Let the Ground Receive It

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I was lucky to attend two 5Rhythms classes this weekend, Tammy’s Friday Night Waves class, and Jason Goodman’s The 7th Wave class, which was taught this week by Ray Diaz.

I encountered no significant obstacles in arriving to Tammy’s class this Friday, and found parking right in front of the studio. I began on the floor, and noted an unusual tinge of inertia. That afternoon, I had been anxious—worried, it seems, about everything.

A group of emotionally-related stories tugged at the edges of my attention. The worst track was the fact that I had accidentally shut my small son, Simon’s, hand in a car door. I kept remembering his crumpled face—filled with pain—as he bawled. I felt terrible that I had literally caused him harm. I was picking him up early from his afterschool program to take him to an extra soccer practice; and I wondered if we should go straight to the doctor instead. I perseverated, reviewing every other time I thought I might have caused him harm—with intractability, with a sharp tone, with frustration, or, as in this instance, as a result of lapsed mindfulness.   I am also very worried about a young friend, Simon’s babysitter of many years, who is in a coma now. I don’t know what happened, only that she is fighting for her life. The internalized voices of my many 5Rhythms teachers said, “Let the ground receive it,” and, beginning to move on the floor; I soon found my way into Flowing and to presence.

During the first wave, I moved joyfully. I shared several dances with my jaunty, soccer-moving, new friend. I tested out his moves both in dancing with him and as I moved around the room—jumping into crossed feet then spinning out of it, tipping sideways and kicking my foot to the side, bending my knee and drawing my ankle in, almost kicking my backside, then flinging the foot, led by the pressing heel into an almost comical sideways-moving gesture. I stepped into another dance with a friend who arrived late—a staccato connection defined by creative joy and specificity. Toward the end of the wave Tammy put on a song that had a jig in it, and I met another friend, smiling, bounding upward and sailing together through our intersecting arcs.

At the conclusion of the first wave, I imagined my own body hovering in the sky. The room was filled with blue, and white clouds lingered amongst our bodies.

Tammy did not pause for verbal instructions halfway through the class, as is her usual custom, but instead began another wave, just as we were finding our final expressions of Stillness.

During the second wave, my enthusiasm contracted, and I had a hard time with my thoughts. I kept wanting to put my forehead on the room’s center column and rock. I moved out of that gesture, but found it again moments later. Self-abuse overtook me. I sank to my knees, swaying, with my hands together and touching my forehead. A male dancer didn’t seem to notice me and almost stepped on me repeatedly as I continued to move away from him. Closer to Tammy, I began to bend forward and exhale, filling my cup-shaped palms with breath as I folded over my knees, saying “I’m sorry,” and “I forgive you.” I poured this breath over myself like it was water. Then, I started to release the breath from my cupped hands into the air. I realized that both expressions had run together; and I could no longer tell them apart.

At the end of the class, I lay with my forehead to the floor, crying with a pained expression, without catharsis.

On Saturday, I cast a net toward a couple of babysitters, thinking it would be nice to attend class. Simon and I were hosting my friend and her son; and we were having a beer at 7, when my roommate sent a text saying she was willing to babysit for the class that started at 8. I got dressed while our company played in the living room, then kissed Simon good night, dropped the friends off at their house, and made my way from Brooklyn to the West Village for class.

Relatively new 5Rhythms teacher Ray Diaz was teaching the 7th Wave class; and I got to experience his unique take on the 5Rhythms for the first time. I arrived twenty minutes late and stepped in during Staccato, nodding briefly to Flowing as I moved with the energy of the room, taking big, soaring steps. There were nine of us at the class including the teacher, so there was plenty of room to move. I played with alternating the big, soaring steps with tiny steps, foot over foot in a straight line, the shifting back into the giant, soaring steps.

After the first wave, Ray gathered us and told part of his own story. He said that when he first started coming to 5Rhythms classes, he would stay only for the first half of class, then leave. After several rounds of this, a 5Rhythms teacher caught him on the way out and told him to get his clothes back on and, “Get back in there!” Shortly after, he did a Heartbeat workshop where he found his feet for the first time. That was when he knew “this was it,” and he was able to stay for the entire class. (Interestingly, I have noticed that many 5Rhythms practitioners can point to a moment of great insight coming when they first “found their feet,” a First Communion of sorts.)

After his story, Ray explained the 5Rhythms wave. He emphasized Flowing throughout the narrative. After he told us about first finding his feet, he started to move in Flowing, and stated that in Flowing, you let the energy fill you up, starting with the feet. After a few moments in Flowing, he started to move into Staccato and said, “Then, once you are filled up with energy from the feet up, it starts to want to move out, it starts to take direction.” He exhaled sharply as he moved with staccato gestures. “But always with Flowing. Flowing is always with us. Sometimes when you get lost, you just go back into Flowing.” I don’t remember exactly what he said about Chaos except that it is about letting go again and again. I do remember his words and gestures about Lyrical—that suddenly something breaks through, and we find ourselves lightening up. Stillness, he continued, is when we let the breath lead us, and we move with whatever is left. I loved his emphasis on the trajectory of energy as he shared his understanding; and I found his way of explaining the transition from Flowing to Staccato particularly helpful.

