by meghanleborious | Nov 10, 2020 | Notes on Practice
I was meditating when I heard horns honking and loud yelling. At first I thought it was teenagers playing around. But it wasn’t just coming from just one place, but from all over.
I picked up the phone and searched “election results 2020” and blinked. I had checked hundreds if not thousands of times between Tuesday and Saturday. On Tuesday, as results rolled in, my body grew tense, and I curled up into a ball on the couch, struggling even to respond to the questions of my ten-year-old son, Simon. Waking on Wednesday, I took a deep breath as I picked up the phone, terrified of a repeat of 2016 when I woke to a surprise election upset and a national nightmare for many, myself included. This time, votes in several key states were still being counted, and a nation bit its nails and tossed in its sleep for days.
But now Biden was finally over the needed 270 electoral votes to win the presidency! I ran to the living room, where Simon was playing a video game with his friend. “It’s over! Biden won! Biden is the next president!” Both kids jumped up and joined me in dancing and jumping around the room.
We set out shortly after to meet friends in Prospect Park. I stopped at a corner liquor store, “Do you have any champagne left in this place?” I joked. “It’s a good day today,” the shopkeeper answered, beaming.
We drove down Washington Avenue, beeping enthusiastically at every car and passerby. Every time someone beeped, a host of horns responded, and a cheer went up. I caught the eye of a woman at a stoplight in the opposite direction, and we both started beeping, cheering, smiling, giving the thumbs up sign, and bouncing up and down. Someone zoomed by on a bike, rattling a cow bell.
I kept thinking how powerful it was that Simon and his friend were experiencing all of this.
Traffic was heavy and there were street closures, but for once I didn’t care at all.
We found a parking spot near Grand Army Plaza. A band was playing and a huge crowd had assembled. We paused to dance before moving on to meet our friends in Prospect Park.
The main lawn in the center of Prospect Park was more crowded than I have ever seen it. The weather was warm and the sky was clear. People were dressed joyfully, some in glitter and bright colors. An Uncle Sam wandered by, and a Statue of Liberty. There were open champagne bottles on many picnic blankets.
We found our friends before long and immediately opened the champagne (and kid-friendly fake wine) and shared a toast. It was too crowded for soccer or other sports, but the kids began to rove and wrestle.
Joy swept the park in waves. A cheer would start and then swoop across the entire big lawn. When a new friend arrived I ran to them, threw my hands up into the air, yelled with joy, and in some cases threw pandemic-caution to the wind and hugged them. I kept filling people’s cups with champagne, and often it bubbled over the top of the small plastic cup.
Someone wheeled a speaker into the middle of the park and started a dance party. I moved toward it along with another parent friend, throwing my arms up and dropping my hips low. A small child started breakdancing, so we opened a dance circle in the middle of the action and clapped and cheered for him. I couldn’t resist, and jumped into the center after he got tired, taking the opportunity to express effusive, uncontainable joy. Others stepped in after, and I cheered and jumped and held space for each of them.
A Black man I’m very close with shared a glimmer of hope, then bitter disillusionment, believing that a new leader would likely mean more of the same broken promises and hollow politicking.
I watched the video of Black Emmy Award winner and CNN contributor Van Jones fighting back tears and speaking with heaving words, of how much this election means, of what it means for so many people. “Well it’s easier to be a parent today,” he sobbed. “It’s easier to be a Dad. It’s easier to tell your kids character matters,” he said, wiping tears with a tissue from under his glasses. “It’s vindication for a lot of people who have really suffered,” he managed to get out, with considerable pauses, attempting to control his powerful emotions.
The next day, Sunday, I danced again.
This time it was at Henya Emmer’s 5Rhythms dance and movement meditation class outside in Battery Park.
I arrived early, eager to move with new possibilities, and to release the toxins of four painful years.
I had attended Henya’s class in Battery Park three times already, so I knew exactly where to go, just to the East of Castle Clinton, and West of the Staten Island Ferry terminal. The site is a round, paved area in view of the harbor and Statue of Liberty, with trees curving overhead, and the tall buildings of lower Manhattan not far behind the trees.
As with the previous day, the weather was unseasonably warm and pleasant.
The class is silent-disco-style, which means each person wears a pair of headphones that pick up the teacher’s music and microphone. Before I even picked up headphones to tune into Henya’s music and teachings, I began a wild, joyful jig with a friend, to the music of some street performers who were installed nearby.
