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 | 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.
by meghanleborious | Jan 24, 2016 | Notes on Practice
Today is a rare interlude of Stillness in a typically dynamic city. The windows are impossibly bright. Snow is caked on the screens outside. Still-falling snow makes the air seem opaque. Piles of white obscure Brooklyn’s sharp edges and make everything blur together. “Are you ready for Snowmageddon?” I was asked yesterday. “Yes!” I answered emphatically. Though tempted to roll my eyes at all the hype associated with what looked like a relatively normal weather event, I love the shared excitement of an impending minor disaster like a blizzard. In New York especially, we literally participate in “the word on the street;” and experiences like this unite us.
In addition to the unity, I also love the slowness. I just relax right into it. There wasn’t a single footprint in the snow on our sidewalk today until after 11AM. We had plans with friends this morning and none of us even bothered to call to cancel. I am not late for anything, not planning anything, not trying to squeeze anything in, not running any important errands. It reminds me of a blizzard perhaps ten years ago, when I remained in the clothes I slept in, listened to a John Coltrane marathon on the radio, and worked on one drawing literally from sunrise until sundown, quietly watching the white light brighten and fade away as I worked steadily, without speaking to a single person.
The snow had not yet begun when I made my way to Tammy’s Friday Night Waves class last night, but there was little traffic and I made better time than usual. This was convenient because my son, Simon, and I had been on a long errand looking for a sled—in high demand everywhere—and I was running slightly late.
I stepped into the room and into a soft hug with a friend who was dancing near the studio’s door. My knee was bothering me slightly. (Remember when I wrote about knee soreness after an extended period of breakdancing in a recent Sunday class with Simon?) I knew I would have to moderate myself or risk a more serious injury. I found a spot on the floor and began to move in the same radial, circular dance—moving over and undulating from the crown of my head—that I keep thinking has shifted and yet persists.
Shortly, I got up and began to move throughout the room. I felt very released and happy (slightly gooey, even), fully taking on all of Tammy’s suggestions. Remarkably, I was not down in any way about having to be careful. Instead, it was an invitation to be gentle and to find a different expression. I recalled a workshop Lucia lead in 2013 when she encouraged us to totally let go of our edges. Although I love my edges, I took on her suggestion; and as a result was torn into tiny, tender bits—shattered completely, wide open.
Moving into Staccato, I knew I couldn’t be in the deep, powerful squats rising up into dramatic suspensions or the sharp, punctuated spins, or the emphatic, knee forward steps that I have enjoyed lately. I found Staccato nonetheless, working with subtle muscles in the pelvis and lower back. I became fascinated with my gentle edges and with strategic tightening.
In Chaos, Tammy proposed a litany of opposites—tight/loose, thinking/not thinking, slow/fast—pushing us to experiment with the places where we are comfortable and, too, with the places where we are not comfortable.
I found a playful and whispering Lyrical with a tall friend. We spun and coiled into, around, and under each other, our palms and fingertips in careful communication.
We paused after the first wave to listen to Tammy’s direct instruction. She began by quoting Gabrielle Roth, the creator of the 5Rhythms practice, “You didn’t think this was really about dancing, did you?” Tammy went on to say, “That’s the difference between recreation and practice, and this is practice.”
During her talk, Tammy surprised me with the comment, “In New York, Staccato is so good! It is better here.” I thought she was being facetious, that she was going to castigate us for our famous New York arrogance. But she meant what she said literally. She went on to describe cities where they don’t really do Staccato. Not really. Not like us. She moved as she spoke, expressing her love of Staccato through her gestures. Perhaps being with our edges unlocks authenticity in a way that self-help cannot.
This is one of the reasons that I love Tammy’s teaching approach; and why I have such faith in her. As much as it is a wonderful experiment to let go of all of my edges, too, it is glorious to be with my edges, to exaggerate them, to investigate them. Except for perhaps a very few enlightened beings, most of us are absolutely riddled with edges. Knowing this makes me feel like I can be myself. And it is not just acceptance, but is also, in a way, celebration. Though my ultimate goal is absolute freedom, absolute integrity and absolute love; it is the very complex and sticky and fascinating shite that we are riddled with that helps to make us so rich—that makes life life. That gives us something to work with.
This is also why I love New York. From 1996, my very first year in New York, I said, “New Yorkers are not nice. At all. But we are without question extremely kind.” Also, we have so much good shit here. We are inclined to reject fake, inferior shit.
In a speech at her husband, Lou Reed’s, induction into the Hall of Fame, Laurie Anderson explained a set of rules for life the two had come up with. “One. Don’t be afraid of anyone. Now, can you imagine living your life afraid of no one? Two. Get a really good bullshit detector. And three. Three is be really, really tender. And with those three things, you don’t need anything else.”