During the second wave, I was more sedate. Perhaps because the beer I had before the class was wearing off. I had a great, ego-evading shake in Chaos, though. I noticed that my neck was a tender in some places, and that I was holding its muscles. I decided to let all of my edges go and, as a result, my neck was very released as I moved with great energy. When the music turned to Lyrical, I found flight. It felt amazing—I lit up onto my toes, waltzing backward, then arced down like a great kite, my fingertips grazing the ground and then the ceiling, as I turned in arcs, my head still totally released, following the rest of me for once.

In Stillness, reflections of the ballet bar across the room turned into a body of water. And to the young woman I love so much has been in a coma for two weeks now. I saw her in a boat in the middle of the body of water, bobbing slightly, looking back over her shoulder, her long, shining black hair curled about her shoulders. I beseeched her to come back, my eyes wide, hoping at once that this was my imagination and not a vision.

At the end of the class, Ray gathered us into a circle. He said, “A big part of the practice is that no matter what, you just keep moving forward.” He then asked us to take turns, each saying to the person next to us, “I release you. I release me.” The person on my right looked into my eyes and said, “I release you. I release me.” I turned to the person on my left and said, “I release you. I release me.” For a moment you and me stopped mattering—there was no separation.

Simon’s hand is fine now. Just a little bruise. I will be more careful shutting the door from now on.

“For a true spiritual transformation to flourish, we must see beyond this tendency to mental self-flagellation.  Spirituality based on self-hatred can never sustain itself. Generosity coming from self-hatred becomes martyrdom.  Morality born of self-hatred becomes rigid repression.  Love for others without the foundation of love for ourselves becomes a loss of boundaries, codependency, and a painful and fruitless search for intimacy.”

-Sharon Salzberg, Lovingkindness:  The Revolutionary Art of Happiness

Brooklyn, NYC, November 8, 2015

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

Road Rage, Soccer & Playful Antics

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Despite the fact that the babysitter arrived right at 7pm and I left promptly, I arrived an hour late to Tammy’s Night Waves class on Friday. The car was literally stationary, embroiled in constipated traffic, on Broome Street just east of Broadway for over half an hour. With the car in the middle of the street, I got out and walked a block down to see if I could figure out what was going on. The snarl remained a mystery. I returned to the car, which was like a ship trapped in arctic ice, and sat, becoming increasingly foul-humored as light cycle after light cycle concluded without the slightest forward movement.

I reflected that the day before there had been heavy traffic delays in my neighborhood in Brooklyn, mostly because of police activity. Fortunately, I was not affected, but everywhere I went, people were driving furiously. One Hasidic man in a black Explorer sideswiped my car dangerously on Nostrand Avenue near Eastern Parkway, cutting me off, then nearly plowed into a teenager on his bicycle. This happened again and again, both in the morning and afternoon. I think because people were so heavily delayed, once they got out of the traffic they drove recklessly, enraged and trying to make up lost time.

Someone tried to cut into my lane on Broome Street. I drew myself forward, hunching over the wheel. “No way!” I called out. Suddenly I recognized myself as identical to the road-raging maniacs that had plagued me in Brooklyn the day before. I was still tight, but formed the intention to relax and to try to avoid being an asshole.

When I finally made it all the way down the agonizingly slow stretch of Broome Street to where I would turn right on 6th Avenue, it was 8.24 PM. I gathered that the traffic was leading to one of tunnels to New Jersey. I knew that if I didn’t arrive to the class by 8.30 I wouldn’t be allowed to enter. I willed the flowing traffic on 6th Avenue to move even faster.

Remarkably, I made it to class during the pause in dancing between the first and second waves when Tammy was giving verbal instructions and demonstrations, and was able to slip in without being too disruptive. I didn’t catch her whole drift, but I noted that she was speaking about inspiration—an elusive quality that I have considered lately, especially as it was absent for me in my last two successive dances.

I sat with crossed legs close to the studio door, and immediately began to move, rolling my head, and undulating down over my knees. I absolutely felt pulled to move. I hoped Tammy would understand and not find me terribly disrespectful. After such a trying delay, I was perhaps overly ardent, moving emphatically and with full ranges of motion.

Tammy very carefully set up the next exercise, involving groups of five or six. Rather than telling us to get into groups and hoping for the best, as sometimes happens in a 5Rhythms class when we are in the thick of a rolling wave; she took the time to make sure that the groups were organized. We were just four until another dancer sidled over to make us a complete quintet. Tammy asked, “Does any group only have four?” One man in our group flapped his hand insistently, his back turned to the group, failing to notice that our ranks had already been completed.