A friend I hadn’t seen since before the pandemic appeared. She had battled a serious illness but is now recovering. “Are you ok with a hug?” She asked and a sob ripped my throat as we embraced tightly.
Putting on the official headphones, I found Henya’s music subdued at first. I really wanted to let the bubbles overflow, and periodically removed the headphones to dance to the music of the street performers. I recognized the importance of slowing down and finding ground, though, and reflected that I was lucky I hadn’t hurt myself or anyone else, that for the last 24 hours I had been in Chaos-Lyrical without much sense of ground.
I continued to move in and out of dancing to the street performers’ music, and moving with the group.
I spent some time stretching, hesitant to put my hands on the ground in this era of Covid, but finally settling in, sinking low inside my hips and finding weighted balances as I moved my biggest muscles into stress to protect them from later injury.
I was a little concerned about my knees on the concrete surface, so moved beyond the edge of the circle to a soft gravel surface, where I could move with more abandon.
I went into the circle again, and joined with one friend who was visibly moved. We both vocalized, moving with grief, rage, and joy. I briefly wondered what it seemed like to Henya and passersby, but did my best to put it out of my head. In the past, I had been hesitant about vocally expressing the depth of emotions, but today that was not the case.
I thought about what it was like when President Obama was elected. When the streets in Brooklyn were streams of dancing bodies, when I cried for days. When we danced in a 5Rhythms class a few days after his election, the entire room was three feet from the ground. It was the most powerful collective joy I had ever experienced. I wasn’t even sure I could stay with it. It was almost too much for me.
This weekend had the same quality of shared, wild, uncaged, roving joy, of release, of relief, of surrender.
For now, though, I worked against my ebullience, and settled into the attenuated, low grooves that Henya served up. As she moved us through attention to various body parts, I lost self-awareness and time, sometimes nearly closing my eyes. A chemical release seemed to be taking place, filling my senses with an odd electrical feeling, and I just kept moving.
I spent the majority of the class on the soft, gravel surface, but moved repeatedly into the paved circle and the larger group, connecting joyfully with everyone who would meet my eye.
After this low, slow start, Henya shifted us gently into Staccato. I played with my knees, the weight of my shoulders and diagonally-arranged upper body, my elbows.
Many passersby stopped to watch or take pictures of the group, to the point that the street performers had to work hard to bring attention back to themselves. “It’s ok to show off your moves,” Henya said into the mic and into our headphones with a tone of humor. One dancer offered his headset to a woman who was sitting on a bench and she jumped in and threw down.
Staccato came and went for me between 2016-2020. It was incredibly variable. Today, I felt energized and competent. My little gravel patch made me very visible to onlookers, and it gave me just a tiny extra edge of energy and creativity. I ranged back and forth, side to side, finding many different ways to step on the beat, and using pauses and suspensions for maximum impact.
In Chaos, I went all out. I moved in a snarling matrix at times, at times moving with aerial changes, finding beat shifts with my knees, ankles, and feet in the air while soaring in an overarching, directional gesture. Sinking low, I took off the headset and flung my head–the end of a train that started with my coiling feet, sacrum, and spine.
Grief and joy ripped through my throat throughout the class, but especially in Lyrical. I left my little patch and joined the larger group. I danced with the recovering friend who I hadn’t seen since before the pandemic, then leaned toward her, pointed to myself, then to her, nodding, silently saying, “I follow you!” She understood and playfully led me throughout the dance floor. After a while, I pointed to me then to her, saying “You follow me!” and she knew exactly the game, her eyes glittering as she chased me around bodies, keeping her eyes on me as I dipped and turned, playfully eluding her then falling within her reach.
Henya played the Leonard Cohen’s gravelly version of Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah,” and many of us sang the Hallelujahs out loud. I moved through, feeling energetically porous, not separate from any other person.
Sunset turned New York Harbor orange and pink.
Henya called our attention to the glowing Statue of Liberty across the harbor; and despite the sacred, tapered ending the music offered, we began to whoop, clap, and cheer–perhaps knowing that our freedom is both incomplete and is fragile, incomplete in that it does not yet apply equally to all, and fragile in that it is bolstered only by our collective beliefs and actions.
In the words of the late congressman and civil rights activist John Lewis, quoted by Vice President-elect Kamala Harris in her acceptance speech on Saturday night,
“Freedom is not a state. It is an act.”
