the accident at the moment.

I continued to dance, and partnered next (by chance) with the toe breaker. I began by jokingly covering my toe, hiding it from him. We had an interesting dance, but I felt like he was looking over my shoulder, and not fully engaged in our meeting.

My first thought after class was: it is interesting that when I am feeling injured I seem to draw injury. Then, I started to feel anger toward the toe breaker. A few minutes after the injury I went to the med kit and taped up the toe—as much to have a splint as to alert people to be careful of it. At the end of the dance, I passed him sitting on the floor. He did not seem to notice the toe tape, and did not acknowledge the injury in any way. I said nothing. I wished I had said, “Hey! You broke my toe, you know!”

On the way home, I began to think about how bumping into people, stepping on toes or other accidental physical contact has played out for me since the beginning of my 5Rhythms career.

Of all the rhythms, I have always felt most at home in Chaos, but, notably, I was never actually in Chaos for the first several months of dancing. Instead, I was in a kind of agitated Staccato. When I accidentally found my way to Chaos for the first time, I was overwhelmed by the tenderness of it and wept copiously. I realized that I was afraid to release control of myself because I might then hurt someone. On a base level, it had to do with being afraid to crash into a body, but, as you might imagine, it had psychological levels that directly correlated to the physical experience. I have always perceived myself as powerful, and thought I had to keep myself in check. In the end, it was a kind of cruelty to myself.

I find myself back at Flowing again, my own fountain of insight, for the next chain of thoughts. When I have found Flowing—when I have encountered Flowing—with integrity, I have learned that I can follow my dance through all the rhythms and be every bit of everything that I am—uncontrolled, sometimes explosive, messy, unpredictable, sobbing—whatever it is in a given moment, and I can trust myself to not cause harm. This is an extraordinary insight. If I learned nothing else than this, dancing for all these years would have been worth it.

When it feels right for me, Flowing is not only released, unending, circular motion, but it also has a kind of humility. Just these feet, just touching this earth. It may have its artfulness, but it is these gentle feet, carefully finding their way on one tiny spot of the giant earth that gives me the foundation of awareness that I need to travel confidently to every other place that the dance takes me.

I note with curiosity that nearly every post I have done so far has dealt with the theme of Flowing, even when I thought it was about something else.

The first time I traveled in Costa Rica, long before I knew anything about 5Rhythms, I danced many nights in a row at a local bar. I was amazed that people frequently bumped into each other and kept moving, and that it did not seem to give them pause. It seemed, rather, to be part of the dance. For me, I would tighten everything up if I accidentally touched someone.

If I find that I am chronically bumping into people, I usually take a deep breath and press a reset button. Sometimes, I return to the physical feeling of my feet on the floor and can find my way into awareness. Sometimes, if I am chronically bumping into people it is because I am out of sync with the room, panicked or disconnected. At these times, I might dispatch myself to a quiet edge of the dance floor—in extreme cases I lay down and move on my back—to observe the painful feeling of disconnection I am experiencing. Once a feeling like this has set in, I find that the only possible thing to do is ride it out and know that things will surely shift again. Trying to force it results in bumping and imbalance and it is painfully apparent.

With the foundation of Flowing, ideally, there is a porous engagement with the room that allows me to soften instantly when I make contact with someone else, greatly diminishing the possible harm. There are times too, when there seems to be an agreement that some amount of bumping is ok, we might even swing into partnership, or grab each other affectionately in these moments, or quietly whisper sorry and acknowledge each other with grace.

As I have expressed, I have absolutely done my share of bumping and crashing, but I really didn’t appreciate getting stepped on this time. We were definitely in the rhythm of Staccato, and I couldn’t help but think, “if you are going to totally commit yourself to a particular direction, for God’s sake, consider who you are stepping on!”

Halting, Tentative Steps

by meghanleborious | Feb 23, 2014 | Notes on Practice

February 22, 2014

All of the remarks in this blog depict my own subjective experiences within the 5Rhythms® dancing path.

