by meghanleborious | Jul 14, 2016 | Notes on Practice
I was overly optimistic in putting on a bathing suit. During a brief glimpse of blue, we rushed to get to the sea, hoping for at least a few moments of beach fun. As it was, the blue was enclosed again by white sky long before we made it to the beach, but we decided to explore anyway. We found a place to park near Bonmahon Beach in Co. Waterford, Ireland and set up the sandy path to the sea. I shivered with a three-quarter sleeve sweater and my six-year-old son, Simon, complained—between designing games with sticks, investigating the tidal river, running toward the roaring waves, and creating performances for an imagined audience modeled on a show we had seen in Galway the week prior—that his hands were cold in the wind.
Monday, I finally got to practice formally as Simon attended his first day of camp in Dunhill.
I dropped Simon off at camp, lingering while he acclimated. Most of the other children were part of large family contingents, and I wondered how he would fare. I had been awake the night before, anxious about entrusting him to new people. I also kept reviewing an incident of a few days before, when he and I climbed to the highest point of a castle ruin. I regretted my decision as soon as we climbed up, and had a moment of intense fear as I gathered the strength and focus needed to get us back down. When I was checking out the climb before I ok’d it for Simon, he stood for a moment with his back to an extremely steep, crumbling stone staircase. I gasped and drew him to me, reminding him to never turn his back to a ledge or a staircase. I kept re-playing it and re-playing it, realizing that no matter how many times you say it, a six-year-old is unlikely to have the mindfulness needed to manage things like climbing up dangerous rocks. With camp looming, this episode that had felt like an adventure a few days prior now felt like terror. Our trip has been filled with challenges; and I realize that fear has begun to encroach on my peace of mind. As it was, the camp seemed safe, spacious, uplifted and cheerful; and he quickly joined a group of his peers.
I was very eager to practice and to venture on my own. I returned to my friend’s lovely thatch cottage that is our temporary home and gathered what I thought I might need. I walked across the street and down a little overgrown path to the Annestown beach. I wandered to the east end, investigating the attributes of high tide, then made my way along over piled, large, round stones to the west end of the beach where I knew there was an unprotected cliff path. I had embarked on the path a few days before with Simon, but quickly realized that it was too dangerous, especially given his punchy mood at that moment, and turned back. Stepping onto it again, I couldn’t believe I even considered it with him. On one side there was an electrified fence protecting an open meadow of grazing cattle. On the other, high cliffs dropping down to open sea. I moved along the path slowly, choosing my steps. Once, I stumbled on the small, loose rocks that littered the path and was very grateful that I hadn’t stumbled on one of the most dangerous sections directly above sheer ocean cliffs with no buffer of grass between.
I followed the path as far as I could, until I wasn’t sure at if it was just a run-off ditch for water or an actual path, then picked the most beautiful spot to practice. I returned half-way back along the cliffs then turned left onto a path that lead to the end of soaring bluff. It was totally flat, and featured a lush meadow of perhaps fifteen feet across. I crawled out on my belly to look over the edge, but as the tip of my nose reached the tiny red flowers growing in the side of the cliff, I decided it was too dangerous and squirmed back, fearing that the rock at the edge might crumble. Below, the sea churned and two small, rising, green-covered islands sustained the pummeling waves. I placed my flip flops and bag three or four feet in from the ledge to remind me to stay away from it, even as I started to dance.
I tend to be intrepid and to love the sharp edge of mild danger, but this time, practice was restrained. In Flowing, I was reluctant to move my feet. This was partly because of the liberal amount of rabbit shit in the thick, green grass, partly because of some tiny, sharp sticks that hurt to step on, partly because of the real possibility of falling to my death, and (surely) partly because I have had a recent spike in fear, resulting from a series of confidence-shaking experiences since the beginning of this trip.
At once, it was exquisite. A vast, moody sky stretched for endless miles. I could feel the sugar in the bright grass and had a powerful felt sense of the carved cliff beneath me. The waves crashed below and moved around the islands in dynamic, unpredictable patterns. Winds presented strongly, too, filling my ears and applying their own force. My senses were full of the elements and I let them fill me and pass through.
I felt pulled quickly to Staccato, but resisted, hoping to dance for at least an hour and thinking I should spend more time in Flowing. I also hoped that Flowing might open up more, and that I might find more flexibility and ease. After some time of moving in Flowing—sometimes with subtle inspiration and sometimes vaguely—I moved into Staccato.
Each rhythm manifested subtly. Though I went dutifully through the entire wave, I only practiced for a half hour or so. Last summer when I was practicing independently like this—also without a teacher and without music and with the sea—my first few dances seemed lackluster, too; and I assumed that if I continued to set the intention, the practice would open up in its own time. I spread out a towel and sat in meditation following this short 5Rhythms wave, then made my way very, very carefully back down the cliff path.
I hoped that dancing would raise a sweat, but it never reached that level of exertion. I have not been getting enough exercise since I have been in Ireland; and I have craved the endorphins. Although I can usually count on practice for a workout (Gabrielle Roth—the visionary polymath who created the 5Rhythms practice even occasionally touted this benefit), I don’t like to put that much pressure on it, so I went for a vigorous run later in the afternoon, again (as mentioned in my last text) visiting the local castle ruin.