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
***Photo by Clarissa Best (from Pinterest)
by meghanleborious | Nov 2, 2020 | Notes on Practice
My right thigh resounds with little earthquakes, loosening tremors as I let my weight relax into a hard rubber ball. It’s been a long time since I remembered to roll out my muscles, and lately there have been many days hunched over a computer, working hard and fast.
I wake up long before sunrise so I can make sure to have time to meditate. I light a candle on my altar, wrap in a soft blanket, and try to be patient if my ten-year-old son, Simon, wakes up and wants to tell me about his dreams or a video game that’s on his mind.
Practice has had to find its way into the empty spaces. Some days instead of lunch I would put on music in the living room and dance a short wave. Some days I found a little time at night. For the last several weeks, I’ve dropped everything, rolled up the rug, and danced an independent wave from 3-4pm.
Since the beginning of the pandemic in March, I’ve danced alone every day, gone deep, and loved the opportunity to practice being self-generating. I’ve been able to attend a few outdoor, silent-disco-style classes with Henya Emmer and others, and have enjoyed the opportunity to be alone together. But since the start of the pandemic my practice has become daily, and most of the time it is me by myself.
I had a triggering weekend last week. It sat heavily on my shoulders, head, back. It was hard to get through the work day. The psychological brambles I’d stumbled into felt overwhelming and insurmountable.
Then I danced.
It was almost 3:30 when I started, so I had just 30 minutes to work with before I had to go pick up Simon. I played a six song wave, with two songs for Flowing, and one song for every other rhythm. Emotion swelled, and I moved with sadness, anger, overwhelm, and confusion, often giving it voice. I skipped the entire middle part of the final song in Stillness because I feared being late to pick up Simon.
Even so, something shifted. The issues that were presenting didn’t feel as overwhelming or as tangled together. Everything felt much more workable. The anxiety I’d carried for two straight days dissipated. I wasn’t fancyfree, but I was no longer in agony.
In September, one space that opened up unexpectedly was a work holiday for Yom Kippur. I assumed that Simon would also be off, but learned at the last minute that he did have school, so I headed to Jacob Riis park, a beautiful, wild beach where there are plenty of places to be alone.
After a short run along the shore, I drew myself a big circle on the packed sand close to the water and began to move in arcing spirals, taking care to churn the sand in every part of the circle.
Before long, I felt too confined, and moved beyond the circle I had created.
I stayed in Flowing for ages, wondering (as is often the case) if I would ever feel the calling to move into Staccato. It took me some time to let thinking recede and the body begin to settle. I told myself it was totally fine if all I wanted to do was stay in Flowing all day. Big, lowing sobs gathered and tore out of me, then faded away. And still I circled, feeling the sand give under my feet, and responding to the arriving waves and their tangled, pulling returns.
After nearly an hour, Staccato surprised me by igniting suddenly. A song I love to move to lately came to mind, and it was enough to get me started. Then the rest of me was tinder, and I moved energetically, playing with my own shadow, pulling taut and low, rocking my hips, advancing and receding from the sea, and exhaling sharply.
I was panting and beaming by the time I finally melted into a soft Chaos. My spine coiled and head rocked in gentle release, dipping down and casting up, spinning and flopping, my feet periodically submerged and splashing.
In Lyrical, I ranged over the wide beach and back to the water, even extending to soar over the dry, loose sand, delighted.
A soaring bird in the distance caught my eye, and I slipped into the rift of Stillness, moving with a silent mind. I waded into the sea, watching for a gap in the surf, then dove and did butterfly up and over the backs of the rising waves. Last, I floated, feeling the pull of complex, dynamic forces.
Schools are in chaos. There are COVID spikes in Brooklyn and many other places. The election is days away and the nation is holding its breath, many of us praying for a new vision and a peaceful transfer of power.
And somehow practice still and always holds me. Even when I have to look for gaps to flow into, even when I have to relax and trust that space will open up, and even when it seems overwhelming and impossible to move forward.
November 1, 2020, Brooklyn, New York
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
by meghanleborious | Oct 13, 2020 | Notes on Practice
My Auntie Mae survived 100 years and four months. She was an institution, holding one corner of a huge family together. And she was kind, good-humored, and deeply committed to her Catholic faith. Because of this strong faith, the family held a traditional funeral despite the ongoing pandemic. I traveled to join them in Northern Connecticut while maintaining social distance.