I have less to write this week. My practice is correct but it doesn’t narrate as well as usual. As I wrote in the last post, I badly pulled a muscle in my upper right leg, and as a result declined to attend the last day of Tammy Burstein’s Light and Shadow workshop. The leg no longer hurts, but I have been trying to avoid placing full weight on it, or moving too deeply in the hip. It seems impossible that it could be better so quickly, and I am fearful that I could re-injure it.

I was torn about whether or not I should attend class on Friday night, given the injury. A gallerist friend has all of her gallery’s openings on Friday nights; and I was tempted to go to her opening instead of dance this one time. In the end, I did decide to go to Tammy’s Friday Night Waves class at the Joffrey Ballet—the class I attend nearly every Friday.

I entered, chose a nice little piece of floor to uncoil myself in, and found movement easily. I kept the injured leg softly straight as I stretched and warmed up on the floor. Once I got to my feet, I moved with halting, tentative steps—almost tiptoeing—as I traveled around the room. Even this halting, hesitant dance was not without specificity and engaged my interest. As restrained as I was, I was able to access each of the rhythms.

I wished I had worn some visible sign of my injury, such as an ace bandage or perhaps a shirt with handwritten black sharpie that said, “leg injury.” I was almost embarrassed by my lack of vigor, but at once felt cheerful and engaged in the dance I could do. For the most part, I avoided taking long steps, making any sharp turns (as this requires some depth in the hips), any sort of leaping or hopping, high or spinning kicks, squatting gestures and kneeling. I also avoided sudden changes of gravity as rising and falling, coming to the edge of my balance, sudden stops, sudden bursts and merengue-style back steps. This still left a lot of possible ways to move, but I did feel sad I couldn’t meet people the way I wanted to, especially new friends who I connected with during the Light and Shadow workshop the previous weekend.

A couple of times during Chaos, I forgot myself. There is no doubt that I could have danced the whole night with my usual intensity and paid the price later, but I had given myself a firm talking-to before arrival. I caught myself quickly, recalling that I needed to keep my feet on the ground and to take it easy if I wanted to get over the injury. I smiled the whole night, engaging cheerfully, but wishing for more.

I would like to say that I found a whole new way of moving, or that I broke through the armor of vanity and ego, or that I had a great psychological insight, but I didn’t. Not this time. I was, at least, happy that I could dance and moderate myself, and that I did not just fling myself over a cliff in wild abandon.

I had some thoughts on Chaos since I had less access to Chaos last night, as well. To me, it sometimes feels like that a big, energetic Chaos may be perceived as a lack of restraint or awareness—a moral deficiency, even. Perhaps it is just that, or perhaps my perception is not accurate.

At any rate, I have been thinking of a routine by the comedian Chris Rock, in which he talks about how privileged our picky American eating habits are. “You don’t hear about lactose intolerance in Rwanda!” he bellows. He goes on to say that you don’t hear about people in developing countries who don’t eat red meat for health reasons. “Don’t eat any GREEN meat, that’s what you have to think about!” He concludes this part of his routine by saying, “if you happen to be one of the few people in the world lucky enough to get your hands on a steak, bite the shit out of it!”

Chaos is my steak. I am lucky to have it. I love it, I sink my teeth into it, I devour it. When I don’t have access to it, it is ok, life goes on, but when I do, I don’t want to go simpering along about how I really should cut down on red meat.

Normally, I am drenched with sweat after dance, but last night I ended nearly dry. I left after the first wave, made it home a little early, and slept peacefully.

Light and Shadow, Dumbo, Brooklyn, February 14-16, 2014

by meghanleborious | Feb 19, 2014 | Notes on Practice

February 16, 2014

It is nearly noon on Sunday, February 16th, the third day of a 5Rhythms Waves workshop, titled Light and Shadow, that I have been participating in. I sent Tammy Burstein, the teacher, a request for advice: should I come to the workshop in the name of sticking with practice, despite pain, or should I stay home in the name of self-care? She was quick to say that self-care should always win out; and that, in fact, self-care is a practice, itself. Consequently, I am in bed writing, with ice packs on my right upper leg that I hope will repair a bad muscle pull. I could barely move my body in bed this morning, never mind bear weight on the leg in question.

Uncharacteristically, I am not feeling sorry for myself, however, as the two days I did attend were satisfying and filled with insight.