She then asked if one person in the group would please raise their hand. I considered raising my hand, since of course I am a natural leader (or so my mind thinks), but the hand-flapping man beat me to it. The leaders of each group were asked to hold the group by following the instructions associated with the body parts meditation—releasing and moving with different body parts in sequence according to Tammy’s instructions. The rest of us were free to move as we wanted, perhaps attending to the body parts exercise, perhaps not.

Sometimes I find body parts meditations tedious, but this time I was delighted. During a body parts meditation, I tend to go deeply inside and have a hard time finding my way back out to connect again with the other people in the room. On Friday, the freedom to follow or not follow put me at ease; and I was surprised that I embraced the body parts meditation anyway, slipping completely out of it then completely back in, undulating in a fast Flowing. I arched my back and rolled over the crown of my head on the floor repeatedly, completing circling gestures and moving seamlessly into the next. I was on the ground and up, moving individually or with the people in my group, at times matching the pace of others, at times moving as quickly as my body wanted to.

We were instructed to let go of our quintet and to move through the room, seeking the empty space. Ever a compliant 5Rhythms student, I took on the instruction whole-heartedly. You will not be surprised to learn that I overdid it—rushing into empty spaces both low, by people’s shins, and high, above people’s heads—bumping into my fellow dancers a few times. I adjusted, pointing some attention toward the people, but still letting the shifting empty spaces pull me throughout the space.

I beamed, meeting the gazes of both friends and new faces as I swooped around the room. Instructed to partner, which always means to pair with the person closest to you, I connected with a woman I met a few weeks ago before class. She was a present and willing partner and generously encouraged my playful antics. We separated and, by chance, partnered again several times during the class.

Told to change partners, the next person I met was an energetic new dancer. We locked eyes, realizing immediately that we were both game for fun. We were downright jaunty as we leapt and spun, bursting. I have recently become addicted to soccer practice with my small son; and I perceived a lot of soccer in my partner’s movements—both grounded and light, his gestures sometimes through their full arc, and sometimes clipped precisely in mid-air halfway through, tricking his opponent, me. I tricked him right back—like stealing the ball with a staccato pull-back and a sudden, unexpected turn when my eyes indicated a different direction entirely. We, too, danced again later in the class, meeting just as playfully, just as airborne.

Today, at my son’s soccer practice, the parents got as much play as the kids. For the third straight day, the sky was sheer, uninterrupted, blazing blue with a hint of white ombre just above the horizon line. The air was perfectly temperate. I sailed around the field, feeling joyful and light on my feet, laughing the entire time.

This class, for me, was characterized by flight and play, and its ending was the perfect expression of the hour-long narrative. A long-limbed friend who I love to dance with trotted over to me; and we met each other, smiling. He is graceful and confident and inspires me to roll out to my farthest edges.

My own grace is developing. At the moment, I have some bumpiness, some awkwardness inside the grace, since I have let go of some of the habits that might look (to the naked eye) like grace but have really been slight constraint—smooth tracking at the expense of authenticity. In one crouching gesture, I accidentally bumped my head on his knee, giggling. We jettisoned each other, suspension and extension casting us up onto our toes; our palms and fingers intelligent and articulated—communicating; balancing each other and at times falling cheerfully out of balance.

As the music ended, we were both facing in the same direction. I leaned into him, beaming again, and he folded his long arms around me. We stood paused for several moments, both of us with heaving chests, totally out of breath, as the dance came to an end.

October 11, 2015, 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.

 

Good Dances: 0, Bad Dances: 2

Sometimes I am tempted to keep a running tally of “good” dances vs. “bad” dances.   The more “good” dances that I have in a row, the more surprised I am when I have a “bad” dance. In the past three weeks, I am 0 for 2—unless you count the elation of dancing at my much-adored and only brother’s wedding—but let’s say 0 for 2 in formal classes. I was tempted to avoid creating a post about these experiences, since it is always much more engaging to write about engaging dances and vice versa; but I decided instead to lean into the un-inspiration to see what happens. I am telling myself that I can always hide it from you if the text turns out to be just one long, painful yawn. I don’t have anything to lose, really, and so I step into the room.

The official word is that there are no “bad” dances. Tammy and countless other teachers have reminded us again and again that we don’t go into a 5Rhythms class hoping for a particular experience—or if we do, we are bound to be disappointed. I note that there is no way to anticipate what will actually show up for me on the dance floor at any given time. I could walk in feeling anxious, self-abusive and vitriolic and leave feeling spacious, compassionate and relaxed. Conversely, I could walk in feeling eager and kind-hearted and leave feeling withdrawn and defensive.