I picked Simon up from camp at 3.30. He complained mildly about his day, saying that pretty much everyone there had lots of brothers and sisters, and that he wished he had brothers and sisters, too. We stopped at a much-talked-about local playground on the way home. It had a giant, net-like rope structure to climb, a zip line, swings, slides, see-saws, and many iterations of things to climb.
Simon was playing happily with two other kids on a large spinning disk merry-go-round when he had an accident. He had been rolling off the spinning edge and tumbling away quite skillfully. I told him to roll off the other side, rather than into me and the woman who was standing next to me with a four-month-old baby strapped to her chest. The first few tumbles went fine, but the third was calamitous. Simon rolled down a hill and right into a stone wall, hitting the back of his head on a big rock with a loud “whack” sound. He started to cry right away and stood up. I ran to him and realized that the back of his head was spurting blood. I was terrified. Thankfully, the woman with the four-month-old baby sprang into action. “I need to take him to the emergency room, right?” I said breathlessly. “I think so,” she said back quickly. She tried to calm Simon down in the most cheerful, reassuring voice, while also trying to get a look at the cut. Thank Gods, Simon had no signs of concussion, but I was extremely worried. The woman helped us get to our car, bantering kindly all the while and offering to help in any way she could. I was tight with fear and kicking myself for not realizing this possible danger, and I spent the drive tight with anxiety, unable to fully address Simon’s questions about stitches and the emergency room.
Somehow I managed to get us home. Once the house was in sight, I felt like I was going to fall off the earth. I was so afraid Simon’s wound might be very bad—perhaps a puncture or a cracked skull. I imagined the worst. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but there had been so much blood for a minute or so. I was fiercely hot and ripped off my sweater. I sank to the kitchen floor, saying, “Simon, come snuggle with Mommy on the floor for a second.” The world spun and I was very close to fainting, but I told myself I had to get it together. I got Simon settled in front of some cartoons, then ran to get a bowl of water and a facecloth to wash the wound and have a look at it. I grabbed socks and a sweater, also, as I had begun to shiver and my teeth were chattering. The wound didn’t look too bad, but I couldn’t tell for sure. He still had no symptoms of concussion, but after several hours home, I decided to take him to the local hospital. Sitting in the emergency room waiting area, Simon put his little head in my lap and went to sleep. I was so worried I couldn’t even be bored. Thankfully, we were seen quickly and the doctor was confident that Simon had only a superficial wound. We set out for home shortly after midnight.
The next day, he stayed home from camp and we explored a local town all day, including the toy shop.
As we woke up the next day to prepare for camp, Simon shared that he was very nervous about something. “Mommy, what if you die while we are in Ireland and I am all alone?” I did my best to reassure him, again, but part of me was very fearful, too. Things had been going extraordinarily not-well. My mantra for the day became, “Stay alive. Stay alive. Stay alive.”
After dropping Simon off at camp, I searched at length for a car mechanic my friend had recommended. I have a big squish in the side of the rental car, and face a 1500 dollar deductible if I can’t get it repaired before I return it. (I parked next to a stone wall, where one big stone protruding outward was hidden by some greenery. The rest is history, as they say.) I finally resorted to calling the number she had given me. “Hello?” “Yes, hello, is this Maurice from Lenihan’s Garage?” “Yeah.” “My friend highly recommended you to me. I have a bad car problem and I’m trying to find you.” He asked where I was and I tried in vain to explain. He said he was next to a school. I hoped the school might come up on the GPS and asked, “What school?” “It doesn’t have a name,” he said, “We don’t really want to be found here.” That made me feel sort of unwelcome, but I did manage to find it eventually. When I arrived, Maurice scarcely looked at me, turning me over immediately to an associate who told me the job would probably cost at least 1000 euro. On the way home from there, I nearly took a casual right turn into a speeding truck, accustomed, as I am, to easy right turns, and forgetting for a moment that I am driving on the opposite side of the road. I inhaled sharply and returned to my mantra, “Stay alive. Stay alive. Stay alive.”
After, I went to a beautiful local beach. Parking, I felt constrained. Fear was wearing me out. I had not slept well, again. I was trying to talk myself out of this fear of dying that had persisted now for several days—perhaps a result of so many mishaps and mis-steps in recent days and weeks. I had to keep dragging myself back from a trance of anxiety again and again.
I intended to investigate the west end of the beach near a small surf station, then go to the beach’s east end to find a quiet place to practice, but a spot near the surf station called me. It was at sea level, not high on a sheer cliff, and not the most dramatic site in the area. The tide was very low and there was almost no surf. The west end of the beach was hemmed by a tall cliff and another tall cliff rose on the north side. The spot I chose was a little circle—perhaps eight feet across—protected by some fallen boulders.