Friday night I arrived a little late to the White Wave Dance studio in Dumbo, Brooklyn, parked directly in front, and entered quietly. I greeted friends tenderly, happy to see who was in attendance and to imagine the journey we would share over the next few days. After the first wave, we stood in a circle and introduced ourselves, and shared why we had come to the workshop. Several people said they were specifically interested in working with the theme of Light and Shadow, especially during the grueling month of February. I offered, “I’m here because I attend every single workshop that takes place in New York City that I possibly can attend. I’m also here because of Tammy. This practice has become such a big movement, now there are teachers trained by teachers trained by teachers, but Tammy worked very closely with Gabrielle, herself. She is just about as close to the source of these teachings as you can get; and it is a great honor to study with her.”

At the conclusion of the introductions, Tammy re-iterated some of the themes. She also mentioned my remarks, but, notably, glossed over my homage to her completely, and instead thanked me for bringing up Gabrielle Roth, the founder/discoverer of the 5Rhythms practice.

The rest of the night was a struggle for me. The gas heater was like a big, roaring dragon and I tried to avoid being in its line of sight. I couldn’t seem to get the breath I needed. It was like my diaphragm was contracted. It felt like what I imagine asthma feels like. I was able to move, somewhat, but felt disconnected and tired. In a dance of partnership, I couldn’t connect at all. Tammy used a mic to suggest that we all explore “near and far” and “connected and disconnected.” At the conclusion of the dance, we had a chance to talk with our partner about whether we felt near or far, and whether we felt connected or disconnected. We both agreed that we felt both far and disconnected.

I developed all sorts of theories about what was happening to me, but in the end they were all just stories. Even as I spun the stories out, sitting with a partner in structured talking and listening activities, I tried to convince myself I could accept what was happening, and then in the next breath went on trying to figure it out so I could fix it. Tammy’s instructions in every structured talking and listening activity were very clear, “Tell your partner or partners what physical sensations you are experiencing. Then, I will tell you when to change roles.” I struggled with these instructions, but kept setting the intention to return to simply describing physical sensations. I ended the night with my back on the floor, eyes closed, and my legs crossed and elevated onto one of the two big, rough wood columns that break up the open, black-box dance studio.

Saturday, by way of contrast, was a different story. We began with an opening wave, and Tammy’s skillful suggestions that lead us to the exploration of inertia, the shadow of Flowing.

I should provide context here: the theme of the workshop, Light and Shadow, along with Tammy’s workshop description, lead me to infer that this waves workshop would be concerned with each of the 5Rhthms-Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness; and in addition would consider the shadow aspect of each rhythm.

I don’t fully understand what the shadows are, but I will offer my current understanding. The shadow is the aspect of the rhythm that describes resistance to that rhythm. It can also be the un-manifested, un-aware version of a given rhythm, for example inertia is the shadow of Flowing, and tension is the shadow of Staccato. Each Rhythm has a shadow; and it is important to note that there is nothing negative or bad about the shadows; they are simply different aspects of the same fundamental energies.

In exploring intertia—resistance to movement—I quickly found that the intertia converted into pendulous momentum. I took off my sweater and moved it from hand to hand, imagining that it was very heavy, moving slowly in circular motion. I recalled an earlier time, when I spent several years dancing more than I slept at massive underground parties; and when I would imagine that my hands and feet were weighted as a bounced and spun with explosive force to heavily syncopated jungle-music rhythms and throbbing strobe lights. During this exploration of intertia, the music was slow and attenuated, yet I found easy access to motion.

As everyone else started to get up and move and the room started to come alive, I found myself emitting jagged sobs. I cannot tell you how grateful I felt that my body would let me move, and that breath came easily, in contrast to the night before. I thought about the reality that one day, some breath would be my last. And that every one breath is so precious, so freakin’ sacred. Every single breath connects us to every other being that has ever lived. Seriously. No wonder we hold our breath. It is mind-blowing, really. It is also significant that my mother-in-law, who I love dearly, is drawing her last breaths these days. I am sitting next to the phone waiting for updates right now, as she sits gasping and writhing in a hospice facility.

