by meghanleborious | Jan 4, 2016 | Notes on Practice
![image[2]](https://notesonpractice.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/image2.jpeg?w=300)
The first night of Tammy Burstein’s “Rhythms in Waves” 5Rhythms workshop at the Paul Taylor Studio on the Lower East Side followed an extremely unpleasant day in my own small life. I stepped into the high-ceilinged rectangular room, with its clean, metal theatrical fixtures and foot-scuffed black floor and immediately collapsed, touching my forehead to the floor, grateful to enter the charged space of dance, and looking forward to three consecutive days of intentional moving—hoping it would provide me with some kind of antidote.
The premise of the workshop was that we would investigate not just the “pure” five rhythms: Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness; but also that we would also investigate each of the five rhythms as it is intersected by each of the other five rhythms. For example, a Flowing wave (in 5Rhythms, a “wave” is the thing that is created when we move through each of the five rhythms in sequence) might have the following sequence: Flowing, Flowing-Staccato, Flowing-Chaos, Flowing-Lyrical and Flowing-Stillness. A Lyrical wave might consist of Lyrical-Flowing, Lyrical-Staccato, Lyrical-Chaos, Lyrical and Lyrical-Stillness. If this sounds confusing, maybe we could just say that the workshop was about investigating each of the five rhythms and their many nuances.
During the first wave of the workshop, I felt happy and connected to everyone in the room. I noticed that there were many brand new dancers and wondered if that would affect the “depth” of my experience. Asked to partner, we were instructed to verbally share what rhythms felt comfortable and what rhythms felt uncomfortable for us. I said that nothing felt particularly uncomfortable, though I noted a hint of disengagement in Staccato. Tammy offered, “Where it is uncomfortable, that’s really the site of inquiry,” letting her words sink in as her gaze traveled among the dancers gathered on the floor around her.
I continued to find it difficult to connect with Staccato—the rhythm of expression, of linearity, of boundaries, of clarity, of the heart—in exercises devoted to its exploration, though felt at ease in every other rhythm. My mind offered me, “I think I need to repair my relationship with Staccato.”
On Friday, I loved being in Chaos. I noticed that I was especially in the mood for songs in the category of Chaos with grating, bass resistance that drew me toward the ground and inspired dragging, weighted gestures. I danced with one of the brand new dancers and my questions about being in a workshop with so many new people dissolved. The new dancer and I entered into an ebullient Lyrical dance. I started with some of the gestures I have lately been investigating in Lyrical, then discovered some totally new ways to move, thanks to this wholehearted and enthusiastic partner. Next, I continued in Lyrical, stepping into a high-energy dance with an old friend, playing along with some of her favorite footwork that I have by now incorporated a version of into my own movement vocabulary.
We had tea. We danced another wave. This one ended with groups and repetitions, which I hated. We had to participate in a circle and each person had to offer a gesture the others would follow. I had a hard time picking a gesture when it was my turn. I was also resistant to some of the gestures offered by other dancers, and enacted some of them only reluctantly.
At the end of Friday’s final wave, we sat in pairs and were asked to take turns telling our own story of Chaos. I expressed that I had embraced and enjoyed Chaos during the evening’s work. I self-deprecated, saying “Maybe I just tend to be chaotic in my life,” then later circled around to my original statement, revising it, “I don’t know if it is that I am really so chaotic. I think I’m just really driven by creative energy. I hate structure. I hate the structures around me right now. I really just want to be immersed in creative work all the time.”
Saturday’s session began late. Most weekend workshops include a daytime session on Saturday, but in this case, due to scheduling constraints with the studio, Saturday’s session was from 5.15pm-10pm.
My five-year-old son, Simon, and I spent the day before the Saturday night session together. We set out to find a group of his friends in Prospect Park. Running late to begin with, we had a very difficult time finding the appointed place. As you may know, Prospect Park is big and rambling, and it can take a long time to get from one end to the other. The play area wasn’t on any version of the map, and I couldn’t figure out where to park. After much futile research, we took our best guess and headed into the park. We asked several people and no one knew what we were talking about. I was getting frustrated and feeling urgency, not wanting to let Simon down and fearing that his friends would have already gone home by the time we got there.