I danced a very classic 5Rhythms wave. It was classic in the sense that each of the five rhythms was fully attended to; and each rhythm had nearly equal time and weight. I began to move right away, finding Flowing easily. I was grateful to be at sea level, feeling my feet in the sand and not worrying about cliff edges. “I could stay here for hours,” I said internally, taking off my jacket as I began to warm up. The first thing that came was tears. I wanted to be taken care of—and I craved the people in my life who have been kind enough to take care of me. I cried for the expensive car issue, for the many hours I had spent lost and driving down skinny country lanes that all looked alike, and for the many moments of disempowerment, fear and frustration I have experienced. I also re-lived Simon’s accident in the playground, finding a gasp of horror (along with guilt and primal fear) that temporarily stopped the flowing, circular movements my body was finding as my feet revolved on the packed, wet sand. I found another gasp, the same one that escapes me every time I come around a harrowing blind curve in one of the skinny lanes hemmed by stone walls and thick hedges and encounter a vehicle barreling toward me from the opposite direction.
In Flowing, I let in primal fear and anxiety. Though I couldn’t fully embrace it, the idea that I could fundamentally trust the universe presented. I had been tightening, hoping if I try very hard to pay attention, I could keep us safe. Rather, I remembered that the best way to stay safe is relaxed awareness—attending to the senses and responding appropriately as things arise. The glaze of anxiety that comes from tightening against experience does the exact opposite, and leads to more errors in judgment. My heart became external and I danced with it, caring for it like a child that needs extra love and patience in the throes of a sickness. I thought about the many people I have encountered who bear so much fear and anxiety that they don’t have the energy to be pleasant or artful or inspired; and in that moment felt similarly bedraggled.
Unlike two days ago when I thought I should keep myself in Flowing, I let the rhythms change as they wanted to, this time not insisting that I stay in Flowing when my body wanted to move into Staccato. Part of deepening practice is, I think, knowing when “instinct” is really conditioned response, a way to escape something unpleasant. At these times, skillful resistance is called for. At other times, what feels like “instinct” is intuition, and, as such should be acknowledged and attended to. I realized, as Staccato arrived, that I had not served myself in slowing my entrance to Staccato the previous day. I needed to be very clear about my boundaries on the cliff. Later the same day, I also needed to step directly into Staccato when Simon had the accident in the park.
Staccato arrived. Firm. Clean. Sharp breaths powered my movements. I let myself be seen—heart and all, as I moved in and around my little rock circle—an energetically safe spot that allowed me to relax into the moment. Even vigorous Staccato did not raise a sweat as the day was still chilly, but blue sky peeked through the low clouds and warmed me; and I was able to take off my sweater.
There was so much happening inside me during this wave that I only danced for a fraction of each rhythm with the sea. Chaos was shy—not huge, but honest, real. Lyrical came and I wanted to fly, to soar with the birds overhead. As there was little wind, the birds were not soaring in great arcing gestures, but were instead fluttering and flitting, and I followed them in this, too. I did not gloss over Stillness, as I have tended to do when practicing independently in the past, but found wind, clouds and long, slow gestures.
I considered moving to a different part of the beach to do another wave, thinking I would take a moment to practice Reiki then move on, but another wave started up spontaneously. In Reiki there is a strong emphasis on healing energy in the hands; and in this case, I was once again holding my heart in my hands, and dancing with it. My movements found weight as the heart was large and heavy. I danced in and through it, at once, with weighted inertia. Staccato broke through, again, without the energy of confrontation, but clear, with a simple willingness to be seen. Succumbing to a familiar habit, right before Lyrical arrived, I had to check the phone to make sure Simon’s camp hadn’t called with any emergencies. In Lyrical in this second wave, I found a little more grace, a little more flight. I sailed up, too, in a set resembling traditional Irish step dancing, enjoying jauntiness and verticality.
Finally, I found my way back to Stillness, and back to my original Reiki intention. I saw Gabrielle, above and to my right, and drew her into my heart. Then, I experimented with expanding and contracting my energy field and with how far I could be to feel the energy of the large rocks in my circle. First, swelling to fill the whole rock circle, then contracting again to a tiny field close to my body (a layer I’ve been exploring with a friend back in New York). Using Reiki, I looked at the pain body and cleared spots of blocked energy in the diaphragm, hips, lower belly, and right back heart. At the end of the wave I practiced sitting meditation for a little while before gathering my things and leaving the beach.
When I picked him up, Simon told me he had fun at camp. The evening was relatively warm; and we went to the beach together, playing tag and several other games of Simon’s invention.
July 14, 2016, Annestown, Co. Waterford, Ireland
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 | Jul 9, 2016 | Notes on Practice
While everyone in New York is suffering through a heat wave, I have been wearing sweaters and still shivering. This is my seventh day in chilly Ireland, traveling with my six-year-old son, Simon. First, we explored the astonishingly beautiful western region of Connemara. In Connemara, there is water everywhere. Lush vegetation goes all the way to the edges of every puddle, lake and river, giving the impression that everything is extremely full. Rock juts up through the green in impressive, unpeopled, ancient mountains. Rolling fields patchworked in different greens and hemmed by squared stone walls stretch all the way to the ocean’s edge. Textured layerings of green plants cover everything, even overtaking rock walls and sea cliffs—though in an entirely cheerful proliferation, nothing of sinister engulfment or of overwhelming insistence.