When everyone was inside the church, I sat on the steps outside and meditated. I was supported by the step behind my lower back and my ankles were folded in front of me. I rocked slightly from side to side, enraptured by the racing clouds, and feeling the chilly wind on my arms.
After many extremely busy days when I could barely take in this loss, a range of emotions tore through me: grief, for the loss of my aunt, for all she takes with her, and for the painful fact that everything dissolves and changes, even my own precious life and the lives of those I love. At moments I lowed with sadness, then settled back into calm rocking. I also felt fear, as COVID cases rise in Brooklyn–where I live along with my ten-year-old son, Simon–anxiety, intense job stress, joy, nostalgia, and tenderness.
I felt very close to my aunt in these moments, even though I wasn’t inside the church observing the Catholic rituals.
When the rest of the family went to a banquet hall, I made a cup of tea in the attached apartment at my parents’ house, and carried it next door with me to sit on my Aunt Mae’s steps. I watched the ghosts in the windows and yard, seeing a movie of my own parents’ wedding in the driveway on my father’s 21st birthday, imagining the tobacco and vegetable fields that the family once owned, remembering picnics long in the past, thinking of the Christmas Eve parties that I have attended every year of my life in the house, and of the antique wooden toys in a chest in the living room that my mother, now 69, played with as a toddler, that I played with, and that Simon also played with.
I sat there patiently for some time.
Then I went to a place my grandfather loved, in the woods by the Scantic River. I drew a big circle in the soft dirt and danced inside it. I spent ages in Flowing, and wondered if I would ever move into the rhythm of Staccato. When Staccato did finally present, it was gentle, muted. Chaos was the same, releasing me in tiny increments. Lyrical shifted me quickly into Stillness, and I gazed up at the sunlight breaking through the leaves far above, and felt the currents of the river pulling resolutely along.
A few days later, I attended Henya Emmer’s weekend class in Battery Park, led on this occasion by Ray Diaz.
That morning I had done a remote yoga class with my cherished teacher Maria Cutrona. At the end, I stayed on the floor rather than rising to join the circle. I had the curious sense that I was spinning down through deep space; and remembered that as a teen I would feel the same sensation after a long run, while laying on the roof of my parents’ house in the sun with my eyes closed, some kind of unknowable source briefly opening its portal.
Ray greeted me with an extended elbow as I entered the tree-lined enclosed circular area near once-immigration-center Castle Clinton and Pier A, a dock for large tourist boats.
I checked in, then stepped onto the dance floor. Trees curved above, lawns stretched behind, and boats glided by on the Hudson River–close to its transition to the Atlantic Ocean. The pavement in this area was set in rolling circles, perhaps once home to a fountain, next to the famous Castle Clinton national monument.
Ray started us with an invitation to shake and I dove right in. This is a silent-disco-style event; and I held onto my headphones to avoid accidentally flinging them off. Soon holding the headphones became part of my dance, and I experimented with tipping myself and balancing the headphones on one side of my head. At times, I held the headphones in my hand and danced without music, especially when I was swept away.
I took my shoes off in Flowing and moved off to the side, where instead of pavement there was soft gravel. The sensation was too much, almost tickling. It forced me to slow down, but I before long I put my shoes back on.
I thought of my teacher Maria Cutrona’s words from the same morning, “The world needs you to believe that you can be a healer.”
“It’s time to wake up,” Ray said firmly into the mic as we shifted into the rhythm of Staccato. I ranged around the circular dance floor, then moved again to the soft gravel at the side closest to the river. I danced with my own shadow, rocking my hips with big, powerful arms. “Use your knees to power it,” Ray encouraged, and I became ferocious, sinking low and settling back into the hips, bursting and spinning, and pausing with creative vigor. “Give it a voice,” Ray further encouraged and I vocalized along with the group, only dimly aware of how odd it must seem to passersby who were out for a dusk stroll in the park.
In another phase of the class, Ray put on a compelling Reggae song, and I shifted from stretching to breakdancing, toggling my knees fast back and forth with one hand on the ground, then leaping into heavy balances and spins, and hopping back into my outstretched heel.
Ray played song after song that delighted me, including the Cold Play song with the lyric “You’re a Sky Full of Stars” just as dusk gave way to darkness. I settled into a dripping Stillness and swept through the shared dance space with great inspiration and love.
