by meghanleborious | Nov 15, 2016 | Notes on Practice, Uncategorized
“What? This can’t be. Oh, my God, this can’t be. How could this be? This can’t possibly be. What are all of these overnight text messages about. They are no longer celebratory, as they were last night. This can’t be true. Let me look at the internet. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Please, no. Please, this can’t be. So many people would suffer. This is impossible. How could Americans elect this person? How could anyone vote for this man? Please this is just a nightmare. Let me wake up. This can’t be. Let me text back to some of the texts. Please let it not be so. It can’t be! My God! No, please, this can’t be! So many people would suffer! The economy! Unchecked hatred! Please say it is just a nightmare!”
Often before I start a new text for this blog, I write automatically for ten minutes. Writing automatically usually helps me to find an entry point, a theme, maybe even an idea for a structure, but today my mind remains scattered, dulled by its struggle to accommodate the new reality that my fellow Americans have elected Donald Trump to be the next president of the United States.
At Kierra Foster Ba’s workshop “Light & Shadow” last weekend, Kierra took us on a journey through the shadow aspects of each of the 5Rhythms—the shadow of Flowing, which is inertia; the shadow of Staccato, which is tension; the shadow of Chaos, which is confusion; the shadow of Lyrical, which is the quality of being spaced out; and the shadow of Stillness, which is numbness. In addition, she introduced the idea that the shadows might have to do with the parts of ourselves we would rather keep hidden or disown completely.
After the workshop, I wrote feverishly, very much wanting to deliver a text on the shadows work of last weekend before Tuesday’s election results, realizing that no matter what happened, anything written before Tuesday would become automatically outdated. Although I was very nervous, I wrote with the assumption that there would be a Hillary victory in the end, and, too, with the assumption that after the election that we would have to find ways to work with and address America’s unleased collective shadows of abject hatred and opportunism.
Before the election, my psyche simply could not accommodate the possibility that Donald Trump might actually win the election. It was simply too surreal—too much the stuff of nightmares. It simply could not be. Americans certainly would not go to such extremes, even in the face of anger and disempowerment, that we would actually elect such a person, someone who does not believe in and would threaten our very democracy, who is the confirmed perpetrator of countless, outrageous crimes and abuses, possibly even of rape.
The lively activity at my polling place in Brooklyn made me feel like Hillary would surely win. The better the voter turnout, I argued in my head, the more likely she would prevail. I brought my six-year-old son along with me, regaling him with stories of when Obama was first elected—the long, happy lines to vote; and after the results came in, the streets filled with celebration, people thronging Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where I lived at the time. I told him excitedly, “This is a moment you will always remember, when we voted for the first woman president!”
The memory of the first 5Rhythms class I attended after Obama was elected in 2008 seemed like a totally different lifetime. It was Tammy’s Friday Night Waves class. For days, I had been walking around the city sobbing for joy. It would hit me, buying a tea, waiting for the walk sign, standing on the subway. Talking with everyone. Beaming. Not only had we—a nation built with the blood and sweat of slaves—elected a Black man, but we had elected an ethical, competent, intelligent leader, who was intent on building consensus, examining the minutiae of evidence on the many matters that faced him, and with the stated intention—and possibly the skill—to extend the prosperity that a small number of Americans enjoyed to a larger portion of society. That was the first time since I was a baby in a leaf pile playing with my parents, that I had ever moved in pure joy. The room was filled with a different kind of vocalization than what we experienced in class this week—hooting and hollering that moved through the air in waves of its own. We were a glowing mess, drenched, crying, leaping many feet off the ground, the entire wood floor bouncing, the music getting louder and louder. It was paradise. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was—to be alive in this time, to be part of this seismic shift, this uncontainable joy.
A few sleepless, dark morning hours after learning the results (during which my son and I sat on a meditation cushion together, my stomach in knots, him reading quietly or practicing meditation along with me) one of the people I am closest to—a Black and Latino man—entered the house. He shared an opinion that I have since heard echoed by more than one person of color—that this was no surprise, and that “Black people in America have been dealing with this level of hatred and injustice all along. Now, it is just out in the open.” He also reminded me that his joy when Obama was elected had been mitigated by his prediction that there would be a monstrous backlash after Obama’s term.
Since the election, hate crimes have surged, according to the New York Times, USA Today, CNN and a long list of reputable sources. “Make America White Again” has been scrawled on a whiteboard in a University of North Florida library, and in countless other places countrywide. My father told me with grave consternation that there had been a KKK rally in my parents’ small town in Northern Connecticut, to my knowledge an unprecedented event.
During and after the “Light & Shadow” workshop, I grappled with the concept of ground, wondering if in clinging to the idea of ground, I might be limiting my perception of reality. Kierra sought to share her insight, and an insight likely shared by Gabrielle Roth—the creator of the 5Rhythms practice—that the ground is always there; and that it is possible to find the ground even in an earthquake. Instead of only finding the ground in Flowing, where we traditionally establish it, Kierra lead me to also consider finding it through releasing into Chaos. My idea of “the ground” as Gabrielle Roth intended it continues to evolve, but I realize that the idea of ground is compatible with the realization that absolutely everything is in constant, dynamic flux; and that there is truly nothing to cling to. The ground is the foundation, from which we hear and trust our instinctive, physical selves, and from which we come to trust the fundamental correctness and workability of reality. Truly, finding the ground and being at ease through releasing into Chaos is a powerful tool, as we seek to navigate (at minimum) the next four years.