On our first full day in Annestown, on the Southeast coast of Ireland where we are staying at the house of a good friend, Simon got completely soaked. I didn’t even bring a change of clothes to the beach because it didn’t cross my mind that he might frolic in the waves on such a foggy, cold day; but he met a new friend and they raced happily in and out of the water. (It should be so easy for all of us! “You are about my size. You are willing to run with me. You are my friend!”) Truthfully, it seems almost that easy here with adults, too.
The next day, Simon and I trekked from late morning until evening in search of a local castle. With some trial and error, we managed to locate a nearby path our friend had mentioned that leads to the ruined palace. As we neared the castle, the path grew narrow and steep, with vegetation enclosing us as we ascended. Having been stung by nettles the day before, Simon moved forward hesitantly. Emerging, we were the only castle visitors. There was a discreet board with information in Irish, but no other signs of tourism. The castle rose above us, overgrown and chipped away, but nonetheless impressive. I put the picnic bag down on a flat, grassy spot, thinking we would explore the interior, then picnic there. Ascending further, I realized there was yet another, higher, even more beautiful grassy spot to picnic that looked for miles over green farmland. We explored the one room that was left of the castle’s interior, looking out through the window opening on each of four sides, then sat down to a picnic of Irish brown bread, sliced turkey and plums.
After our picnic lunch, we spotted a way to climb up a ledge of stones to the castle’s second floor. Perhaps against my better judgement, Simon and I climbed up and took in the views from this even higher perch. I held my breath and kept him away from the edges, still noting that even the roof sported lush turf and abundant greenery. Descending was more challenging; and there was a moment that I gasped with fear, but Simon followed my directions carefully and we made it without injury back to the level of our picnic.
We continued to walk along the path all the way into the next village, and slowly became cognizant of the tiny faery doors that dotted the woods. One was a four-inch tall wooden door carved with celtic scrollwork. Another featured tiny stairs. And yet another—moldings and trim. Most were at a convenient level for faeries and attached to a lower tree trunk. We made offerings of flowers at each door and asked the faeries to help with many special intentions. To my swelling pride, Simon included prayers for the happiness and well-being of the faeries, in addition to many prayers for him, for me, and for friends and family members.
Simon slowed down considerably as he grew tired. At one point, he stopped moving forward and closed his eyes. He began to move his hands slowly, perhaps imitating people he has seen doing tai chi in the parks of New York City. He wanted me to follow him, but soon realized that for this kind of dancing, it was more fun to do it on your own. I, too, moved slowly, my arms gently guiding my my gestures, my breath audible. Wind rustling through the marsh grasses passed through my body. For the first time, I noted that the direction of my gesture might not be the same direction as the energy that moved around me, but the different fields could be in harmony, like the different forces at play in a tide. My shoulders and upper back wanted to unfold and unfurl. (Stillness reveals itself to me in stages.)
Eventually, Simon started moving forward again, and we went to try to find a shop in the village near the end of the path where we heard we could get some ice cream.
Although there are 5Rhythms teachers and practitioners in Ireland, there are no scheduled events during the time of my stay. I am planning to undertake formal, individual practice as soon as Simon starts camp on Monday, though I am not tricked by the pretense that the practice happens only when I declare that it is happening. Instead, I hope I will be open to all the magic that presents—especially when it is as obvious as faery doors.
July 8, 2016, Annestown, Co. Waterford, Ireland
(Note: After this writing I learned about two new instances of police killings of black men in the US, and of the rising tide of rage and mixed feelings in response. I hope this lyrical foray does not offend anyone who is deep in the throes of agony, praying for a new dawn of tolerance and of enlightened policy.)
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 | Jun 27, 2016 | Notes on Practice
For the second week in a row, I unexpectedly attended the Sunday Sweat Your Prayers class. For the second week in a row, the class was guest taught by an accomplished teacher from another country, in this case Hannah Loewenthal from South Africa. And for the second week in a row, I explored new and delightful aspects of partnership.
I took a long time to gather myself on entering; and I went silently through a ritual of bowing into the space. I felt emotional and took tiny steps, moving like water through the many floor-moving bodies that were distributed equally around the studio. I found a spot near the middle of the room and began to move in energetic circles, rolling over the back of my head again and again and letting the gestures cast me in arcs, pausing to tense in key stretches as I was quickly called to action.
Hannah, perhaps noting the quickening of the room, dialed the music back to tonal and encouraged us to take our time in arriving. To find the breath and our relationship to it. Most of us were on our feet by then, and the room seemed to move inside clear gel, slow and graceful, dipping collectively into the Stillness inside Flowing. Hannah coaxed us through a meditation of body parts, beginning with the feet. Interestingly, the only part of her narration I recall is about attention to the spine, which I reveled in, remembering that one partner of many years told me early in my 5Rhythms career that I flow with my spine, not just with my feet. Before long, I stepped into this very partner—someone I rarely meet in Flowing—but on this day it felt like the parts of our spines that sit behind and inside the rib cage were enacted, and palpable energy from that part of the body mingled as we moved. We were gentle, but retained a hint of the precise edges that I love about dancing with him.