Sometimes in the silent-disco format I feel a bit lonely. Not so tonight. I felt connected, inspired, athletic, and free, believing for a time that everything was perfect and that I had everything I needed. Connecting to something I can only call source, and grateful for every dripping minute. Grateful to be alive, in this odd, frightening, complicated time. Grateful for the chance to breathe, unapologetic.
Moving with the gliding boats that were casting light reflections on the wide river, I realized at last that it was fully dark, and time to shift into rest.
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
Photos: Original images by the writer of objects from the home of Mae Grigely, October, 2020.
by meghanleborious | Jul 30, 2020 | Notes on Practice
My earliest memory is of watching a summer parade from our big, second-floor apartment window in Chicopee, Massachusetts with my father. What I remember most was not watching, though. It was what I heard and felt. A passing marching band included a musician with a huge bass drum. When he slammed the instrument, the air vibrated. I was stunned, my little mouth wide open. I could feel the drum through my entire body.
Gabrielle Roth, the founder of the 5Rhythms practice said, “Rhythm is our mother tongue.” Lately, rhythm is holding me, even during this period of grueling pandemic uncertainty and intense racial reckoning.
Today I danced the same wave – the same song list – twice. In 5Rhythms, a wave is when we move through each of the 5Rhythms – Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical, and Stilness – in sequence.
The first was at high noon, after a long bike ride with my ten-year-old son, Simon, and a period of sitting meditation. I slathered on sunblock and set up speakers in the backyard at my parents’ house in Northern Connecticut, where Simon and I are temporarily staying.
Thoughts circled in my brain as I settled down into Flowing. Thoughts about racial justice initiatives, red tape I need to attend to, the many challenges around Simon’s schooling for the fall, and challenges around my own work, which is also in a school, kept spiking even as I turned attention to the feet again and again, moving in unending circles in the dappled shade of a maple tree on the yard’s edge.
As the flowing songs I had planned ended, instead of a flowing staccato song to transition into Staccato, I put on a thick, twitchy, poetic track that moved me to shake and swoon, a mini moment of Chaos that set the tone for the rest of the wave.
For the second rhythm, Staccato, one of the songs in this playlist was a remix of a Paul Simon song. I thought at length about a conversation about how different songs had impacted different people; and how important it is to listen carefully to lyrics, to research the artists, to understand the context of a song, and to consider it through a lens of racial justice before playing it publicly. I find this remix irresistible, but because of issues of cultural appropriation (which may or may not be valid) with Paul Simon’s work in South Africa in the 1980’s, I would be hesitant about playing it publicly.
Still, I felt ferocious as song after staccato song ran me all over the yard.
Chaos surprised me. When I dance at high noon, I have to be under the shade of the big maple tree, and I’m much more visible than usual to my parents’ neighbors and passing cars. I tend to be less vocal and less explosive. Today, that was not the case. Some potent emotion came gripping my throat and I danced it before I could name it, throwing my head wildly, dropping low, vocalizing, and moving in a wild matrix.
The emotion that was presenting was rage.
In recent facilitated conversations during this moment of racial reckoning, I’ve tried to talk myself out of this emotion.
Who am I, a white woman, to feel or express rage now, of all times? At a time when Black and Brown voices should be centered, my place is to listen deeply, to be in service. But then what to do with this emotion, that is boiling over, that is taking over my body? It’s rage toward myself for the times I should have spoken up or taken action against racism but stayed silent. For the times I’ve been unskillful. And for the times I’ve caused harm.
Back in April, I had a conflict with a family member who wasn’t observing social distancing with my ten-year-old son, Simon, in a way that felt safe for me. And just last week, my sister came to visit with my niece. My niece wanted to see something in the garden, and without even thinking about it, I scooped her up and carried her over the fence, totally disregarding social distancing, and certainly upsetting my sister. I didn’t even realize I’d done it until the next day.
Some unexamined impulse that felt automatic came up and I just acted. Just like my own family member who I was so upset with. This is part of the inner work for me now, to deeply examine what feels automatic for underlying narratives of racial superiority, and its supportive underpinings.
This is not only a moral prerogative, but I also stand to personally benefit. Every time I identify and interrogate a story that makes me believe I am in any way separate, I move closer to truth, freedom, and a true sense of belonging.
And this rage that came up in the dance wasn’t just directed toward myself. It was also rage for the systems we are immersed in. For all the times I’ve brought things up and been gaslighted. For what I’ve seen and felt and known as the parent of a child of color. For all the instances of generalized oppression and othering that contribute to and create a basis for racism.