Driving alone to a 5Rhythms class, my first since the election, I bawled and keened, my face contorted, tears streaming down my cheeks to the point that my skin actually started to itch from all of the salt. My mind raced, “Would I choose to leave the US? What steps would I have to take? Is there anywhere in the western world that is exempt from this impulse toward xenophobia and aggression, this reaction to globalism? Should I stay and be part of the resistance? What would the resistance be? What would happen to all the people without insurance? Would my son be safe from racism, hatred and violence? Would New York City be safe, once Trump started provoking countries around the world? Would I lose my job as a result of recession? Would my friends lose their jobs? Would all of my parents’ lifelong hard work for social justice be wiped away, just as they are growing old, beginning to tally their contributions? Would they lose heart and lose faith? Would I? Do all of the people who voted for Trump hate women? Do all of the people who voted for Trump hate me? Do they all think that the sexual trauma I have suffered in my own life is no big deal and that the pain I have struggled with for a lifetime is just someone’s lark—locker room pranks—without accountability? And how, in this crazy world, would I counter this monstrous influence on my small son? Is there any way to protect him?” I had no schema for any of this. Through years of diligent practice, I had developed powerful faith in the basic goodness of human beings. How could I reconcile these seemingly contradictory realities?
Arriving at class, I took my time to enter the studio, noticing the powerful ritual of stepping from the world into the space of formal practice. I was not wracked by grief. There was no catharsis, as I had in a way hoped for. Instead, the group moved through the first wave, breathing in and out, trying our best to release into Flowing and then into each of the other rhythms. I noticed that my version of Flowing was agitated, and I made an effort to slow down, to let it in. To let in the reality of my stress and grief-wracked body, and the reality of the outcome of the election, which I still could not fully grasp. Staccato barely arrived in this first wave, finding me fumbling, unsure of my feet for once, disassociated, perhaps still in the throes of shock despite my stated willingness to let in. Chaos was loud and energetic, though mental activity continued to churn, in disjointed snippets and unruly threads. The tiniest hint of Lyrical emerged, and it crossed my mind that somehow I would have to find a way to let joy in, too, despite everything, or I would lose four years of my life, perhaps even causing an atrophy of joy that I would not recover from. I reminded myself that expressing joy is not an intrinsic affront to suffering, and that being miserable, angry or sad wouldn’t help me to control anything. It would just make me miserable or angry or sad. Whether I find Lyrical or not—the situation is very much outside of my control.
On Wednesday morning, arriving to work, I went straight to my one strong work ally. Hugging him, I sobbed. Although there were a few people there who were also devastated by the results of the election, I felt very alone, both at work and in the context of the country. On parting, I said, “This is a call to arms. We must each become a warrior of the heart. That is our only hope at this point. As of today, any kindness is now an act of political resistance.”
At the class, I felt like a whole layer of neurosis had become outdated, along with everything else that happened before November 8, 2016. Most of the people I was moving with were allies, and could be trusted. Petty irritations seemed extra pointless, considering the need to build community. Despite this, some irritations did arise, and I wondered if they were a last sprint of a certain kind of ego, or if they might be a way for my psyche to work on some things that I couldn’t manage to confront directly.
In the interim between the two waves, I sat leaning in a little pod with a small group of friends who happened to be seated near me; then, began to flow back-to-back with one friend, at first just gently swaying from side to side. I was still disassociated and not capable of fully releasing to ground, but did my best to show up for my friend and for myself. Eventually gaining our feet, we moved around each other with great energy, then smiled thankfully, beginning to move separately throughout the room. I spent part of this wave considering disaster preparedness, with a long list of specifics, despite the shared intention to really see each other, to really give to each other. In Staccato, I found ferocity in bursts, but still felt disassociated. I partnered with one friend, and marveled at her fire. Inspired, I grew gigantic, too, forcing it ever so slightly, trying it as an experiment, an intention, rather than as my full expression in that moment. Even so, I recognized the need to step up in every way, to step into my power, to help the people around me to step into their power, to organize, to defy, to build community, to speak, to listen, to offer, to receive.
Today, as I write, I have a bone infection in my jaw. It is incredibly painful. Instead of succumbing to self-pity, I remind myself that there are many people around the world who at this very moment are also experiencing excruciating dental pain. Maybe also on top of other kinds of pain, too. The great Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron teaches a Tibetan meditation practice called Tonglen. In Tonglen, instead of resisting or pushing away pain, negativity or other afflictive emotions, we breathe them in. Then, we breathe out equanimity, positivity and pleasant emotions. In the process, we work against our conditioned impulse to push away what threatens us, frightens us, or rocks our fundamental notions of who we are. In doing so, we transform our relationship to aversion—the energetic pushing away or non-acceptance of things we usually can’t escape anyway. An aspect of Tonglen that acts as a counter to despair is that we remind ourselves again and again that we are not alone, that whatever pain we are experiencing, there are countless others who feel or have felt the same pain. As such, it is impossible not to call to mind the billions of people who suffer or have suffered under the leadership of corrupt, greedy, dishonest or incompetent leaders. I am not alone. We are not alone.
I have been very careful to write about the nation as “we,” though it is a stretch for me at this moment. One sneaky form of aversion is setting up a group of people as “others” who are distinct from “us.” This is a fundamental premise of postmodern identity politics and of post-colonial theory—the idea that in order to construct ourselves a certain way, we set up groups of people as “others” as a counterpoint to the “us.” It is like we can only have an identity by defining who does not have our identity, excluding certain people from our experience completely. I am using “we,” and thinking of the many complex causes that gave rise to this moment, rather than succumbing to the temptation to simply revile Trump’s supporters to make them “other.” Truly, this is a phenomenon that all of us have participated in producing. This place we find ourselves is not an anomaly, and is not simply the result of someone else’s misconduct.