A gentle witness—an elderly woman on a park bench—inspired me to shift the frame. By then, Simon was getting upset, too, and I knelt down in front of him. “Listen, sweetheart,” I said. “I know we are having a hard time finding the play place. I’m getting frustrated, too. But I think we have to push the re-set button. We are in the park now. Let’s enjoy being in the park. We will still try to find our friends, but let’s decide we’re going to have fun no matter what.” We did shift, and as a result entered into a series of adventures and pleasant exchanges. We eventually found the visually discrete play area, which was tucked behind a wide field around some ancient trees that had fallen during a hurricane. Most people had already gone home, but Simon’s current favorite classmate was still there, and they were able to play together for nearly an hour.
Simon’s friend laughed when I used one of the many terms-of-endearment I have for him, “Pumpkin.” Walking back through the park, I asked him, “Simon, do you want me to not call you pumpkin around your friends any more?” “Mommy, you can call me that any time. You can even call me pumpkin in a big crowd of people and I won’t mind that at all!”
After an opening wave for Saturday’s session, in a formal discussion with a new dancer, I was asked to tell the story of my relationship to Flowing. I floundered about, beginning with, “If we really have no edges at all, no directionality, then Flowing is just air. There is nothing there.” This is a thought that has been with me for a long time now. Sometimes I feel like I need to apply just the tiniest bit of force so Flowing has responsiveness. This question is subtle and is not plaguing me, but it would be good to ask some teachers and practitioners to find out what others think. My partner offered me advice at that point, which was not in keeping with the construct; but I let it pass through me, neither leaning into it nor pushing it away.
Tammy proposed an exercise in which we partnered and alternated roles between “passivity” and “receptivity.” I stepped right into a dance with someone I find it hard to be receptive to, entering fully into the experiment regardless. “Passivity” felt uncomfortable—constrained, breathless, worried. “Receptivity” felt much more comfortable, but was difficult to enact, as I wanted to move toward and around my passive partner, which started to feel like crossing the line into Staccato, simply with the act of approaching. I noted with interest that I perceived that the passive partner was the one who drew the energy into himself, whereas the receptive partner inevitably seemed to move toward the passive one. I wondered about the implications of these insights for my relationships; and I absolutely loved moving back and forth between the two ends of this very particular continuum.
We moved in many different flavors of Flowing: Pure Flowing, Flowing-Staccato, Flowing-Chaos, Flowing-Lyrical and Flowing-Stillness. On this day, I particularly loved moving in Flowing-Chaos and found wild, uncontrolled spinning and dramatic, frozen suspensions.
We took a short break halfway through our Saturday night session. The producer had provided snacks and tea, which I gratefully gathered, then sat quietly in the massive bay windows facing a now-darkened Grand Street and the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge.
As we began the second wave of Saturday night—our Staccato wave—we entered into conscious inertia, the shadow of the rhythm of Flowing. I noted that I have a bias against inertia, and posed the question to myself, “Is there any positive aspect of inertia that I can let in?” I realized that inertia could be experienced as a kind of slow langor. At just that moment Tammy offered something about “moving in honey” into the microphone.
As we began to get into the Staccato part of the Staccato wave, my mind was deliberating on a work problem. I had a hard time shaking the inertia, as well. I had moments when I felt connected to myself and to the others in the room, but overall I wasn’t fully engaged and my energy was dipping. I remembered the previous day’s thought, “I need to repair my relationship to Staccato.” I reflected that my workplace structure causes me to suffer, and that I feel trapped and oppressed at the moment.
To explain a tribal exercise—when one person creates a simple gesture and a group of people follow it—Tammy pulled me forward to help her to demonstrate. She correctly read my resistance and called me out publicly, mimicking my gesture and naming it, saying, “That’s great! Do that again.” She was right. Tribal work is the least comfortable, least pleasant and least interesting category of 5Rhythms experiment to me at this time. Truthfully, I hate Tribal. Tammy explained that Tribal exercises are about learning to follow and learning to lead. Perhaps I have issues in these areas. I find it very hard to select one simple gesture when I am leading. It is like putting all my eggs in one basket. Choosing a favorite color. Flattening myself out to make myself easier for someone else to understand. When someone is leading, I grow bored easily with the many identical repetitions. I lose interest. I watch the clock. I also get irritated and don’t want to follow if I decide to believe that the person who is leading (and who I am following) is full of shit, for some reason.