What I flippantly consider to be a “bad” dance is really to say that the dance wasn’t pleasant for me. Maybe I am tired or pre-occupied. Maybe I just can’t find my feet on the ground, no matter what I do. Maybe I want to dance with other people, but my timing is off and I keep finding myself alone or awkwardly forcing partnerships. Maybe I don’t want to dance with others, and as a result overdo my expression of boundaries when approached—with the result that I accidentally isolate myself. Maybe I have an unsettled stomach; maybe I am feeling triggered by someone in the room; maybe I don’t connect with the music; maybe I am struggling to cope with an injury.  

The teachings of Gabrielle Roth, the creator of the 5Rhythms practice, are very clear on this point. No matter what happens, keep moving. (Back to my words now) There is no good or bad, there is just moving. But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t suck. Whenever I lack inspiration, I get a little afraid that I will never be inspired again. It is a little flash of grief—that might or might not linger.

Over the years, I have learned that inspiration comes and goes. It is an interesting intellectual exercise to analyze the factors that might influence an un-inspired dance, but, ultimately, the nature of practice is to keep showing up no matter what. No matter what arises and no matter what obstacles conspire to keep me away from practice. And accepting (if grudgingly) that it won’t always be glorious. Sometimes it is just work. Sometimes it even sucks.

But I wax dramatic to create a cohesive story for you! The fact is that I have had much longer “bad” streaks than 0 for 2. I wrote in the past about a “bad” streak that lasted months. Though I was a new dancer, somehow I had already developed enough faith in the practice to keep showing up, again and again. Also, the two recent “bad” classes weren’t all bad. In fact, there were moments of inspired moving and of beautiful connection interspersed within. For example, I found myself several times moving in partnership throughout the entire room with the same friend with whom I shared a playful, spacious dance that kept recurring during the “Expand Lyrical” workshop. We would engage, perhaps follow each other, remain in partnership though several people separated us, then drift apart again, only to find one another a short time later—picking up where we left off.

Three weeks ago, before I took a week off to travel to my brother’s wedding in Vermont, Peter covered Tammy’s class. Peter is an exquisite teacher—a smiling, intuitive audiophile and I love to be near him. Despite this, I just couldn’t get into it.

Recently, I have written extensively about a sustained, enraptured engagement with the rhythm of Lyrical. Walking into class, I considered myself Lyrical, somehow. I decided to let go of all my edges and relax into the practice completely. Perhaps this was a factor and perhaps not, but I left thinking that the planned surrender of all edges had the effect of making me go flat. Making my expression of movement, and my perception of my expression of movement, and my engagement with the people around me—go flat.

My brother’s wedding was beautiful. Of course, a wedding holds so much—there are always counter-narratives; but the big, open-beamed Vermont-red barn was filled with smiling faces. My son, Simon, as one of the youngest attendees, enjoyed a lot of positive attention. He kept leaping into the middle of the dance floor and showing off his robot dance and his fast, staccato-like footwork, occasionally taking to the floor in his version of breakdancing amid supportive cheers. I danced many happy turns with his Daddy, who I have been spending a lot of time with of late. I also danced an expressive, tango-influenced turn with my sister’s partner, feeling playful. Near the end of the night, the DJ put on a Bluegrass jig, and I found flight. Enjoying myself thoroughly, I dropped to the ground to perform the 1980’s classic move, “the worm” but could scarcely pull it off I was laughing so hard. My brother’s friends complimented me generously on my ability to move, remarking particularly on the “Riverdance thing” I was doing during the Bluegrass jig song. I thanked them, and said, “I love to move. I love to be high up! I have never really tried to move to that kind of music, but it is always a joy to experiment,” thinking to myself, “Ahhh! I love this Lyrical rhythm/partner who has been dancing with me for months, I am so grateful to find Lyrical everywhere, to find it here, maybe it will stay, maybe it is who I am.”

Although 5Rhythms is not really about dance, but is much more generalizable, any time that I am dancing, the practice is to some extent engaged. After so many years of practice, any dance brings me near the field of 5Rhythms. Though of course it is not 5Rhythms practice, these not-5Rhythms dance experiences often arise in the writing for this reason.

I returned to Tammy’s Friday Night Waves class this week after the break for my brother’s wedding, and felt similarly un-inspired. As with Peter, Tammy is an exquisite teacher. She seems to see everything that arises in the room (in all dimensions); and I have soared literally hundreds of times under her skilled guidance. Despite this, I remained mostly flightless throughout the class.

In the interim between the first and the second waves that is often reserved for verbal teaching, Tammy said, “You didn’t think it was really about dance did you?” and went into an unusually long explanation of the rhythms—Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness—perhaps in part owing to the many new dancers in the room.