I have often been amazed at this partner’s ability to meet me exactly where I am. For a long time, I assumed he could just go anywhere. For example, he seemed to be the only one who I could meet in the sharpest of Staccato fields. Over time, I have come to believe that it only looks like he can go anywhere, when in fact it is because he can see the room so clearly that he knows who is in the same energetic field, and then moves into the dances that call him directly.
With my eyes nearly closed and sunken low into my hips, I luxuriated in the coiling and whipping of my spine. A partner I shared a long dance with recently stepped right beside me. I felt him and opened my eyes, laughing, as the last time we met I felt I had stepped into a clearing and felt like I surprised him. This time, he playfully surprised me—a lovely kind of balance.
In the first wave, I hung back in Flowing Staccato and never fully expressed Staccato before the room was barreling into Chaos, loud with joyful vocalizations, including my own. I loved seeing Hannah move in unbridled Chaos, her long arms sailing up and down around her, her long neck in concert. Somehow early in my 5Rhythms career, I got the impression that raising the arms high up is a no-no, but in the last several years, I have been investigating more and more of the sky and the expansive space above. In fact, Hannah repeatedly invited us to dance with the space around us, even when we were told to take partners.
Indeed, there was an unusual amount of space in the room, owing in part to the fact that many people seemed to be drawn to gather in small, quietly moving groups. At moments, the room looked like a sea-bottom kelp-forest, waving collectively with the energetic currents.
Hannah taught the class in two waves, as is the usual custom in a two-hour class, but did not pause for verbal teaching in the middle of the class. Although the frame was two main waves, many tiny little waves expressed inside the larger structure; and Hannah repeatedly chanted, “The rhythms inside the rhythms.”
In Chaos, I spent long periods dancing with myself. I note that during Chaos I am least likely to partner. I wonder if I can extrapolate that I am very self-sufficient in Chaos, very comfortable and confident in Chaos—at least at this point. Often, for me, trances arise here; and I am inclined toward my own inner world. I am much more likely to meet a partner in any of the other four rhythms.
My dance was delightful throughout. My energy level was constant except when I was swept completely away by effusive expression, which gave rise to uncontainable bursts. I found joy in partnership, and was receptive (on this day) to everyone in the room. I found joy in my own inner experience. I found joy in brand new ways of moving, rolling out completely uncontrived. I found joy in stepping into moving with a brand new partner, and, too, stepping in with an intrepid long-time friend who is always willing to off-road from the basic map and from the many notations and traces we have recorded over the years on our uncharted, unchartable adventures.
Leading us from the Stillness of the first wave into the Flowing of the second, Hannah did something curious. Instead of guiding from the feet first as is nearly always the instruction with Flowing, she invited us to begin with the hands, working our way through the body and into embodied Flowing from there. I recalled Kierra’s aside the week before when she taught the Friday Night Waves class, that in many cultures the hands are considered to be the “messengers of the heart;” and I wondered if the hands might be particularly important in Hannah’s personal practice. As I remarked about the class the week before with Anne Marie, taking class with a teacher I have never encountered before can be very valuable—perhaps just as my grandmother, Muriel Grigely, used to feel about stepping into a different church for the first time.
Hannah invited us to partner; and I found a good friend. Both of us were faster than the music; and we giggled and super-sped up, then slowed down and leaned in toward each other: slowing, moving around. Instructed to turn the partnership into a foursome, two others joined us, though the group remained very porous, with several people from other groups or dancing individually moving partially in the field we created. Without instruction, the group dissolved and my partner and I returned to each other briefly before moving on to other parts of the room.
I noticed a friend I recently shared a sublime dance with standing a bit off to the side. I considered trying to engage him, but thought better of it, wondering if it might not be best to let him have whatever experience he was having. I also felt hesitant because our most recent dance was so beautiful—sometimes I feel shy after sharing an experience like that. I noticed that another dancer did succeed in drawing him out and that he seemed to move cheerfully and fluidly, as their group at moments intersected with ours at the point when we were told to dance in groups of four.
During both waves, in the bridges from Lyrical into Stillness, repetitions bubbled up. In the second wave I found a gestural expression of the disbelief that precedes grief, my hands sobbing, crying, “No, no, no, no, no!” I didn’t connect it to a specific experience. It didn’t make me cry, but I could feel its resonance. In Lyrical, I experimented with an awkward groundedness, then took off and sailed throughout the room with luxurious, expansive gestures, pouring my smiling eyes into whoever’s eyes I could manage to meet, high on the toes and raised into the front chest.
As the final wave of the class began to draw itself to a close, I stepped into a partner’s field who I recently shared a long dance with, slightly hesitant. He smiled, inviting, and we resumed a previous class’s investigation of tiny, crossed over steps, flashed foot soles, elbows held close to the torso, occasionally moving in a way that was as closely contained as could possibly be without touching. I moved in and out of more stretched and extended gestures and big, back-crossing steps, but drew back closely into this minute and quirky investigation again and again, delighted.