The Black and Latino man I wrote of earlier and who is one of my most important allies again shared his thoughts on the current political moment, reminding me very much of the teachings on the shadow aspects of the 5Rhythms. He said, “The thing is, people of color have always known it was this bad. It always has been. The good thing is that we know that the only way to change things is to first actually accept how bad things are. That’s the thing that white people just haven’t realized; and that’s why so many people are so shocked. It is only when we can really accept what is actually happening that real change can finally occur.”
Gabrielle Roth often expressed that the rhythm of our time is Chaos. As volatile as it inevitably has been, she believed that our era is also marked by possibility and creativity. I try to imagine what she would say now, if she were still alive. Perhaps that no matter what, we have to keep moving. Perhaps that to shut down and lock up would be the real death of us. Perhaps that the best way to work with Chaos is to release directly into the middle of it. Perhaps that, ultimately, nothing and no one can take away our freedom or peace of mind, unless we ourselves allow it.
Rending, guttural screams flew through the space as we moved in Chaos. I found the floor, pulsing vigorously through my middle back, on my hands and knees and crouched into the hips with my pubis almost touching the ground, then I would leap and spin, finding all the while stops and edges inside my own maelstrom. The friend who was so ferocious in Staccato moved with just as much vigor right next to me. I moved to the floor and up from it, leaping quickly, perhaps in a primal defensive gesture, landing first in a deep squat, bursting upward, my head a car on the speeding rollercoaster of my spine, then moved back to the ground. I remembered Kierra’s words about releasing into Chaos, and as the rhythm played out I found more softness, less edge. If I was tempted to check myself out of this intensity, I reminded myself of the critical importance of releasing to Chaos as a tool for survival.
Lyrical came, too, and then Stillness. I partnered with a friend who I love to dance with, and we beamed as we moved together, more expansive than in our past dances. High up on my toes and both finding discrete patterns, we played in and out of each other’s orbits. In Stillness, I moved unselfconsciously, pulling away from a friend who wanted to partner, giving myself a quiet moment to turn inward.
Though there will be times that we all need to turn inward, community has become critical. Right before the election, I had invited several friends to a series of dinner parties because I had realized the need to re-focus my priorities on the people around me, rather than on my very stressful job. Now, after the election, having a way to gather together and cultivate our relationships seems even more important—in fact, like a matter of emotional and political necessity.
At the height of dental pain, I decided to take a yoga class. I reasoned that I would try it, and if it was impossible I would just leave. The pain was an 8 or 9 on a scale of 1-10 most of the time, but at moments it receded to the back of my mind, as I attended diligently to the poses and to the breath. I was surprised that I made it through the entire class, despite the pain. The teacher, who I trust deeply, said, “It might be hard to hear this right now, but the truth is that we are made for these times. This is what we have been practicing for.”
On Saturday, I attended a candlelight vigil and rally at Fort Greene Park, where thousands of all races, classes, ages, religions and orientations came together to affirm our commitment to oppose injustice and hatred in all its manifestations, to affirm our commitment to love, and to support each other in resisting the temptation to feel isolated or incapacitated. A heartful voice sang out, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…” We all joined in, raising our candles in the falling night. My voice was ragged, the words barely coherent. A friend from the neighborhood I hadn’t realized was right next to me turned and embraced me. I looked to my other side and saw another friend—this one from college in Boston—and I turned and kissed her cheek.
We are not alone, my loves. We are in this together. In the words of the woman whose light guides me, the woman who continues to show my heart the way, Gabrielle Roth, “There is only one of us here.”
November 13, 2016, Brooklyn, NYC
(Image is a photo I took at the “Vigil for Hope & Human Kindness” that took place in Fort Greene Park on November 12, 2016)
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 | Aug 24, 2016 | Notes on Practice
Heat lightning ripped through the grey-purple sky as I was driving to the Friday Night Waves class. Looking down my Brooklyn street to the East River a bolt jagged to the right and down, next to a looming metal crane. Crossing the blue expanse of the Manhattan Bridge, lightning danced in fractured lines on both sides of me. I felt sure the sky would explode with rain at any moment, though the clouds only managed to squeeze out a few frustrated drops.
In the week leading up to the class and in the days following, the entire city wilted. Even bodies usually kept concealed have emerged and the edges of our garments have crept toward their seams. I have been doing errands in a bra and skirt, for example; and I did yoga today in a bathing suit. My parents came to visit and we all had a slumber party in the one air conditioned room of the apartment. Nearly everyone has a similar dominant experience; and the heat is the main topic of conversation everywhere. I love the feeling of shared challenge and the remarkableness of it, but it has definitely been intense.
A few days before the class, I had a dream in which I knew that I was dying. Some of my friends were going on a bike ride in the heat. Though I was tempted to join, I opted to conserve my energy instead and write notes to everyone I love. Lately, I have felt a generalized dissatisfaction, like I should be doing something other than what I am doing, like I am craving something that I can’t quite pinpoint. I had a painful insight that when I get edgy with my six-year-old son, Simon, because he is taking too long to do a task, the root of my edginess is really a fear of failure. Fear that if I waste time, I will fail to create markers of my experience and identity. That I will die anonymous and therefore succumb completely to death—total annihilation. The dream seemed to re-set my priorities, and I experienced a deepening of meditation practice. I remembered, if only briefly, that now is my only hope.
I hadn’t realized that Tammy would be away this week; but I was happy to see Kierra Foster Ba at the teacher’s table in her place. The air conditioners were on, but it was HOT. Seriously hot. Again, like many, I wore less clothing than usual. Stepping in, I bowed to the room and to the practice, then found a spot on the floor to stretch. I was quickly called to movement, casting into curving, arcing gestures. I found myself doing my current version of breakdancing—athletic circling, rising and falling, putting as much weight on my hands as on my feet, moving in unending circles and arcs.