Being enmeshed in a painful hierarchy at work might be a bigger factor than my inherent ability to lead or to follow. At any rate, I did my best. I felt no shame at being called out, nor at fumbling to find a gesture, but simply noted it. Tammy said we should each pause when we reached the other side of the room and turn to look at the phalanx of dancers moving toward us with our own created gesture and ask, “Did I create confusion or clarity?” My first go seemed to create confusion. The second go had more clarity to it, relatively speaking. Later in the workshop, when called to enter into another similar exercise, I willingly stepped up without hesitation, pushing myself, but feeling no less awkward or resistant.
Again and again the theme of needing to repair my relationship to Staccato emerged. To revamp my ability to create clean boundaries, untainted by aggression or insistence.
After the conclusion of Saturday’s final wave, we gathered briefly. One new dancer expressed that although she feels like she is very oriented toward Flowing in her life, she was surprised to discover that she could step right into Staccato on the dance floor. She wondered aloud if she might not also have the capacity to enact Staccato in her life. I love that next she asked Tammy if it is possible that dance could change how you are in life. I don’t think I could have formed a question like that in the very beginning! Such a very direct and staccato move, in fact. Tammy answered her sincerely, explaining that in her own experience, dance did just that. As things arose on the dance floor and she worked through them, she also started to change in her life off the dance floor. The new dancer seemed to like her answer, and nodded with a head-tilted look of concentration.
At the end of the session, I walked pensively to the car. Arriving home late, I did nothing but have a snack, make a few quick notes, and go to bed.
On Sunday, I headed to the Lower East Side with adequate time and no need to rush. Driving, I listened to a story on the radio that explored theories of the “multiverse,” a perspective that holds that time is not linear, as we often perceive it, but is instead curved and overlapping; and may in fact be occurring simultaneously in more than one dimension. According to the reporter, the multiverse did not start only with Einstein. The story traced the idea historically, beginning with a group of ancient Greek philosophers who believed that the entire cosmos was wiped out every 40,000 years or so, then every event, structure and being was exactly duplicated, and then enacted the exact same history until everything was wiped out again. And again. And again.
I stepped onto the dance floor quivering with awareness of the vast, unknowable cosmic mystery that is constantly unfolding around us. I lapped the room several times—exploring the perimeter, noticing things at the edges. As I write I realize that, too, when I was walking the perimeter of the dance floor, part of my intention was to help to create sacred space—a place where the false distinctions we inhabit can more easily dissolve to show us infinity and the fundamental truths of existence.
As Sunday’s wave opened, this time at noon, I found a totally new expression in Flowing. For months, I have been exploring a clock-like, radial, stuck-to-the-floor, folding-in-and-out-of-myself series of movements. Recently, these movements have gained lift and twist, becoming athletic and emphatic—with a strong influence of 80’s style breakdancing. On this Saturday, I also began to move back and forth from this radial series of gestures into a compressed, spinning little ball. Though we were just beginning the session, I was already sweating and breathing hard. It was almost like an interpretation of the early universe—when swirling dust began to coalesce as form—leading eventually to our earth and planets.
It is not uncommon to ask another dancer, “What are you working with lately in dance?” There is often a movement that presents repeatedly over a period of time. It might be a stuck memory working its way through. It might be an aspect of self that needs attention. It might be a hint of a different lifetime, or of a forgotten experience in this life. It might be a way of moving that simply feels correct at a given time. A movement itself might have something to teach us. As I write this text I ask myself, “Is there something this way of moving is trying to teach me?” My mind answers back, albeit cryptically, “As I learn to worship the ground, the entire universe opens up.”