Who am I to feel all of this?
And yet I feel it and what to do. Where to put it, where to express it. Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch. And this body, that is not separate from all bodies, is in pain. And this pain is problematic, but there it is, searing and tight.
I want to express this and I don’t. I don’t want to bog down collective forums with the individual work that I must take personal responsibility for. And at the same time, I answer to my body, above everyone else, and it is speaking loudly.
I love and respect the activists who are generous, patient, and committed to the long haul. But I’m not feeling that way right now.
Right now, I want to blow things up.
I’m tired. I’ve had a front row seat to oppression for too long now, as a white teacher in a segregated public school district; as a human being in a country that voted for Donald Trump; as a practitioner in a Buddhist tradition that basically detonated because of patriarchy and abuse, where I bumped into a wall of opacity again and again.
Please, please don’t tell me to put it into the practice. For more than a decade, I’ve been putting it into practice. And that has helped me to cope and to gain insight. But it can’t just end with personal practice. Now it’s time to move beyond just my personal reckoning, to a reckoning on a larger stage. To a systemic reckoning.
And all that was just the first wave.
Later in the day, I danced to the same wave. I had planned to join a group of dancers via zoom, but misinterpreted time zones and class invites and wound up on my own instead. I considered having a glass of wine and relaxing with my family, but decided to play the day’s earlier wave and move to it again instead.
Flowing was brief. I thought maybe I could half-ass it a little, cut out some of the songs, sort of move through the motions. I felt bad because my family was finishing up dinner, and I didn’t want the music to disturb them. I was clipped, noting the very hard, dry ground and wondering if I could even go all out without hurting myself.
Then that same thick, poetic song, which was “Let the Devil In” by TV on the Radio, exploded me again, giving me exactly what I needed – a peek into gigantic, poetic reality, a chance to shake myself to life. I thought about the folk belief of letting the devil in, the idea that you made this mess, you brought this on, you let it in, and I couldn’t help but relate it to American society as I now experience it, and my part in it.
I put on a lyrical-feeling staccato track, Jerusalema, by South African DJ and producer Master KG featuring vocalist Nomcebo Zikode. I threw down in delighted engagement, at times doing my best to replicate the dance I’d seen on a youtube video, moving my hips for four counts, jumping my feet in scissors for four counts, dipping and turning, then repeating the sequence.
In staccato chaos, I fell out to a song by Tribe Called Red, which I’m embarrassed to say I only just learned is an Indigenous Canadian band. I sunk low, rocked hips in a planar experiment, and bounce-paused in rhythmic expression.
Chaos was, again, the centerpoint and critical mass of this dance, seducing me to explode with what I was carrying. I thought Chaos was over after a long, psy trance track, but the next song took me deeper still.
This was also a TV on the Radio Song, this one titled “Happy Idiot” – my version of a shadow lyrical song. It’s about a breakup, but also about shutting down and trying to convince yourself and others that you’re happy when you actually are not. It’s the same song I had put on after a long, formal conversation about racial justice the day before. It was like a demon took me over. I growled from the deep belly, occasionally acting as a “Happy Idiot” and waving enthusiastically, then switching back to a sarcastic rage I wasn’t fully aware lived in my body.
I put on one of my favorite lyrical tracks, then a beautiful stillness track, though I still wasn’t fully ready to wind down. I could have growled in Chaos for several more hours, but life called me back.
Tomorrow is another day of reckoning, another chance to be whole, another chance to remember that for all of us, rhythm is our mother tongue, calling us back to who we really are, calling us back to our birthright – which is love – and calling us to action.
July 29, 2020
“And someday when we do finish that long journey towards freedom, when we do form a more perfect union — whether it’s years from now or decades or even if it takes another two centuries — John Lewis will be a founding father of that fuller, fairer, better America.” –President Barack Obama
“All this dancing is bullshit if we aren’t taking it into the streets.” –Gabrielle Roth
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
(Image: cincinnatimagazine.com)
by meghanleborious | Jul 14, 2020 | Notes on Practice
“I think I have to get out,” I said as my Dad, my ten-year-old son, Simon, and I sat in a stuck canoe on the Scantic River.