I would have thought that breakdancing would appear in Staccato, as I see it as edgy and expressive, but for me it has only ever appeared in Flowing. I recall an episode that happened not long after I started dancing the 5Rhythms—at a gallery event that turned into an all-night dance party. One of the biggest obstacles I faced in the beginning of my 5Rhythms path was that I was painfully constricted—trying very hard not to be too big, too unruly, too attention-getting—trying to keep a lid on my explosive inner Chaos. Having just fallen in love with 5Rhythms, I danced every bit as gigantic as I felt. And everyone else did, too! I realized that it is possible that dancing every inch of my dance (not to be confused with dancing gigantic just to get everyone’s attention) could give everyone else permission to dance every inch of their dance, too. A moment from the gallery dance party that lives delightfully in my memory was when I did the worm across the entire length of the gallery, jumping to my feet in peals of laughter at the opposite wall, amongst friends, who also delightfully trotted out their favorite moves.
Taking to my feet, I flowed through the room with the intention of seeing everyone in attendance. I thought of a man I met earlier in the day in downtown Brooklyn. He sat on the sidewalk, with a money-request-cup and a sign that listed the important events of his life. “Father died. Grandmother died…” There was also a copy of a newspaper article, “Boy Survives Fall Out of 6th Story Building.” “Are you the boy that fell out the window?” I asked. He looked at me and nodded and his words began to tumble out. I realized how much he wanted to be seen, and thought about how true that is for most of us. Wanting to be seen. Really seen. Not just looked at. Holding my brand new baby niece, I thought about that fundamental human wish again, as she opened her tiny eyes and in just a few moments of concentrating her tiny baby gaze, seemed to see all of me, everything that is important about me, completely.
Flowing lead to Staccato before long. I noted that my right foot had a slight flatness, in comparison to its usual articulation, but it didn’t stop me from jumping into partnership after partnership—including with one lanky friend who always challenges me to stretch upward and into the farthest reaches of my limbs.
My top lip curled ever so slightly in response to an outburst of yelling from one corner of the dance floor. Kierra picked up the microphone right away and said, “This is a spiritual practice. There is no talking.” I am often impressed by Kierra’s non-didactic approach, and on this occasion I was just as impressed by her pointedness.
Chaos in the first wave found me energetic, spinning, loose. Kierra played a track with tribal chaos rhythms mixed with a riff from Buena Vista Social Club; and I responded with enthusiasm and vigor despite the fact that I was already drenched with sweat.
In the context of the current presidential campaign season, my father has been saying, “In public life, there are two kinds of people: those who want to be somebody great, and those who want to do great things.” This quote came to mind as Kierra began to speak in the interlude between the first and the second wave of the class. “This is not a performance,” she said. “This is a spiritual practice. It’s for you. Not for anyone else. I challenge you to move beyond your self-consciousness, to not worry at all about how you look.” I don’t think she was talking about self-consciousness just as shyness (as it often implies) but, rather, self-consciousness in the sense that you are very preoccupied with how others are seeing you, perhaps losing the center and depth of your own experience in the process.
Kierra stepped forward to demonstrate through moving what a 5Rhythms wave looked like for her in that moment. She moved with grace and vigor as she explained to the eight brand new dancers in the room (and to the rest of us) that the gateway to Flowing is the feet; and that Flowing is characterized by unending, circular movement. She began to move more sharply and to forcefully exhale. “Staccato is really the opposite of Flowing. It is directional, angular. It is a good place to practice having good boundaries.”
At this point, Kierra digressed productively, encouraging us to fully take on the 5Rhythms, “especially if you have a strong will, and you always want to do things your way. For example, you might want to be in the beat, but it’s Flowing—so you flow; and see what’s there, in your flow. See what’s there for you.” The suggestion to fully take on the 5Rhythms is, in my experience, incredibly useful advice. In addition to Kierra, I have heard this theme emphasized by 5Rhythms teachers countless times, including Amber Ryan, Peter Fodera, and certainly by Tammy Burstein. There are times that it is skillful to track the minute shifts of energy that take place moment by moment and to follow every fleeting impulse, but more often, part of the discipline of practice—the seeds that eventually yield the harvest—is to take on the 5Rhythms fully, with the intention of being curious and seeing what comes. It is especially in the receptivity or resistance to a given rhythm that we mine for insights—information we would never uncover if we were always to simply follow our immediate, conditioned impulses.
Demonstrating the requisite release of the head in Chaos, Kierra said something I had never heard before: that we have some sort glands both in our foot pads and in our necks that release endorphins, which is one reason circling the head and neck are important in several religious traditions—such as Sufi whirling. This made perfect sense to me, as I have often been flooded with delightful natural chemicals in the throes of Chaos.
The release of my neck has been one of life’s little miracles. When I first began 5Rhythms, my neck was totally locked. At the end of a yoga class, it was agony to lay prone on the floor because it was so pinched. Instructors often asked, “Are you ok like that? Really?” Gradually, thanks to the 5Rhythms, my neck began to free itself. As it becomes more and more free, moving sometimes with alarming intensity in the rhythm of Chaos, so too, does my mind seem to grow more free. Whenever I feel discouraged by lack of progress on my path, the relative freedom of my neck reminds me of how far I have traveled, how ripe I am for catharsis, and how readily it comes.
Continuing with the litany of the rhythms, the rhythm of Lyrical, Kierra said, “Will look different for everyone.” All the rhythms will look different for everyone! But Lyrical in particular, since in Lyrical we let go of the letting go (of Chaos) and our innate patterns begin to emerge.