Shortly after, I entered into an exercise in a group of three, in which we all experienced a shared event from our own point of view. The event involved one person dancing through each of the 5Rhythms in a wave and another moving in the rhythm of Chaos only. One of the trio members shared that witnessing the person in Chaos next to the person dancing an individual wave was like watching her younger self, when she danced huge all the time and felt very identified with Chaos. She also said something about “garbage” to get rid of. The other trio member shared that when one person in Chaos blazed with intensity she “Was like, enough already! Like if I had two kids and one had her ups-and-downs and the other was at maximum all the time, I would be like, that’s enough!” She also shared that she just wasn’t interested in dancing so hard any more. That it was just too much on her body.
I loved hearing their insights, but a little piece of me wanted to defend Chaos. Even as lately I have been more interested in investigating other rhythms, I note that I am still very identified with Chaos. I don’t think it is just about getting rid of garbage, but that, too, it can be about moving with full awareness in ever-changing, completely unpredictable circumstances. Groundlessness. Uncertainty. I think Chaos is a representation of the tangled, beautiful fucking mess of living—all that is in our exploding, relative reality. (And I love it for that. How do I love it for that!)
I noted with interest that while I was dancing an individual wave and another dancer was in Chaos with all the intensity she could muster, I had no problem with sharing space with her. At moments I felt concerned that she would exhaust herself, but, for myself, I was able to have my own experience. This was comforting to me, as I often fear that my sometimes-gigantic Chaos is just too much. I was happy to know that I was completely ok with offering space for another’s gigantic Chaos. It made me feel more at ease with myself, somehow. Maybe in letting myself be gigantic when it comes, I open the door for others to be gigantic when their time comes, too.
I circled back to Tammy’s guiding questions: What do the places we are comfortable have to teach us? What do the places we are uncomfortable have to teach us? I am very comfortable in Chaos and in the face of others’ Chaos. I am very happy within constant change. I love to be immersed in creative work. I love to be spontaneous, responsive, dynamic. The question of what the uncomfortable places have to teach me will have to be contemplated more over time. At this time, the rhythm of Staccato and tribal exercises seem to be the places that I find most abrasive.
We took over an hour for lunch on Sunday. I felt introverted, protective. I just wanted to be quiet and let the previous dances sink in. I ate the lunch I had prepared the night before, then settled into an edge of the dance floor to make a few notes and perhaps lay down discreetly in the dimmed room. Soaring birds in a big, curved pattern passed the light-filled high windows on one side of the studio when I happened to look up.
Unfortunately, one of the participants, who was also in the dimmed room, was listening to her headphones and began to sing loudly, a yoga-chanting type of number. I repaired to the area off the dance floor with the giant bay windows looking onto Grand Street. I sat next to an open pane, and unseasonably warm air, perhaps inspired by the El Nino current, drifted inside. Though it was just lunchtime, dusk was quickly approaching.
When the singing finally concluded I returned to the studio floor, leaning against a wall. I spent a few moments catching up with a friend, and found tears as I narrated my recent experiences, especially when I talked about work and the structures I am now immersed in.
In addition to dancing many waves during the workshop, the workshop itself followed the format of a larger wave, with early investigation of Flowing, then Staccato and Chaos. After lunch on Sunday, we moved into an investigation of Lyrical. I was weary, we were all weary, but somehow Lyrical still came through. I reveled in easy movement, smiling and connecting with many in the room. My hands caught fire, and then, too, my heart, burning a hole right through my chest to the back. My spirit entourage appeared, supporting me in every gesture as I moved intuitively, my hands still on fire.
This vision persisted through the workshop’s final investigation—of Stillness. I was so tired I left the room to eat a square of chocolate, hoping it would help to revive me, then returned to complete this final wave and to complete the larger wave of the workshop.
We ended in a semi-circle around an exquisite installation created specially for the workshop by Anahita Mekanik. It featured cantilevered ropes attached to the black velvet stage curtain behind it like flying buttresses, carefully selected texts, both ephemeral and weighed objects, and two graceful spirals, representing various aspects of each of the 5Rhythms—Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness.