Yesterday morning, my mother-in-law was very much on my mind as we entered into what Tammy called a “breathing wave.” We started to alternate between shallow breath within inertia and full breath within Flowing. The contrast was notable. It was easy to tell who was in which of the two states, based on our bodies. It was such a relief to let breath in, and I stepped eagerly forward, sweeping into space with a grace I am not always possessed of.

We explored a similar contrast in Staccato, with “barely enough breath to stay alive,” then full breaths—even sometimes with very sharp, pointed exhalations. I actually liked some of the tense, coiled-up movements that came from the shallow breath, and found power in that space, but felt like I was on fire (in a good way) when I moved with sharp, forceful exhalations. For the first time, I found a way to relate with this particular kind of breathing that felt correct for me. I have always had the impression that when teachers demonstrate the sharp exhalations that can be part of Staccato, they seem to come on the down-step, when the foot or feet contact the floor. My relationship to rhythm is different, though, at least for now. For me, the sharp exhale might come even if my feet are in the air. Rhythm’s punctuation could land anywhere—the edge of rolling kick, the sudden change of the height of an elbow, or even a shift of the back of my head.

We had another conversation—this time with three other partners—in which we were instructed to describe the physical sensations we experienced during the breathing wave. Again, I struggled to stay with physical descriptions, and to avoid spinning off into supposed implications or theories.

Next, Tammy had us line up at the end of the room, and dance the length of the room in Staccato, along with one other person. “You are having a relationship here,” she instructed. She asked that two people who had done this before start off. J. and M. were specific, unabashed, fiery. I cried because they were so beautiful. Next, a different M. and I went. Our dance was very energetic and playful, in a way. The observers laughed at one point and I decided to believe they were laughing with us. I gasped for breath at the other side, wishing I had taken it a little more slowly, as I watched everyone else make the journey across the floor in partnership. I cried several more times as a result of something I can only describe as honest and vibrant that I was witnessing.

We danced to one song to process all of that—Earth, Wind and Fire’s Shooting Star—then, Instead of sitting to talk and process what happened, Tammy staccato-ly cut it off right at the end and sent us off for lunch. She also advised us to have a conversation with someone—to connect—during the lunch break.

I spent the first half of lunch alone, drinking tea, writing and gazing out the window of Brooklyn Roasting company at the drifting snowflakes, the veiled buildings across the river, the white sky, gliding seagulls, and a full city block of power transformers directly across from the dance studio.

After I returned from lunch, despite some reluctance, I set out to follow the directions and have a conversation. I looked around to find a good candidate. Tammy and Kiera, another 5Rhythms teacher, were deep in conversation on one side of the room, and Elyce was talking animatedly on her cel phone on another side. Everyone else was in a circle to the side of the dance floor near the door, so I sat down with them.

I started to speak with K. and B. The conversation began with K’s questions about B’s tattoos, and quickly shifted to philosophical matters. B, who is from Europe and looks more like a Barbie doll than anyone I’ve ever seen, talked about how she feels that everything we are supposed to do is already set—all we have to do is wake up and see it. I humored her, but thought to myself, here is this twenty-two year old who claims to have figured out the meaning of life. I don’t happen to think there is a master plan in that way, and considered explaining my own view. Some voice in my head thankfully interfered and said, “Listen. This could be your teacher. She could be your teacher.” Indeed, she is, as I later learned. The conversation turned to past lives, and B. told a compelling story about images encountered during a past life regression. Tammy started the music to let us know it was time to start dancing again. Usually, I am very serious about not talking during practice, but I just couldn’t stop talking this time. We moved to where our water bottles were placed, and another dancer, T, became part of the conversation as well, providing additional examples for the ideas we were sharing.

After a short warm-up, Tammy had us take a partner. I stopped in front a dancer named M, who I shared many wonderful dances with during my last workshop in December (see the very first blog post, which was about the Graceful Journey waves workshop). She asked one of us to raise a hand, and M. raised hers. Then, Tammy decided to model the activity. She told us to go into a soft chaos, demonstrating as she moved. Then, she stopped in front of me and asked, “Ok, go into chaos, Meghan. Do it!” I started out softly but as she narrated, I gathered steam. Tammy said, “She is like a wild animal that I can’t contain! She is going to be totally unpredictable!” And I was! “Oh, my God!” Tammy said with humor, as she moved, trying to contain me. I didn’t really understand the objective until a different T. asked a clarifying question, and Tammy said, “She’s going to be out of control and I’m going to try to contain her.”