Tammy went through the 5Rhythms for the benefit of new and seasoned practitioners, and I particularly liked her description of Lyrical. “When you are in Chaos, and you suddenly feel like you could just go on letting go forever, then you are no longer in Chaos. You are in Lyrical!”
In the second wave, I continued to receive quiet messages from my knee, especially when I stepped hard directly forward. I danced with a friend who I usually bound all over the space with, twirling and upending ourselves, but this time kept my feet relatively grounded. I was itching to dance with another friend who I hadn’t seen in several weeks, but instead located myself on my knees off to the side. I discovered that if I spread my knees apart and bent forward I had a lot of power and leverage. There, I arched and pulsed my back, tossed my head around like the back car on a roller coaster, and explored the feeling of having my hands on the ground. I managed to avoid exacerbating the knee injury, and still connect with the rhythms and with moving.
I ended the wave on my feet and in my hands. I scanned my own body with my palms, my eyes nearly shut, internal, keying in to subtle energies.
After class, as I stepped out of the Joffrey Ballet’s 434 6th Avenue building and into the street, where the snow had just begun to fall.
January 23, 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.
(Informal footnote: I remember Gabrielle once following the remark “You didn’t think this was really about dancing, did you?” with, “This is just the little black dress that I put on for you.” In addition to the interpretation offered above, I think this quote of Gabrielle’s hints that the 5Rhythms are not just dance, but are—more broadly—a map of the creative process itself. As such, practice might take many different creative forms such as drawing, relationship, music, cooking, storytelling, home design, conversation, theatrical works, parenting, writing or poetry.)
by meghanleborious | Jan 12, 2016 | Notes on Practice
I had an urgent errand this morning, but it cooperated and I was able to make it to this Sunday’s Sweat Your Prayers class, which was taught today by Daniela Peltekova. Stepping into the already vibrant room, I happily greeted many friends, found a spot on the floor, and fell into circular movement.
Today I was exceptionally grateful to step into a 5Rhythms class. Being away for the holidays kept me out of classes for nearly two weeks. Also, during my time away, I attended a brief not-5Rhythms dance retreat. I wanted something satisfying to do for New Year’s Eve and the retreat seemed like a good option. Although I am not one to bounce around to many different spiritual practices, I remain receptive. If I find that if I am insisting on 5Rhythms, I know I am in danger of making a dangerous identity affiliation that could deaden my very vibrant relationship. The practice doesn’t need me to validate it. It speaks very much for itself.
In Maps to Ecstasy, Gabrielle Roth, the creator of the 5Rhythms practice wrote, “Identifying completely with one spiritual way is not spiritual freedom but imprisonment. You can’t see beyond it. You make the teacher a god, the teaching becomes absolute truth, and you end up unable to see the value and the meaning of anything else.” (184)
At the retreat, there were a number of people in attendance who had never in their adult lives danced. I was touched to witness their joy and awakening as movement began to unfurl. Despite how powerful it was for many people, I had a hard time getting into it.
One aspect of the retreat experience that is relevant to the writing I am doing here (this will make the most sense to those who read my last post about attending Tammy’s recent “Rhythms in Waves” workshop) is that the not-5Rhythms workshop included a huge dose of tribal-type exercises. That is to say, exercises that involve one person leading the group with a simple movement and the others following the movement. A bit like aerobics class, some might say. One of the dominant threads in that last post was how much I hate tribal exercises. I had to laugh, noting the irony. There were no easily-narrated, cathartic insights—only the universe insisting on a particular point it is trying to make.
Today’s class with Daniela, for me, began with a lot of joyful energy. Though I arrived fifteen minutes late, Flowing was still unfolding; and I continued to investigate the category of flowing movements that have been coming up for me lately. As I write, I realize that I have gotten good at this particular way of moving, and that it has lost some of its creative energy.
Staccato eluded me slightly during the “Rhythms in Waves” workshop last week, but today I found Staccato without much difficulty—at one point, bounding with angular front-and-back, diagonal gestures inside the joyful resistance the music offered.
A long selection of drum music somehow zapped me halfway through. I have a sore neck that has been constraining movement and perception and it started to exacerbate at that point.
In conversation with my (much adored) father on New Year’s Day, I reflected that you have to have deep faith in something in order to be transformed by it. For example, at the not-5Rhythms workshop I just couldn’t give myself over, and in part because of that, my experience was not deeply transformative. Maybe the biggest part of the challenge of transformation is finding something that deserves your faith. Faith, for me, isn’t a decision, but is rather an embodied process of inquiry.
January 3, 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.