During the second wave of the class Tammy asked us to group in threes. I turned to a partner right away, but there were no other unpaired people near us. I found someone and moved around another threesome, toward the individual, expecting my partner to move with me. He did not, and stood looking around for me, confused. I returned to him, not wanting him to think he had been abandoned. I couldn’t entice him to follow me, so I settled into trying to follow Tammy’s three-person directions with just two people. She asked us to take turns in the middle, with the two people on the outside holding space for the person in the middle. I thought at least we could take turns letting loose and holding space, but my partner didn’t seem to get that either. I wondered if he was hard-of-hearing. Eventually, another joined us, but I was already pretty disengaged. To make it worse, I thought Tammy asked us to find some kind of repetition to do together in our threesomes. I really don’t like this practice. It always feels forced and uncomfortable for me. If I find a repetition on my own—if my body catches some kind of glitch—it can lead to great insight. If I contrive it, and set out to find a repetition, I wind up feeling like a fake, and get bored quickly with whatever the repetition is—except in rare circumstances when I am extremely connected with my partners. This time, it was unpleasant and uncomfortable. The third to join our group let out an enraged yell, and left us to move through the room. I waited until Tammy released us from the exercise, then moved quickly away, myself.

Let’s see how my sports stats evolve. Maybe some day I will be in a place that there really are no “bad” dances and there is no running tally. Maybe even the not-inspiration will feel like bliss. Maybe I can find total freedom from the constraints and fluctuations of my small mind; and stand shining—individual and archetypal at once—in the glory that is my birthright, that is the birthright of each of us. I aspire to nothing less—nothing less than total everything—than all that we are.

October 3, 2015

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

Expand Lyrical

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I have a confession to make. This is hard for me, but here it is. I have been cheating on Chaos. It all started during the summer, when I spent extended time in Costa Rica playing in the waves with my small son, contemplating rainbows, and dancing for long stretches with the sea, soaring kites and the shadows of the sopilote birds flying overhead.

Gabrielle Roth, the creator of the 5Rhythms practice taught that each of us has a “home rhythm”, the one of the rhythms that comes most easily to us. Although sometimes this construct feels essentialist to me, I have often considered my relationship to my home rhythm. At first, it seemed clear that Staccato was my home rhythm. I felt comfortable with edges, elbows, strong direction, bold gestures, lists, accomplishments, knowing-it-all, and with indicating my boundaries. Gradually, as the practice eroded me, I came to believe that Staccato was merely a front for my true home rhythm—Chaos. I thought my affiliation with Staccato was a cover my mind had created to hide me from the whirling power of my chaotic nature, since I was so afraid that if I was gigantic I would cause too much harm. Finding true Chaos for the first time was a revelation accompanied by weeks of weeping.

In 2009 I wrote:

“One day, I accidentally forgot all of my criteria. I found myself dancing Chaos, saturated completely. Although I moved with enormous energy, there was no sense of exertion. I was completely aware, completely gentle, and completely porous. Tears streamed out of my eyes, wetting the whole front of me.

As the energy of Chaos rises, I symbolically hang my empty skin on a coat hook and imagine that I dance around in just my bones, without the burdensome weight of flesh and organs. I become the Sumerian goddess Inanna, who was killed and skinned by her sister when she went to visit the underworld, and was later resurrected by her allies. Her flayed skin was left, forgotten, on a hook as she embarked on the ultimate descent; to rise later more powerful, more complex, and more clarified.

Later, I realized that it was the first time I had ever actually been in Chaos. I had to let go of all my complex cantilevering first. It took a long time to cultivate enough awareness of the dancers around me and of my own body to know that I could be utterly uncontrolled and abandoned and still trust that I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Lately, I am tempted to change my affiliation once again—this time to Lyrical.

It is quite possible that a person’s home rhythm might change over time. It is quite possible; too, that circumstances and volition might lead us to align with a particular rhythm. It might not matter at all; and perhaps it is even ego-entrenching to take it too seriously. Interestingly, Meaghan Williams, the teacher who led the 5Rhythms one-day workshop “Expand Lyrical” on Sunday believes that Lyrical is always underneath all of the other rhythms, simply waiting to come out. (Meaghan acknowledged, on reading this text, that although she holds to this statement, a flowing teacher might believe that Flowing is always under every other rhythm, just waiting to come out..) If it were true, then I wonder if you could argue that Lyrical would be everyone’s true home rhythm.

Paul Taylor Studio, where “Expand Lyrical” was held, is a big, airy, clean, light-filled studio in Lower Manhattan. I spent some time searching for parking and finally settled on a nominally legal spot just a block from the studio. I arrived and organized myself with, remarkably, no obstacles or challenges, though I did suffer from a nagging concern about the parking spot I chose.

I began the first wave, which lasted for two solid hours, on the floor, moving in attenuated circles, my limbs extended like the hands of a clock, but in all dimensions, stretching and coiling and curving into myself both on my chest and on my back as I found my connection to the ground and warmed my muscles up. My parking spot kept coming to mind, but kept receding again. I was on my feet before long, eager to investigate the space, visit each corner, peek behind curtains, look through the door windows, and feel the diagonal distance from corner to corner.