I was intrigued by this activity. For me, I feel rebellious when a partner joins me in chaos, and tries to find a common rhythm or movement. I feel like they are trying to define me, control me, or somehow understand me in a limiting way. It is like someone wanting to know my favorite color so they know what color socks to get me for my birthday or something. My favorite color is always changing!

When M. first started to move, my way of controlling her was to offer a repetitive motion and intend for her to do the same motion. She started to move dynamically and I stuck with her, still unsure exactly of what to do. We switched roles, and she was much more direct and clear—no surprise, as I find her incredibly direct in every way. I began to move and she tried to contain me by holding her arms up and making her body firm. She didn’t seem too concerned if we touched each other. My dance got very lively. I would pause, then spring in another direction entirely, cagey, doing everything I could to avoid this imposition. The next time we switched partners, I “controlled” her more, using the way she approached the exercise with me; and she was wild, spinning, moving around the entire space.

The last experiment of the day was a shadow dance. Tammy explained that one person would be dance the 5Rhythms, the second person would shadow them by dancing the shadows of each of the rhythms. The third would be the observer. I was near two dancers, B (the same B from the earlier discussion about past lives) and N. We turned to face each other, and decided that in the first round, I would dance the 5Rhythms, B. would dance the shadows, and N. would be the observer.

Tammy started music and said, “Just start with moving your feet.” I fell into Flowing easily, and noticed that my pace was faster than everyone around me. B. danced inertia, staying mostly behind me. Next, the music started to transition to Staccato, and Tammy narrated through the transition. Still, B. danced behind me. I was full of fire, breath, activity. Sometimes I very much wanted to dance with the shadow—with my shadow, but I continued in my dance, sinking deeply into each rhythm as I currently understand it. The music began to shift into Chaos, and I was completely abandoned, spinning, leaping, going to the edges of balance and nearly tipping over. The music had a lyric that caught my attention: something like “where did we come from” that reminded me of my earlier conversation with B. about past lives. I started to cry, again with jagged sobs. At last, the music shifted to Lyrical, and Tammy told us to turn and face each other–the dancer and the shadow. This was such a beautiful moment—there was suddenly no separation, we were overlapped. Light and shadow merged. To me, it felt like we were dancing some kind of past life that we shared. Stillness opened again into a dynamic dance, and we found ourselves at the end on our knees, embracing. My face was buried in her hair, and I cried loudly, despite the many observers I couldn’t quite get out of my mind. I don’t have adequate words, but it was surely a powerful healing.

Next, B. danced the 5Rhythms and N. shadowed, while I observed. I kept my eyes on them saying to myself, “I see you there and I am grateful for it.” B. danced ferociously, totally engaged. At once, my mind kept trying to return to understand the dance I had just experienced. Next, I was the shadow for N. I tried to be present and to stay behind her, very much working myself into strain in the shadow of Staccato. My intention was to hold the space as well as I could, but I don’t know if I was successful or not.

At the end of the last shadow wave Tammy had everyone join together with a crowd-pleasing, rocking “Ride on the Peace Train.”

I spent the entire day inside, with the exception of one slow, hobbling trip to the corner store. In the end, the experience was complete. I am glad I decided to stay home today, and glad, too, I was able to attend the workshop for the two days that I did.

Tammy was curious about how I injured myself; and my first impulse was that it must have come from jumping too quickly through transitions and exploding into chaos. The teaching of the injury is that I need to slow down and be more aware in the transitions (in life and in dance). As I reflected, I remembered that I felt a slight pop when I was dragging myself around on the floor Saturday morning in inertia, and wondered if that might actually have been the source of injury. The teaching of that injury is that inertia can take up a tremendous amount of energy—sometimes even more than Chaos. I also note that I am quick to condemn myself for leaping with abandon into what comes next. Since the injury could have arisen at either point, I have decided to consider both stories my teacher and to take in the lessons of each to consider in my next dance and in the ongoing dance of my life.