We came seamlessly into unselfconscious contact, each planting the outside of one foot to touch, side by side. He leaned into me and I returned the gesture, at once pushing and yielding, then stepped around his planted foot, curving us into an arc. The room fell away, the sound of breath grew stronger. We moved in a little matrix, opening at moments into a kind of ballroom glide. At other moments we balanced, finding small swinging movements inside the balances. I noted that he is closer to my small scale than many men, and found balancing exceptionally dynamic and available, feeling like the animations you see of shifting crystalline forms, alive and clear, seeing and seen.
The process of leaving was overlayed with a conversation with a friend. As we took the elevator from the 5th floor down and stepped onto 6th Avenue, he expressed that sometimes he feels like he has to really make a commitment to be in “his” dance. Otherwise, he would just be partnered all the time, doing someone else’s dance—a sentiment I have heard expressed hundreds of times. He was already hugging me goodbye; and we didn’t have time, but this is what I wanted to say:
“This might be unique to me, but at this moment I don’t feel that I have a “my” dance. And I don’t think there is a lack in that. Just as there is no “me” that is separate and self-existing, there is no “my” dance. My deepest, most emotional, or most idiosyncratic personal expression is not separate from any of the dances I have shared with partners or in community. For me, dancing alone and dancing with others are not opposites, but are shades of difference—all part of the beautiful display comprising the myriad forms of this tiny, precious life.”
June 19, 2016, Brooklyn, NYC
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms®dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
(Images: The tangled rainbows is an image from my own studio. The beautiful sunset photo of the Brooklyn Bridge was taken and shared with me by 5Rhythms teacher Hannah Loewenthal .)
by meghanleborious | Jun 22, 2016 | Notes on Practice
My grandmother used to say that you get a “special intention” every time you enter a new church for the first time, as my mother reminded me recently. A special intention is pretty much guaranteed to travel straight to God’s ear, and has a strong chance of a good outcome—kind of like a direct prayer line. That is exactly how I felt entering into this week’s Sweat Your Prayers class, which was taught by Anne Marie Hogya, a 5Rhythms teacher from Victoria, Canada, who I was blessed to encounter for the first time.
I did not intend to dance today. My body needs yoga, too, and I often do yoga on Sunday mornings. I was running late, however; and because I was too late to go to yoga class I wound up dancing instead.
Waking, I was achy. My neck hurt. My knee hurt. The nerves in my elbows hurt. Even my back hurt a little. Now, as I write, nothing hurts at all. This time, dance released me even from physical pain.
Before I even entered the dance studio I found a friend deeply sad. I held her for a moment, seeing her pain. I did not ask what was happening with her, I did not try to fix her, I did not relate her pain to any of my own pain. I just tried to be there for her in that one moment. Then, I stepped into the room. (As I discovered later, she had already received the news about the hateful massacre at Pulse Night Club in Orlando, Florida. I was not to hear about it until after the class when I was driving home, or I surely would have realized why she was crying.)
I have been thinking a lot about partnering lately; and I reflected as I entered that the Sunday morning class is one of the few classes in NYC that always happens during daylight hours. I think there is extra willingness to look at and see one another, given the factor of daylight. There is also an extra measure of kindness that I can’t explain. Today, I, for one, stepped in shuddering with happiness, meeting every possible eye.
After softly hugging a friend that I adore and see rarely, I found a corner where I could smear myself onto the beloved ground and move in rising and falling circles with the earth’s unending rotations.
Soon, I was completely subsumed by the room, moving into empty space, pushed and pulled by the gestures and energies around me. Anne Marie led us through the classic sequence of body parts—head, shoulders, elbows, arms, hips, knees and feet. Often, body parts meditation brings me into a very internal and rooted space, but on this occasion, I moved fluidly around the room, reveling in my own body, and absorbing the influences of the bodies around me. I shared many brief dances of connection and several longer dances as the first of the class’s two 5Rhythms waves unfolded. As is often the case, Chaos found me largely solo as I leapt and bound in delightful erratic patterns, and in ascending and descending spins. I recalled the physical pain of the morning and set the intention to be as soft as possible and to stay out of my edges. This first wave was characterized by exquisite movement and total availability.
Although this was the first time I took Anne Marie’s class and I had never before met or spoken with her, she communicated an unwavering presence as she sat, choosing music and making occasional suggestions via microphone. Bangs were cut into her long, dark hair and they seemed to cover her eyebrows, making her eyes even more prominent, as she gazed at the moving room and the bodies in it, seeming both fascinated and discerning.
I reflected that although I am not afraid to be alone, and have traveled to infinite dimensions completely of my own volition, dancing in partnership or in small groups has opened doors that dancing by myself could never open. If the thing that is holding me back is my ego—or my own selfing activities—then it makes sense that the best arena to draw out and confront my ego is within relationship. We are born alone and we die alone, but the whole middle of the path is filed with people. Another person is actually required to do this kind of ego work. I like the idea that it is not just the insight into the nature of reality as it is, but is also the unfolding into boundless compassion that can introduce us to our full potential.