I climbed onto the slippery, protruding section of the log that was blocking us and tried pushing. The canoe remained stuck. I instructed Simon to get out too, then balanced my way to a spot on the limb that had an extra branch where we could hold on to balance and exchange places. My Dad shifted from the back of the canoe to the front and leaned heavily backward, trying to lever the canoe over the tree trunk that was blocking our passage while I pushed and tugged. Eventually, it shifted. I squatted low, and held my hand out to Simon so he could creep down the log back to the canoe, then let go of his hand and climbed in myself.
The river was extremely low for canoeing. Normally, my Dad shared, the river is cleared by local parks officials every spring, but it seems like they took this year off as our path was riddled with downed trees.
For the past few days, I’ve been anxious. My work is teaching; and most years by the beginning of July, I’m finally starting to unwind and relax. This year, I’m having the opposite experience. I kept telling myself if I could just get Simon and I through the school year, summer would be waiting for us like the promised land. I also thought that if we could all just isolate for three months, we would move through the worst of the pandemic, and then we could return to life safely.
But it’s been over three months, and the pandemic is still raging. Even in places that have “flattened the curve,” as in New York City where Simon and I live, there are still significant new cases daily. And though there is no end in sight and many states have precipitous increases in cases, the president insists that we need to get back to driving the economy so he can get re-elected in November.
I can’t even begin to imagine what the fall might look like. I’m worried about how vulnerable I’ll be if I’m back in a classroom. I’m worried about how vulnerable Simon will be if he’s back in a classroom. I’m also worried about how Simon will do if he’s not back in a classroom. I’ve even wondered if I should consider leaving NYC and starting a new life entirely.
In addition, like many, I feel called to action as the movement for racial justice sweeps across the nation, and at once feel the need for deep listening and introspection. The need to lean into this work while there is a window of opportunity creates a sense of urgency, at the same time the need for inner work creates a need for patience. This alone would make for a challenging – though absolutely essential – period, never mind dealing with the ongoing pandemic.
The obstacles to dismantling centuries of racism and oppression feel overwhelming at times. It’s hard to even know how best to define the obstacles, or rather, the complex, overlapping processes that sustain 
racism, let alone set about overcoming them.
On the river, for this one day, it was a relief to encounter tangible obstacles we could move through and leave behind us.
Since March when the pandemic started, I’ve practiced the 5Rhythms – a movement meditation practice created by Gabrielle Roth – nearly every day, occasionally in zoom classes, but most often on my own. Most of my dances have been characterized by strong engagement, but in the last few days, movement has been uninspired. I’ve been practicing for long enough to know what to do when practice goes flat: continue to practice regularly, accept whatever arises, and remind myself that the magic always comes back eventually.
Most days, I dance in the backyard, where I can freak out without stressing my knees and joints. Yesterday, the sun was beating down, so I wore a baseball cap and moved in and out of the shade, from the patio where the speakers and computer were set up, to the farthest part of the yard, which is well-shaded by trees. The oppressive heat and humidity might have been a factor, but I kept losing heart. I didn’t want to play any of my favorite songs – the ones that always cause me to explode in dance – since I wasn’t sure I could lift off and was afraid to ruin the songs’ power to move me in the future.
I moved diligently through the entire wave regardless. When I felt a twinge in my lower back, I leaned forward to stretch out my hamstrings. When the wave – that’s when you move in sequence through each of the 5Rhythms of Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical, and Stillness – concluded, I spent some time stretching in silence, feeling less flexible than usual and noting many aches and strains.
“Dad, when is the landing coming?”
“Oh, I think we must have passed it,” my Dad said as we navigated yet another seemingly impassable obstacle in the river.
Simon and I have been with my parents in northern Connecticut since March when the pandemic started in our region, and finding ways to keep him productively engaged has been a challenge. Our plan was just to see if we could get the canoe to the river, and paddle a short distance as a test run. The canoe had not been used much in the last several years, but it seemed like something we could do to entertain ourselves during the summer doldrums.
Unfortunately, we missed this first landing and had no choice but to take on a much bigger adventure than we’d signed on for.
I pulled out the phone out of its ziploc bag, opened the GPS, and squinted, trying to make out our location.
“I think we just have a few squiggles in the river, and then we should come to a road. But do you think we should turn back?”
Simon loudly insisted, “Turn back! I vote we turn back!”
My Dad assured us that it would be much harder to paddle back upriver than to continue until the next landing, so after a brief period of discussion we decided to continue in the same direction.