Kierra shared an example that Gabrielle Roth, the creator of the 5Rhythms practice, used to offer at workshops. Gabrielle said she would occasionally be washed over with sadness, even when she was in the throes of joy. Over time, she was able to locate the energy of this particular sadness to her wrist. Finally, after working with the sadness for a long period, she got the memory connected to it. As Kierra put it, “She was very young, pre-verbal even, and she had been told to wave good-bye to her father. She was bereft because she didn’t understand that he was coming back. She thought she was waving good bye to her father forever.”
As she moved on to demonstrate Stillness, Kierra said, “Sometimes when people first come to the 5Rhythms, they see a big, fun dance party. And it is that! It is that. But it is also so much more.” Kierra explained that once you faithfully go through all of the rhythms, eventually you will get to a trance. She recalled something Gabrielle would often say, “The body is begging bowl for spirit.” In that place, according to your beliefs and experiences, you will be moving with something much larger than yourself. For example, for Kierra, she becomes aware that she is moving along with her ancestors. This is very much true for me, too. It is in Stillness that I realize I have an entire spirit entourage, that I am not alone in this existence. I have often heard Kierra talk about being interested in “going deep” in practice, and as I reflect on her comments now I wonder if it is precisely this field she has been pointing toward.
Like nearly everyone in the room, I ended the night in a sweaty puddle on the floor that has held me literally hundreds of times. Kierra concluded the class with one of Gabrielle’s most famous quotes, and one of my personal favorites,
“Do you have the discipline to be a free spirit?”
August 14, 2016, Brooklyn, NYC
Image from derrickniehaus.deviantart.com.
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 17, 2016 | Notes on Practice, Uncategorized
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Yesterday we woke to blue skies for the first time since we have been in Ireland. After dropping my son, Simon, off at camp, I set out to explore the local beach again, hoping to find a place to dance. Given the fair weather, there were several people enjoying the beach and I didn’t feel comfortable dancing there. Because it is exceedingly dangerous, I’ve sworn off the unprotected cliff path that departs from the east end of the beach, despite its compelling beauty. I spotted a different cliff path at the west end of the beach and decided to at least try it. This time, most of the path was set back from the cliff’s edge (with the exception of one short section) and I felt more at ease. The vast horizon was striated with deep emerald and turquoise water. Views from the cliff walk included huge rock formations topped with greenery, toppled boulders, squared green fields, rock walls and the endless crashing waves far below.
Absolutely by chance, on the secluded cliff path I ran into a childhood schoolmate of the friend who is hosting us and we chatted briefly. “I think it is a little bit dangerous up here. There has been a lot of erosion lately,” she shared. I nodded and told her that I decided I wouldn’t go on the other cliff path anymore; and that I am trying to play it safe, given a number of holiday calamities.
Reaching the end of the cliff path, I saw a beautiful, unpeopled beach far below. There were only sheer cliffs in front of me and there didn’t seem to be a way down, so I decided to try to reach it by way of the road. Returning, I avoided the one very dangerous section of path by detouring through a heavily prickled patch. I turned off the path and walked through a field, hoping I could avoid returning all the way to the beach I’d started at, but a wire fence that I feared might be electrified blocked my way. I returned to the beach where I’d started, then turned onto the road and tried to find the secret beach. I regretted my choice to walk, as a long section of the road was treacherous for pedestrians, but I jogged along in my flipflops, hoping to get out of the way before any cars came barreling along. I got off the road as soon as I could, then walked parallel to it through someone’s field. Again, I reached a dead end, totally blocked by impassable shrubs and brambles. Determined still, I returned to the cottage and got into the car. Driving west, I spotted a nearly concealed, unmarked road in the middle of a hairpin turn and turned onto it.
The graveled parking lot was at a 45-degree angle and I made sure to engage the parking brake to the last possible “click” before getting out and gathering my things. This was, surely, the secret beach that I had seen from the cliff path. Despite the first-in-many-days blue sky, there wasn’t a single person besides me.
There were two graphic signs on the stairs leading to the beach below indicating falling rocks and strong currents. The stairs were made of concrete with big, coarse rocks cast inside, and were very, very steep. The first flight was relatively intact with the exception of a few crumbles, but on the second flight the stairs were severely eroded, smoothed almost to a flat ramp in some places by powerful high tides.
The beach itself was remarkable. Soaring and crumbling cliffs formed its north face, with fields and endless plants and grasses visible above them. Green-topped rock islands jutted into the sea at both its ends. Rocks and boulders were cast throughout the water, causing the powerful waves to act erratically. Thankfully, it was near low tide, since based on the most recent high tide line, the beach would be treacherous at high tide, if at all accessible. On a stormy day at high tide, the waves could reach the top of the long stairs, pummeling the cliffs and beach and making access impossible.
Looking up, I could see the crumbling cliffs with the turf edging hanging down like thick carpeting. I resolved once again, firmly, to stay off of high cliff paths that are right on the edges of cliffs.
I wasn’t totally sure what stage the tide was at, and I eyed the sea warily. This is dragon land, without question. I ventured a short way down the beach, but chose a spot to dance that was a short sprint away from the steep, cement stairs in case high tide came in fast. I made a circle of stones for myself and also noted a cluster of round stones a short distance in front of me. If the sea reached those stones, I decided, I would call it day and head for the stairs, no matter what phase of the 5Rhythms wave I was in at that point.