“Movement is my medium and my metaphor. I know that if a wave of energy is allowed to complete itself, it yields a whole new wave, and in fact that is all I really know.” -Gabrielle Roth, Creator of the 5Rhythms
December 23, 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.
by meghanleborious | Nov 30, 2015 | Notes on Practice, Uncategorized
I have had Amber Ryan’s “Examine Stillness” workshop on my calendar for over a year. When I first spotted the date on Amber’s calendar, I emailed her, thinking it was a typo. She responded, letting me know it would take place in 2015, not 2014, and that the date was correct. I noted it right away, and have looked forward to it since that time. I am dismayed and, indeed, angry, to report that I was not able to attend today.
I emailed the workshop producer yesterday to let her know that I would not be able to attend as I was ill, and, too, that I have to take a big test tomorrow afternoon and need to study. I am feeling slightly better physically, but the test still looms. I have been teaching Global History and English in a high school in Brooklyn; and (in part because of a clerical mistake) I recently learned that I have to take and pass several exams in order to continue teaching. The one I am facing tomorrow is a Math test. The test includes Algebra, Geometry, Trigonometry, Statistics, Functions and Calculus. I took remedial Math when I was an undergraduate, and struggled even then. I already failed the test once, but was determined to beat it this time, and have immersed myself in studying for the past several weeks.
I don’t know if I am writing now because I am taking a break or if it is because I have given up. I am still struggling to master high school Algebra, never mind the higher-level concepts I will surely encounter on the test.
Peter Fodera taught Tammy’s Friday Night Waves class this week. I was not feeling well, but decided to attend and move gently, giving myself permission to leave early if I needed to. Arriving to an already active room, I flowed right in, even feeling joy and excitement as I found a safe spot for my belongings and began to move in the collective field.
During that afternoon, I had found myself sobbing after two days of school parent-teacher conferences. I sat with a co-teacher, receiving parents of our shared students both Thursday night and Friday afternoon. I was happy to offer compliments and good news to some parents; and also offered targeted suggestions when called for.
More notable was what the parents and students were bringing to us. It doesn’t feel correct to publish the specifics, but the hours were filled with stories of death, illness, abuse, challenges and sadness. Too, they were filled with resolve and the intention to persevere and thrive, but what lingered in the air was the tone of pain.
After the final session had ended I saw a student in the hallway. He introduced the family member who had come to the parent-teacher conference to support him. Both my colleague and I had tried repeatedly to contact someone from his family without success, as we were concerned that he was not succeeding academically. I also know that his history is pocked with severe difficulty, by his own account. The student’s family member, who I had not even known about, professed great love and support. I was incredibly relieved that this kid had someone to look up to and to watch out for him. I know it is not professional, but I started to cry. I tried to turn away, but the student lingered. “I love you, Ms. LeBorious,” the student said, leaning over to hug me. I hurriedly sent them along to another teacher, shut the door to the room and broke down.
I was happy that I made it to Friday Night Waves class, despite not feeling well. I moved without any effort, relaxing into the music. Peter had been thinking about the Paris bombings; and he decided to select music with the theme of love in response to the events.
In the rhythm of Chaos, I alternated the pace of movement, slowing and softening—almost going slack, then bursting into a new flurry of gestures. I kept sneezing and blowing my nose, even in the excitement of Chaos.
I did not partner as much as usual, preferring to keep to myself. I felt more subtle than expansive, and more gentle than emphatic. I shared several dances, including with one of my favorite partners of all time, but in most cases disengaged after just a song or less.
After the first wave, I decided to take it easy and head for home. I knew I had left my water bottle in a particular spot; but I could not find it. I pawed through bags and jackets to no avail.
At the same time, Peter paused the music briefly to offer verbal teachings. He shared that he had been in Berlin the week before when the recent bombings took place in Paris. A close friend—another 5Rhythms teacher—was practicing alongside him. She was from Paris and had left her young child in another’s care to attend the Berlin workshop. She thought about returning right away, but in the end decided to stay in Berlin and dance.
Peter’s message was clear. You can always choose love. You can always make the choice to turn toward love, no matter what you face—even when there is great fear. Knowing a little bit about Peter’s personal story, this pronouncement has even more weight. He carries some heavy challenges, yet he smiles with his entire body, dances with everyone he encounters and seems, by all accounts, very, very happy. “That is one of the things I love about this practice,” he said. “You can fall in love with everyone! Why not? Why not fall in love with everyone?” He asked, smiling, holding both hands upward as his eyes moved around the room, making eye contact with the many seated dancers gathered around him.