Another interesting thing about partnership is that, in this arena of ego construction, perhaps for the very reason that my ego has been drawn out, when profoundly witnessing the experience of my partner, I can be drawn completely into the depths of myself. Just as the arena of ego’s construction is in relation to others, so, too, is its dismantling. It is through deep connection with others that I am able to dance alone; and it is through deep connection with myself that I am able to dance with others. The two modalities are two wings of a bird (to borrow a Buddhist metaphor)—both essential on this dancing path. I don’t think I can ever hope to realize my full humanity without partnering, without humanity, without the dissolution of self and others. And neither can I realize my full humanity without engaging fully with the parts of my unique experience that are not available to anyone but my own inner guides.
Perhaps this aspect of my path is unique to me, perhaps it is shared with others.
Anne Marie let the last song of the first wave end, then sort of low-skipped into the center of the room where everyone gathered around her. She said that she felt very moved to be teaching in NYC, in the very city where Gabrielle Roth, the creator of the 5Rhythms practice, “rolled out this work for us.” She also praised us as a community and expressed that she could really feel the depth and integrity of our collective practice. She then declared that she would demonstrate a wave, saying, “This is what a 5Rhythms wave looks like for me at this time.” She strongly emphasized the “for me,” explaining that it would look different for every person, that there is no right or wrong way to move through a wave. She also suggested that we work more with partnering in the class’s second and final wave, saying toward the end of her talk, “Why not take partnering on?” in a way that encouraged curiosity and receptivity.
I reflected on the precious opportunity to experience the 5Rhythms with a teacher who is new to me. The more teachers I learn from, the more insight I get into what aspects of the practice may be unique to each of us—or at least not widely shared—and what aspects of the practice transcend all of our invented boundaries and are held in communal agreement. In addition, every teacher brings their own mandala—their spirit entourage—that likely informs their transmission of the practice far beyond what we consciously perceive.
From the moment the music started, I stepped into dance after dance of beautiful partnership, my breath catching at moments as result of the beauty that moved through and around me. My partnerships were sometimes very porous and I was often with two or three, or even up to five bodies at once, moving like water currents around the room.
After many brief partnerships and at moments moving with the entire community, I stepped into partnership with a friend like I stepped out into a clearing after a long trek through the forest.
It was in the rhythm of Lyrical that I stepped into this clearing; and I recall a snap of bright delight as my eyes met with my friend’s eyes. I tried on the close, quirky gestures he was experimenting with and found a new expression I hadn’t yet encountered. I sunk completely into it, beaming, not even considering whether I should stay with him or move on. We played with rocking our feet diagonally to move in little increments: heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe. These tiny little, foot-planted steps became the refrain during the first phase of our dance. We worked in minute, contained, cross-over steps, too; though I couldn’t resist throwing in an occasional big, crossing, back step. Another dancer passed between us, perhaps not noticing our partnership. I wondered if this partner might disengage, but was happy when we came back together after just a moment. (These moments when the dance could naturally shift out of partnership can be so pivotal. Sometimes that is when the dance dissolves, sometimes that is when the dance gets more intentional and, too, deeper…) Slowly, slowly, the dance opened and became briefly expansive—ice capades in an exhibition rink. Before long, it tranformed into a silky Stillness. We then moved into contact, extending into balance after balance, each causing the other to grow into still gestures with gently applied pressure, moving in arcs, rising and falling as we faithfully enacted our living breath.
June 11, 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.
(Note: The image is a drawing I created as part of the “Everything Is Perfect” body of work. If you are interested in learning more about my visual art please visit meghanleborious.com)
by meghanleborious | Mar 22, 2016 | Notes on Practice
When Jilsarah Moscowitz taught the first Sweat Your Prayers class of the spring season two years ago, for the first time ever I considered the possibility that I might secretly have a lyrical nature.* This came as a great surprise since from the very beginning of my 5Rhythms path, Lyrical had always seemed incomprehensible and inaccessible, except in tiny, occasional glimpses. Today, the first day of spring, Jilsarah again taught the Sunday Sweat Your Prayers class; and I was again granted wings, though my lyrical side is, by now, no longer a deeply buried secret.
Every day walking in to work, I take a few moments to gaze at the living sky before stepping inside the dark building. This week, a tidal wave of afflictive material has arisen there, but I have been able to act skillfully inside of it—noting and feeling strong emotions, but somehow (this time) being able to hold them inside of a much larger experience of space.
The event’s producer had written a quote by Gabrielle Roth, the creator of the 5Rhythms practice, on a small dry erase board posted on the check-in table. It said, “Ride the energy of your own unique spirit.” This, at first, struck me as a quote in the spirit of the rhythm of Lyrical, but as I looked more closely, I realized she had written the whole quote in blue, except the one word “spirit,” which was written in green. “Ride the energy of your own unique spirit.” This, for me, moved it over the threshold of Lyrical into lyrical Stillness. These nuances and interstices have fascinated me lately; and I was grateful for this first contemplation of the morning.
Before entering the studio, I chatted with a friend who has been practicing for many years. One thing that came up is that 5Rhythms has the ability to hold absolutely everything. He shared that a 5Rhythms teacher from out of town had once used the hands as the means to enter into Flowing—an unusual choice, as Flowing is usually associated with the feet. I shared that lately I have been noting an emphasis on simplicity, as though it were preferential to complexity. I also shared that in my opinion, the practice holds both equally. Complexity, along with simplicity, seems to exist equally in the vast, dynamic emptiness that gives rise to everything.