I broke the crusty surface of the warm sand with my bare feet. As with the previous day, moving brought tears almost immediately. I don’t know how long I was in Flowing, but I do remember that it was characterized by totally unselfconscious, fluid movement. In Staccato, I moved along the beach so I could dance on the unbroken sandy crust instead of in the sand that was already churned up by my circling feet in Flowing. I felt a tiny bit restrained. Respectful of the danger around me. Chaos, as in the previous days, was slightly restrained, also. I endeavored to release my head, but never moved with wild abandon. In Lyrical, I traced the gliding movements of birds with my hands while raised up onto my high toes, seeking sections of unbroken sand to help with lifting upward.
Stillness in the first wave took its time. I let in the energy of everything around me—cliffs, ocean, sky—and it was almost overwhelming. I had the thought that if you really let in the reality of the absolute, you let in the reality of your own death, too, and let in the reality that those you love will one day die. I staggered a little at the enormity of it, and at the wondrous enormity of the landscape around me. Perhaps that is why it can be so frightening. Sometimes. For me.
One of the biggest benefits of practicing independently is that I can really work with the mercurial shifts of energy as they arise. I realize that (in previous days) it made no sense to “hold” myself in Flowing. The fact is that even once I did move into Staccato, I moved back into Flowing many times. It wasn’t an all-or-nothing thing. Even when I got to Chaos, I still found myself going back to Flowing. I have often felt that I needed to keep myself in Flowing longer than felt intuitive so I could be responsible and find the ground beneath me before taking on any other investigation. Here, the stakes were different. I needed to attend to the many small subtle shifts of energy as I fluctuated between different rhythms. And in doing so, the energy of the land started to reveal itself to me.
It was not what I expected, to say the least. The land or anything else about Ireland. I have contemplated my relationship to this place at length. My Irish American grandmother and aunties were very Irish identified, but as I became an adult, I related uncomfortably to this heritage. I can see how identifying strongly helped them to feel empowered (perhaps in the face of discrimation), to connect with their families and community, and to find meaning and purpose. For me, though, several generations removed, taking it on has felt more like an identity decision, not a real connection to a living culture. Before this trip, I thought, “Perhaps I could connect with this lineage in a real way, and claim this one of many parts of who I am.” I felt strong emotion in the Waterford museum in Dungarven reading about the famine, the independence movement, the seafaring history. And in talking with one well-dressed, sweet, old Irish lady, who strongly remembled my now-gone beloveds. And again, at a country fair, seeing teenagers in a dance performance—jaunty, alive, lyrical. The peasant history, the mystical strains, the aching land. I know all of this in my body. And yet I have felt distant. And more afraid here. I hope I haven’t betrayed my ancestors. My heart wants to be open, though. Perhaps there will be a breakthrough.
The second wave emerged organically. Again, in Flowing I moved in linked, concentric circles, totally unselfconsciously. I found a melody that has appeared in independent practice again and again, feeling like an ancient song. Since I was totally by myself (except for one lone man in a blue jacket, a tiny dot far on the other side of the beach), I sang it with full force. It morphed into a chant—an homage to the sun that had tremendous density and power, and that persisted for most of the second wave. A thread of Stillness passed through as I danced with five black birds who soared together overhead—crossing, dipping, and gliding. The gestures of Chaos arose totally from the angles of my feet in the already agitated sand. In Lyrical, I again found lift, in my own joyful version of Irish step dancing. In Stillness, I let the waves pass through me; and at the end of the wave, I sat briefly in meditation, cross legged on a towel on the sand.
Today, I went again to this achingly beautiful, secret beach. First, I carefully checked the tide charts, since I did not want to be caught far from the stairs in a rising tide. This time, the sky was not blue, but white; and I walked west instead of east. The horizon was a vague shift in densities. Although according to the tide chart I should be ok for over an hour, I continued to fear the possibility of a quickly rising tide and watched the sea carefully. I explored at length, passing the first open beach to a set of giant rocks that would surely be islands at high tide, and on to another open beach (this one with black sand) and to another set of giant rocks. Everyone makes such a big deal about the greenness of Ireland, but here, the power of Ireland’s ancient rocks and stones presented. The stones became anthropomorphic as they began to reveal themselves, and I saw not only people, but animals and otherworldly creatures. I shot them with the phone camera like I was doing portraits; and they revealed themselves even more.
I crossed paths and chatted briefly with the man in the blue jacket that I had glimpsed far down the beach the day before. I noticed that he was attractive and we chatted about the weather. He asked if I planned to swim. In keeping with my recently established personal guidelines about safety, I asked, “Is it safe to swim here?” He said, pointing, “Well, you don’t go out too far, just in that part there.” I didn’t fully take it in, believing the sea much too cold, and said, “Well, have a great morning!” and moved on.
I finally had my fill of exploring, and selected a place close to the sea-damaged escape stairs. In fact, I found another cement staircase and the remains of a man-made walkway that had been totally pummeled and melted by the sea. I fell in love with it—this sturdy man-made creation that was easily felled by the raging power of the ocean. It was both humbling and heartening. Humbling because of the failed hubris of creating human structures on this wild beach. Heartening because nature so quickly reclaimed and restored itself in the face of human intervention—making our constructed foibles look like mere flashes in the pan.
In Flowing, I was happy and at ease. I felt no exertion, no inertia and no self. In Staccato, I felt no urgency or strain.
I saw the man I had spoken with swimming far down the beach, and began to feel like we were sharing a dance. After a long while in Flowing, I realized he had finished his swim and was standing by the escape stairs, drying off and watching me. This was an interesting development. I let Staccato emerge fully, rushing into space far beyond the original circle that I occupied in Flowing, some bold back cross-steps and deep squatting gestures working their way in, as I grew taller, smiling and engaging fully with the sometimes conflicting gestures of breaking waves. I kept glancing at the man, very aware that he was watching, but never made eye contact with him. I wanted to speak with him, to connect with him, but I lost my chance. As Staccato transitioned, I saw that he was walking up the stairs. I had suspected that he was naked but at this time it was confirmed. I waved good-bye to him, wishing he would come back and telling myself, “Oh well, he’s probably married anyway, like almost everyone in Ireland.”