I sit here writing, knowing full well that I should apply myself to studying, and at once feeling doomed. I will return to the studying shortly, but for now I have a little more to say.
I finally located my water bottle, which had been knocked off the end of a table and buried by piled-up coats and bags. I decided to stay just until the next wave started, to avoid being rude while Peter was talking. Then, Peter told us he had selected music with the theme of love (teasing himself a little—I guess for his supposed sentimentality); and I hung my things on the studio doorknob, deciding I would stay for just one more song. I was tired, but the music motivated me.
After the first song of the wave ended, I stayed for just one more. Traveling around the room, I passed a friend who was dancing on the floor—not wanting to put weight on a foot that was bound in a soft cast. I put my hand on my heart and met her eye by way of greeting, thinking I would continue to move through the room, but instead found myself pulled in to dance with her. In Flowing, we danced with increasing expressivity, never rising to our feet, but instead arcing sideways, spinning on the floor and undulating—smiling all the while.
With just 25 minutes left in the two-hour class I did finally leave, thinking I could at least get a little studying in before I went to bed.
The next day, I studied some more. I arranged for a friend to take my son for the afternoon, though Saturday is my only full day with him, and continued to study. Material did not seem to be sticking. In a way, I was trying to learn 15 years of Math in just a few weeks. I felt discouraged.
My five-year-old son woke up as usual before dawn, and, as he stretched his back and rose to consciousness, muttered, “Mommy, are four sets of nine thirty-six?”
That day, I studied some more. I re-did some practice tests and got many of the things I got right a week ago wrong this time. I started to entertain the idea that I might, in fact, not be able to pass the test. That I might lose my job. I even started to think about where we would move if I didn’t have a job and couldn’t afford the rent any longer. Anxiety took over. I thought of all the unfair, horrific events and deaths that have touched me in recent years. I thought of my son’s father—unemployed for far too long. I thought of losing my parents one day. By this point, my mind had completely taken over. I even started to feel anxiety about imagined, projected events of my son’s teenage years, which are still over a decade away.
Another thing that plagued me was that I couldn’t stop thinking about my 22-year-old friend—my son’s babysitter—who has been in a coma for three weeks. Thankfully, she is starting to regain her senses, but she is not communicating at all yet. I finally found out what had caused it—her doctors think she had a stroke. A stroke. I just couldn’t manage that.
By the end of the day, I started to see the tricks my mind was playing on me. I attended a yoga class, and, immersed in embodiment, found language for what I was experiencing. Simply put: fear. I was afraid and aversive. I was angry at the injustice of my situation. Slowly, I let myself open to the fear I was experiencing; and to the reality of the situation I was embroiled in. Really, it was just a slight shift of perspective. The only thing I have some measure of control over—really, when you come down to it—is how I choose to deal with what I have to deal with. Whether I am open to it or not, I still have to deal with this crazy test somehow.
As a result of opening up to my own fears, I noticed my compassion for other people in impossible situations. I felt compassion for the many teenagers I teach who try and try and cannot pass the difficult state exams required to graduate. I also thought about the many Syrian refugees—fleeing danger and violence and stepping into total uncertainty. People in abject poverty. People with terrible illnesses. And, too, all of the people in the exact same situation I am in—having to pass the Math CST test in order to continue teaching despite the fact that they don’t teach Math and have not been trained in the material. Opening to my own pain, and to everyone else’s, softened me; and I spent much of the class crying, with my forehead on the floor.
The anger that I had experienced initially toward an unjust system had dissolved completely; and I was reminded that the measure of my humanity is not just my ability to surmount obstacles and to set and reach goals—but is, too, defined by my ability to open to everything that arises in my experience, even when my circumstances seem impossible and the air seems filled with pain.
November 22, 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.
by meghanleborious | Nov 13, 2015 | Notes on Practice
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.
by meghanleborious | Oct 12, 2015 | Notes on Practice
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.
by meghanleborious | Oct 9, 2015 | Notes on Practice
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.
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