Of the five rhythms, Lyrical has always seemed the farthest from my range. Even two years ago, I doubt if I would have even attended the “Expand Lyrical” workshop. It makes me think of a friend—a fabulous gay man who is the child of Mexican Catholic parents. The idea that he would ever come out to them was completely unfathomable. Then, when he finally did come out to them, all they said was, “Well, OK, thanks for telling us.” Maybe Lyrical hasn’t been as out of reach as I have lead myself to believe.

I know that Lyrical is not just about joy—it is actually much grittier than that, and contains several other aspects—but it is definitely the joy aspect of Lyrical that has scared me away. There is a huge list of reasons for this. The dominant reason is that I am not always convinced that I deserve joy. Also, part of me thinks that embracing joy is an affront to the world’s suffering. Another (snobbier) part of me thinks that joy is only for people who are less intelligent, less complex and less driven. In addition, I am afraid that if I let joy in, it will be ripped away from me again, perhaps leaving me even more bereft. Also, I am suspicious of faked joy, and especially unforgiving when I spot fake joy in myself.

The studio is remarkable in that there are several angles that allow you to glimpse the sky. On either side of the high-ceilinged room, there are sky-facing windows high above eye level. As you cross the large, rectangle-shaped space, there is another antechamber with huge bow-shaped windows that look out onto the city and again, the sky.

During the first wave, I shared many beautiful dances. I had the thought that in Chaos, I could express the full range of every possible experience. My small mind said, “That’s impossible! No one can know everyone’s experience!” But another voice countered with, “I think that through deep connection and fully participating in the human field, we can and do express every possible human experience even within our own small selves.” Here, I found an incredible, expressive range. In one dance I stepped into moving with a woman who has a totally different center of gravity than me—in her waist, leaning back. I took on her gestures, finding new possibilities. She seemed delighted. We were both delighted.

I danced with everyone who showed up in front of me, including with a woman whose everything was totally different than mine. I showed up for it, experimenting with her gestures, and moving back and forth from there and into movements that felt more intuitive for me. Soon, we were instructed to pair with another two, then four. Shortly, we began to weave in and out of our new, larger group. Briefly, we formed a circle moving clockwise—a job we had failed at on Friday night (see previous post), but now managed with ease. I noticed the moving circle happily; and, too, noticed that the circle dissolved as soon as I noticed it. Before long, we were told to join another group. Again, we wove in and out of each other. Somehow, we all came together as one breathing group. I was in the middle, along with a friend who I feel protective of. At one point I slid down to the floor, and a hand pulled me back up. We pulsed together for many moments, smiling and nuzzling each other as we moved in unison.

We wordlessly agreed at once that it was time to invite space into our formation and began to move, liltingly, around the room, carrying our dance of connection with us. We reached out for each other, meeting each other’s hands, and often the hands of one, two, or even three other dancers at once, coiling gently around one another, passing under the clasped hands of a couple, delicately passing messages with different angles and pressures on the palm, wrists, back of hands, fingers. At some point, it turned into a party trick and I decided against it, but as the game overtook me again, I cheerfully surrendered.

One friend in the room was a man who I experience as incredibly precise. His dance is characterized by specificity, sometimes even by beautiful control. I was shocked when, years ago, we were asked to step up and dance in our “home rhythm” and he stepped up for Lyrical. I have many times contemplated that. I was so sure that he would have picked Staccato.

There was a pause in the dancing so Meaghan could use words to help deepen our understanding. Meaghan gathered us all into a big circle and asked that we each offer a gesture and say our name. She asked that the group mirror the gesture and say the person’s name together. I hate this activity! It is hard for me to distill myself into one gesture. Everything feels so contingent, so contextual, so complex. I overthink it. I got through it somehow, sharing a gesture that to me says, “I see you. My heart sees you. And I am happy to see you,” as I said “Meghan.”

Meaghan’s talk ranged vast territory. She moved with gliding grace as she sketched the parameters of a wave for the two new practitioners in the room. She talked then to more advanced practitioners, intending to dislodge misconceptions. For one, she explained, Lyrical can be seen as playful, perhaps even childish. It is that. It can be that, she elaborated. “But it is also the rhythm of maturity—the Dance of Maturity. The place we arrive at after we work with great commitment through each of the other rhythms.” She quoted Ani Defranco, saying “If you’re not getting happier as you get older, then you’re fucking up.”

After a ten-minute break, we re-convened. We were instructed to partner and I fell into an exquisite, breathy spin with a friend I have danced with for years. Meaghan offered us images of birds and wings—exactly the image I was already holding as we moved. At one point, we both came up quickly, our stomachs meeting, and dissolved into giggles. Before long, we extended our range, and swooped throughout the entire room, chasing and receding amongst our fellow dancers. At one point, we found each other in the outer orbit of the room and moved together in its arc, our heads nuzzling one another as we sailed along.