This got me to thinking of physical love, and of the many memorable lovers I have met in my travels over the years. I thought about another beach meeting, near Puntarenas, Costa Rica. In that instance, I was on a long vision quest on the beach, lone, ecstatic, far from the village I was staying in, when a beautiful man literally rode up on a black horse, stopped short and said, “I want to dance with you!” Yes, I said, “Como no?” (Ironically, I never had sex with the horse riding man, who I quickly fell in love with, but instead entered into a primal tryst with an itinerant surfer from Argentina who sold jade jewelry to tourists and lived in a lean-to on the beach.)
For a spell, I was distracted from my senses. Chaos did not so much arrive as support my intention to complete the wave. Spinning, I quickly grew dizzy on the tilted plane of the beach, then found a familiar way of moving in Chaos that I realized is just a very articulated and weighted way of spinning. I moved in and out of Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness again and again, letting the flow of energy have its way.
This place, where two twisting strands of my ancestors hail from, is not what I expected. The pre-digested Ireland of cartoon leprechauns and Blarney Stone kisses is only a tiny piece of the story. In reality, it is much scarier. Much darker. Incredibly beautiful. And still, totally foreign.
July 16, 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 | 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 | May 20, 2016 | Notes on Practice
We walked up to the meadow in silence, without flashlights, through the nighttime woods. I inhaled the dark shapes of moving bodies, and exhaled the passing trees. Arriving, the diamond-fierce sky opened up. Our guide and the retreat’s coordinator pointed out constellations, beginning with those above the dragon-like ridge before us. We were captivated by his stories of ancient intrigue as we craned our necks further and further back, trying to follow his explanations of where to look. A barn owl called in the woods nearby and our group fell silent, listening. Another, slightly-farther-off owl called back, mournful and inquisitive; and they continued their conversation—drawing a line between themselves. Our hearing drew another line from each of them to us, creating a brief triangle that would dissolve again when we turned our attention back to the stars.
Before this week-long meditation retreat, I had participated in Zero Zone, a five-week class for experienced 5Rhythms practitioners that was created by Amber Ryan. Although I wasn’t totally clear on the focus initially, I gathered that there would be an emphasis on the rhythm of Stillness. I leaned heavily into it, noticing Stillness both in my dance and in my life in the weeks leading up to Zero Zone.
I imagined that on the first day, I would tumble in through the door of the big, black-floored studio at Paul Taylor Dance on the Lower East Side and fall to the floor sobbing, in luminous gratitude for this fortuitous chance to practice. I had been craving opportunities to work deeper, as the few advanced 5Rhythms workshops are infrequent, are spread out all over the world, and are usually five days long—meaning I would have to take several days off of work. Last year, I did one long workshop, but I had to move mountains for it and lost a great deal of work-social-capital as a result. I knew that unless I quit my job, workshops like these would not be possible very often. That is why I was so happy for this chance to practice. Amber’s stated intention was to “go deep,” and it seemed like Zero Zone would be more like a workshop spread out over several weeks than just an ongoing class, especially since the same participants would do the entire series, and the group wouldn’t change each week as it does in most weekly classes.
As it happens, I arrived a bit late to the first meeting of Zero Zone. I had to wait for my son’s father to arrive before I could leave the house; and the earliest he could make it to us was 7pm. The class began at 7.15, so if I ran out the door the second he arrived, encountered no traffic, had no problems with directions, did not have to get gas, and found parking immediately, I could expect to arrive right on time for 7.15. Since such alignments are rare, I ran 10-15 minutes late on most nights.
I felt porous, engaged and curious as I entered into the construct of the workshop. On this first night I felt free, finding the floor right away, then rising and stringing together several series of anomalous, quirky gestures. Amber drew us into an “opening circle” and went to lengths to establish agreements for the group. I left feeling like we had barely begun, eager to dive in during the coming weeks.
For our first homework assignment, Amber asked that we tune in to the thoughts that persist in our minds, the “voice that talks to you”, or the stories-we-tell ourselves, as I interpreted the task. She also asked that we think about what our intentions would be for the five weeks. My mind immediately offered, “freedom,” and “letting go of self-hate.” I also wrote, “luxurious vibrancy, alive.”
The week passed quickly and I found myself again en route to Zero Zone for the second class, again running late. I totally missed the flowing part of the first wave, but took to the floor on entry, my spine moving happily in Staccato. I felt a bit interior, though, and unmotivated to connect with other dancers.
During the second Zero Zone class, we did partner work that offered me a few key insights. Instructed to respectfully touch the part of our partner that was not moving or that was held in some way, I was gentle as my partner touched my mid-back, my lower back, my hips. I was careful to be soft as I touched my partner in turn; and we both beamed, enjoying the investigation.
The Stillness part of this first wave irritated me, however. I have never, or at least have rarely, gotten to Stillness through the practice of creating selected shapes with my body. This is a common 5Rhythms construct, though, and I tried my best to be receptive. “Take the shape of that voice in your head,” seemed an impossible request given the complexity of the territory, but I tried my best.
The Stillness practice of distilling movement into shapes has always eluded me, in fact. It just doesn’t seem to be productive for me. I wrote about it to Amber, “Perhaps it is my inexperience,” I began, and explained that, for me, “I get to the rhythm of Stillness when I get to a place where I can perceive and experience the flow of energy in my own body, in others’ bodies and in the space around me.” I continue to struggle with wondering if, perhaps, I should accept that the work with shapes is just not for me, or if I should continue to try to find a way to access it.