A dragonfly with a shimmery turquoise body and black wings twittered into the boat. Simon screamed and jumped reflexively from his seat on a wooden crossbar in the middle of the canoe, stepping his weight to the side of the boat and nearly tipping us over. “You can’t freak out now! It puts us all in danger! You are going to have to keep it together,” I said sternly. Simon shifted back into his seat and tried his best to work with this mandate.
We continued to paddle and work around fallen trees, rocks, and shallows, with Simon and I paddling in sync, and my Dad steering in the back and calling out instructions.
In addition to dancing every day, most days I run down a big hill from my parents’ house, and around a trail loop in the woods, sometimes several times.
Then I find a place to dance. Yesterday, I chose a spot on the sandy path near a gurgling section of river. The speed of the current here as it churned over a section of rocks heartened me, as many other sections have slowed and stymied with the summer heat and low water level.
I drew a circle in the sand to dance inside of, then imagined that I invited the guardians of the four directions, along with my ancestors, deities, teachers, guides, and spirit animals. I moved in the rhythm of Flowing – the rhythm of receptivity, listening, and grounding – at great length, taking in my own ill ease and unrest. I wasn’t sure I would ever break through to Staccato – the rhythm of action and directed intention, but eventually it did appear, if briefly. I noted a mild headache as I released into the rhythm of Chaos, bouncing gently back and forth. Lyrical today was a mere formality. The final rhythm of Stillness moved me to notice the woods, trees, and thriving green life, though still I remained subdued.
Over a decade of 5Rhythms practice, particularly practice in the rhythm of Chaos, has helped prepare me to deal with uncertainty, but lately it has been uncomfortable. I know that if I can just relax into it the deadening anxiety will release, and I’ll be left with just raw fear and grief, but there are still so many decisions to make, so many factors to weigh, so much information to evaluate.
Part of me thinks something is wrong, and wants to make these feelings go away. A wiser part of me understands that however I feel is fine, and will eventually shift anyway.
Since my mom was planning to pick us up wherever we ended our adventure I tried to reach her, but couldn’t get a signal.
I kept checking the GPS to see if we were parallel to the road yet, but it seemed to be zooming out. I turned off the phone to conserve battery, as we were at just 12%, and stashed it in the front of my shirt.
There were no houses, picnic tables, other boaters, or signs of life beyond green wilderness. The river was so low that the sides seemed like cliffs, with normally-concealed, gnarled tree roots framing our course.
“I like this part,” Simon said as we drifted through a clear section with fewer bugs.
I checked the GPS again, and made the alarming discovery that we were moving in the opposite direction from what I thought. I had a moment of panic, especially concerned for my 70-year-old father who has a heart condition and diabetes if we were stuck out in the sun for a prolonged period, though he appeared to be holding up just fine. I tried to reach my mom again, but the call still wasn’t connecting. When the next big insect appeared, Simon broke down crying.
We continued to paddle. “On the left everyone! Let’s try to clear this log!” my Dad shouted as the canoe thudded to a stop once again. This time, I got out, my feet splooching up past my ankles in slimy mud as I pushed the canoe back into movement.
We celebrated as we maneuvered around another tree, this time continuing through a tight spot without getting stuck.
I tried to reach my mom again, but the phone wasn’t even ringing. I tucked the phone away to avoid crashing into the sharp overhanging branches of another felled tree as the canoe sailed under it with the current, then tried one more time.
“Meghan, we should wait until we get somewhere so she doesn’t have to hang around,” my Dad argued reasonably.
“But we’re almost out of battery, and someone needs to know where we are!” I countered.
“We’re going to die!” Simon wailed.
I was finally able to reach my Mom, just before the battery died. And though I was beginning to fear we might have missed another landing, we spotted a bridge with my mom in the middle of it, waving and taking a video.
“We’re still alive!” Simon cried out happily as we rounded this final bend, waving his arms to get my Mom’s attention.
The long list of uncertainties and fears is still there, and continues to dampen my joy in daily practice, but I know that if I keep opening and opening to the uncertainty that is inevitable anyway, I can move through the obstacles that block the river, and move into the future, knowing full well that this uncertainty is just a hyperbole of the uncertainty that is always there in our experiences, lurking at every bend in the river.
July 13, 2020
This blog consists of my own subjective experiences on the 5Rhythms® dancing path, and is not sanctioned by any 5Rhythms® organization or teacher.