One of the first to step into the light-filled room, I made a motion to place my water bottle on the window ledge. As I turned, its weight carried me in a gently extended curve. Instead of putting it down, I took it as my partner, passing it from hand to hand, looping it down, up, around me, in big circles and tiny arcs. I closed my eyes since there were few people on the floor yet; and I didn’t want to know if anyone was watching me in this elaborate web of weighted circles. My spine circled, too, along with every part of me, casting down, raising up, turning and twisting at once. During this dance, the water in the water bottle never sloshed, but instead moved in harmony with the momentum of these layered gestures.
The music changed and I found the floor, stretching and moving in arcing circles with one part of me firmly attached, always, to the floor. The music changed again and I moved with circles and pauses in still Flowing.
Before long, the room started to come to life, and I danced through the studio, looking for empty spaces and allowing myself to be pulled briefly into gestures and energies until I was beckoned by a new open space or a new focal point or a new exchange. During this part of the class, I made a conscious choice to see everyone in the room, sometimes looking at a fellow dancer and repeating the adapted Thich Nhat Hahn phrase, “I see you there; and I am grateful for it.”
Jilsarah moved us gently into Staccato with a classic reggae song; and I immediately stepped into partnership with a woman I have never shared a dance with before. Before long, we settled into the jaunty, uprising rhythm, carried along on it and adding our own cheerful flourishes. A man I like to dance with came and invited me to partnership, but I continued to gaze, smiling, into the eyes of my partner, making space for him, too, but staying with her right through the end of the song. I was grateful for the opportunity to experience this scenario, as I have occasionally felt irritated when I have been sharing a dance with a woman and she has abandoned me the moment an attractive man has come into her field.
Someone who has triggered wildly afflictive emotions in me for many years stepped into the room. I noted the emotions that arose and held it all in the vast, tender space of love, silently welcoming this person and physically moving to embrace her.
A Sweat Your Prayers class is, by definition, minimally instructed, and Jilsarah had the lightest of light touches. The only thing I really remember her saying was something like, “As an individual, in partnership, and with the whole community.” Quoting Gabrielle Roth, the creator of the 5Rhthyms practice, she said, “There is only one of us here.”
Jilsarah did not offer any instructions about whether or not to partner, but I rolled and spun from one partnership to the next, equally receptive to nearly every person. In Lyrical in the first wave, I danced in delighted partnership with a good friend. Another, equally delighted, partnership cropped up beside us. I circled them and we became four. Beaming, bounding, spinning with this small group, I attended to everyone around me also, weaving others into the small group.
I love being in a small, tight-knit group of three or four or five when we are weaving in and out of each other like a matrix; but I am also sensitive to including people. I don’t want anyone to feel left out; and though it is not fully in my control, I try to keep the boundary porous. Even when I am in partnership with just one person, I often connect in a tiny series of gestures with a nearby dancer, then return to the partner I am primarily engaged with.
At several points I looked around the room, taking in an infinite range of beautiful dances and partnerships. Seeing, tears welled up and poured out gently, for just a few gestures, then shifted again.
In the second wave, I found a surprising undercurrent of Stillness in the Staccato part of the wave. Something similar happened to me recently in Chaos, when everything seemed to go into slow motion and get kind of goo-ey. A few moments after I noticed this novel (for me) kind of energy, a friend who I love to dance with stepped into me, remarkably in a very similar field. We moved together in what (for me) was a kind of still Staccato, then into a more full expression of Staccato—a place I love to meet him. Later, he shared that he had noticed from across the room that he and I were in the same kind of energetic space and had come immediately toward me. He must have realized before I did, because it had just entered my consciousness when he appeared—sweeping toward me almost magically.
I was given a teaching that I call “Passing Through Practice” many years ago. When in a very porous and receptive state, it is possible to move gently through everyone who is open to it around me, and to let them move through me. Today, this very tender practice within the practice was available during much of the class.
I found myself rocking at the end of the second wave, and recalled my earliest experiences of perfect love. My father would hold me while he rocked me in a wooden rocking chair and would sing lullabyes in the tenderest voice imaginable. Tears again rolled down my cheeks.
As the music ended, Jilsarah very softly invited us to find a formation that would allow us to acknowledge ourselves as a community. We moved toward a circle, all at different paces. Jilsarah added, “Let’s allow those who are not in the circle to stay in their authentic place.” We held the circle for just a moment, then followed Jilsarah’s gesture when she raised her hands to the sky, shaking them in a happy pulse and smiling, then letting it all go.
March 20, 2016, Brooklyn, NY
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
*Although most posts to this blog are written for a general audience, this post assumes significant prior knowledge of 5Rhythms practice and language. The five rhythms of 5Rhythms practice are Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness. To talk about a “lyrical nature” is to talk about a nature that has similar qualities to the rhythm of Lyrical—perhaps joyful, light, heartful, participatory and knowing.