Often, my writing includes the comings and goings, the enterings and exitings between the dance floor and the not-dance-floor world. On this day, it was contained. I did not leave once. I had tea and leftover dinner from the night before with me. I had everything I needed on hand. I didn’t need or want to escape; and I was ready to start again long before the breaks were over.

Shortly before the end of the first break, I sat myself down in the exact center of the dance floor. I know it was the center because there was a taped x right underneath me. Although the room had dissolved into cheerful conversation, I had avoided conversation, or even eye contact. The truth is that I was feeling very sensitive. Also, I didn’t want to be dispersed, diluted. Something about my fundamental relationship to Lyrical seemed to be shifting, and it didn’t feel like a good time for small talk. Three friends came to join me, and I chatted and joked with them, anyway. I was happy that they wanted to be near me.

In a workshop format, we often gather on one end of the room, then receive some kind of instruction to carry us, dancing, to the other side of the room. Likely, there is a practical reason for this: an entire day of dancing can be grueling; and it gives us a chance to rest while others are traversing. Also, part of the practice is seeing and witnessing our fellow dancers, and, too, being seen and being witnessed.

Meaghan offered several Lyrical experiments and I sailed, elated, from one side of the room to the other. I don’t think it looked very differently from how I would have done this exercise in Chaos, but I felt completely lyrical, airborne, skywalking. 

One rambunctious friend stomped on a balloon that had been liberated from the artwork installation and everyone jumped, laughing. I danced over to him, smiling, rambunctious myself. My hands met his playfully, and we turned each other, laughing. Another couple intersected us and we dipped and melted right through them, under them, never missing a beat or losing eye contact. We spun each other, rolling our backs together while holding hands, then blended again into the room at large.

During the final wave, I was ecstatic—melted, de-materialized—and I shared an unexpected dance. I met the eyes of a man who frightens me a little because it seems like every time I have been in a workshop with him he has expressed anger or aversion during group conversations. During “Expand Lyrical” our eyes met with love, we reached our hands out to each other and shared an exquisitely sweet turn.

As I was leaving for the day, I connected with my precise friend, asking about his affiliation with Lyrical. He explained that he is absolutely Lyrical in nature, though as a result of leg injuries, it might not always look that way. “You’re Lyrical, right?” he asked. “I…I don’t know. I guess I’m coming out of the closet now! I feel like I’ve been cheating on Chaos! But yes, I do think I might be Lyrical.”

I exited and discovered the sidewalks wet with post-rain. I meandered the short distance to the car, looking skyward and counting my blessings. At the car, I found a parking ticket for $115. I tucked it away, without even a whispered curse word. Driving, I reviewed the events of the day. I have only seen four rainbows in my nearly twenty years in New York City, but as I crossed the Williamsburg Bridge toward home in Brooklyn, a rainbow appeared. I sobbed with gratitude and joy.

I dreamt of rainbows.

They came dancing in.

-Poem from 2010

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

Memento Mori

MementoMori_Martha

Lately I have been feeling embodied, creative, productive and inspired; and connecting with others has been unusually available. Sunday was notably different, however. In the Sweat Your Prayers class, which was taught by Amber Ryan, Martha Peabody created a visual contemplation of Memento Mori—an historical artistic theme that translates to “Remember Death.” Martha also led us in a closing ritual to grieve and remember a talented photographer and 5Rhythms community member who took his own life this week—Michael Julian Berz. On Friday night, Tammy, too, brought up the tragedy—with a ragged edge in her voice as she spoke.

The installation included a beautiful photo of Michael Julian Berz, an hourglass draining of black sand, a pile of rocky sand, white candles, and a curving line of silver, asymmetrical nesting bowls filled with water. All of these objects were set on the floor in front of the teacher’s table and placed on humble bits of cut brown paper.

Sunday I walked in with a headache. Saturday, along with my five-year-old son, Simon, I went from beach to party to party. At the last stop I had too many drinks. Simon was upstairs with the other children while the adults drank and talked animatedly in the yard. At the first party, there was no option for dinner, and Simon ate only cake and some small pizza-appetizer-things. When we got to the second party he fell into video games with his peers—something I generally discourage—and declined to eat. I let this go, and went to have fun with my friends. I told him to come downstairs when the clock said “nine-three-o” and (to his credit) he did, in fact, appear. For some reason, I sent him back upstairs for a few more minutes; and kept drinking. We finally left shortly before 11. At home, it was difficult to get him ready for bed because he was too tired to cooperate. Also, he had developed a cough; and he scraped his knee in a sidewalk wipe out, resulting in a long, seated bawl.

Waking up in stages, restless from before dawn, I regretted that I hadn’t cared better for my adored son or for myself. I have been feeling good lately, despite dynamic circumstances, but this drinking episode toned down my energy—my life force—considerably. I was by no means out of control, but it was enough to diminish the momentum of a good run.

Several occasions come to mind when I have been very open, then a serious drinking episode has arisen. Many years ago, I did a residency at an artist’s retreat center where there was also a meditation building. I received brief meditation instruction; and then, without any guidance or support, began meditating independently for many hours a day. The world glittered with spirit. I was drenched in it. A rainbow appeared one day as I prepared to enter the dining hall and I was destroyed with the beauty of it. I fell in love with everyone. After two weeks of this, there was a big party with a giant bonfire. I drank way too much and said and did things I am not proud of. From being drenched with spirit, I became instead depressed, fragile and withdrawn; and spent the remainder of the retreat thus.

Thankfully, last night was much less severe, but I have to wonder about this correlation between feeling inspired and open, and then having an episode when I essentially shut it down for myself. Although I had fun and did not do egregious harm at Saturday’s party, I wish I had cared better for my own life force; and that I had cared better for my little son.

The class Sunday was beautiful. I felt honored to participate in such a meaningful dance. Yet, at once, I felt depleted and distracted—not fully able to show up for myself or for my community. I found myself crying often, pockets of grief erupting, and, too, taking in the grief of the other dancers. Though we stayed in Chaos for song after song after song, there was never catharsis. Most of the feelings that came up for me remained unresolved. Sometimes I have the honor of directly dancing the grief of spirits, but this time, though I offered myself up; I remained too opaque to truly embody my offering.

Life is so infinitely tiny, so infinitely fragile. I simply don’t have any moments to spare in self-induced distraction, in anger, in limitation, in hesitation. I hope I can stop cultivating those things in my life—for example by not overdoing it with drinking at key moments when I have somehow managed to escape my self-imposed limits and expand into infinite possibility.

Amber instructed us to let repetitions come through and to fully express. Sometimes it is in these energetic glitches that spirit breaks through, manifesting in our gestures. I found myself close to the floor, touching it often, even casting an arm down inside a spin. Every repetition that I found involved either the ground below me or the space above me.

Since I was given a Reiki energy-healing empowerment in July, I have been thinking more about self-protection. Not protection that involves aversion or pushing anything away, but protection that involves remaining porous and at once carefully cultivating my own life force. It also involves avoiding things that diminish life force, so that I may be powerful and happy, and so that I may be of service. My human Reiki guide said, “Stay strong and attuned to your highest self and all will flow.” Somehow, contemplating the passing of Michael Julian Berz, a widely-beloved human, made this thought present even stronger.

I am writing in a café and a Nirvana song just began. I can’t help thinking about Kurt Cobain, another artist who took his own life—likely with similar agony—leaving many questions, regrets, torn hearts, and such a touching body of work. It is just so sad. It is hard not to perseverate on this. All the people I know who died by suicide or with unresolved pain come up now. As Amber said in a conversation recently, in part “it just sucks.” There is not always beauty there is not always deliverance there is not always peace. Please let me die with grace when my time comes. Please let me respect how everyone chooses to exit, instead of dwelling on the pain and sadness and fear that arises. Truthfully, my biggest fear to die alone, sad, small; and that is exactly what comes up in the face of this.

When I was at Cape Cod with my family one year, a very old woman planted her cane in the sand and walked into the ocean. The cane looked so resolute, casting a little hooked shadow as the sun moved across its arc. We noted the cane with curiosity all day, and later learned that the old woman had disappeared—never seen again. I love the beauty of the woman’s gesture, but I am tortured forever imagining her last moments—not able to breathe, taking in water. Perhaps she was at peace, or perhaps she regretted her decision after it was too late, wishing for one more embrace, one more kind word, one more sunset, one more chance to connect. My Gods it hurts to feel that. I have to just gulp breath in.

At the end of today’s class, I danced with a friend who I have an incredibly powerful connection to. We moved energetically—spinning, stomping, leaping—and moved in and out of attenuated shapes, balancing each other’s gestures, often extended sideways, balancing on one foot, reaching to the farthest edges of ourselves.

At the end of the class, Martha guided us into a hand-held circle, communicating the initial directions through gesture, not words. She led us in a ritual then, employing the objects of her installation.

I couldn’t quite land at the end of class. Amber put another song on and I moved gently for a little longer while friends greeted each other and caught up. I felt fragile, on the verge of tears, depleted. I didn’t really want to go out into the big , scary world. I lingered and lingered, wondering if I could handle it.

Earlier today, I asked my little son if I could give him a big hug. Knowing that he loves to be picked up though he weighs over 50 pounds, I said, “I will pick you up.” He said, “No, no, Mommy. Don’t pick me up. I don’t want you to hurt your back,” as he held his arms around my neck, hugging and kissing me.

Michael Julian Berz was a talented photographer and beloved member of the 5Rhythms community. He created many of the most iconic images of 5Rhythms teachers and practitioners, miraculously capturing the intangible grace of spirit and inspiration as it arose in his subjects.

August 25, 2015, 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.