Our group discussion this second week went on and on. It seems many people had taken the “voices” assignment very seriously and had experienced a range of emotions in response. I felt anxious. In many years of practicing Buddhist meditation, even in some very sharp and precise approaches, I had only ever been instructed to address this kind of material obliquely—I had never been instructed to approach it directly. I wondered if this direct engagement might not be too much for me, for some of us, and might not actually backfire.
Amber had designed a ritual that we could enact one-by-one; and she invited us to participate if we felt moved to. I joined the line to have a go, but in the end decided against it and remained with those who were only witnessing. As it was, the night was drawing on, I was last, and I very much wanted to get back to dancing. Also, my idea seemed trite compared to the many raw offerings that preceded; and, given that I was last, it didn’t seem worth insisting on.
I recalled when I first received meditation instruction within a Buddhist tradition (though I had already been meditating). I was at a month-long artists’ retreat where they had a beautiful little building at the center of the campus that was devoted exclusively to meditation. The director of the retreat center offered meditation instructions to those who were interested and I took to it instantly. I quit my smoking habit, and spent hours and hours in the little meditation building during the first two weeks of the retreat. I was ecstatic, drenched in spirit. One day, on the way in to the dining hall, there was a rainbow in the sky over the trees and I wept for joy.
After two weeks of bliss, things shifted radically. There was a party and an epic bonfire. I attended, along with nearly everyone at the retreat center, and got completely wasted. Hammered. I talked trash, and was arrogant and ill-informed about art and artistic practice. Even worse, I nearly united with a man I was attracted to at the retreat center, despite the fact that I was in a monogamous relationship. Ashamed and dark, I took to bed for two days. The rest of the retreat was characterized by tears, and I carried the depression home with me.
The ego has a way of asserting itself, especially in the face of extreme affronts. I have learned this the hard way. During the artists’ retreat wasn’t the only time I have gone all the way past my edge–finding total connection, total love, total porousness. Sometimes the glow of it has lingered, sometimes my ego has painfully lashed back. I remain committed to eroding my ego in the service of freedom, but I try my best to partner with her, or at least to reassure her. Even when we disagree, I really don’t want her to get the impression that I am her adversary.
I left the second class of Zero Zone feeling irritated. Downright pissed off, actually. Perhaps my ego was uncomfortably rubbed. Thankfully, I was able to hold it all in a big space and was willing to see how the process evolved over the remaining three weeks of the five-week Zero Zone series.
Another week passed. Early spring began to deepen and move toward lush. My six-year-old son, Simon, developed a strep infection. I barely slept, then spent the day home from work, caring for him, only stepping out to take him to the doctor. It was hard to leave him that night; and I wondered how I would hold up for this 3rd Zero Zone class meeting.
Entering, I was surprised to feel delighted. (You never know what you will find when you step in, truly!) I missed most of Flowing, but found it somehow all by myself. I began on the floor, energetic—almost breakdancing. The music Amber selected for Staccato was loaded with resistance and tension; and I reveled in it. Chaos was just a short bridge and I went right into a vibrant, soaring Lyrical.
The second wave was ruled by a long Chaos; and I remembered that, early in my dance career, I would initiate trances only during the rhythm of Chaos. Dancing with a friend who I love to move with, we drew close together, then stretched back apart—smiling, rising and falling with long, arcing motions—pushing energy around us with our hands. She rolled her open shoulders dramatically, looking into my eyes and casting her arm up. Gradually, we each moved into our individual dances. Alone again, I let my eyelids slide down so just a sliver of the outside peeked in on me.
Satisfied and inspired, I began to turn in to my own energy field, but instead another memorable dance of partnership opened up. I was quietly noticing the energy of the different parts of my body when a good friend passed directly into my field, entering first with her hands as she stepped into me. I had no thought of whether or not I should join her, but leaned in. My heart was glowing white both in the front and in the back, extending far beyond the confines of my body. My friend’s hands blocked her chest, but she couldn’t manage it—her heart was bursting forth, uncontainable. I noticed how energy in the different parts of my body connected and intersected with others’ energy fields. The biggest muscles like the butt, the upper legs, seemed to connect most easily—where there was more muscle and blood—whereas the bones were less inclined to mingle. Rainbows danced from our palms and spiraled around the interior of the dance studio—shaped like fluctuating ribbons of salt water taffy. Light expanded and expanded, far beyond our small bodies, in concentric circles and overlapping spheres with everyone within fifteen feet of us. Beaming, we very softly touched each other’s hands in fascination, then separated at the very end of the wave. Our dance had a bigness to it, and also had a tender, vast porousness—unfolding completely within the realm of spirit, perhaps Amber might say, within the Zero Zone.
The last two weeks of the class unfolded. I had the vague sense that inspiration had evaporated, and I mourned its disappearance. In the past, whenever I have not felt inspired I have felt grief and fear—afraid it will never return. The fact is that I am getting older. The wild, uncontained exuberance that has often characterized my dance may not always be available. Perhaps I can still be inspired, but there is something of youthful energy that I am afraid to lose—that I connect with inspiration, somehow.
It is remarkable, the difference between feeling inspired and not feeling inspired. Inspired, I fly. Movement is totally unconscious, nothing hurts, partners manifest exactly when they should, I have all the energy I need, and new and fascinating ways of moving arise spontaneously. Un-inspired, I sink. The light of spirit dims. At the extreme, I move to the floor and gestures become minute. I try to partner but can’t really connect. I feel tired, distracted, flightless.
Amber designed some beautiful rituals for us, including an elaborate closing ritual, but the highlight for me was really this one beautiful dance with my dear friend in the realm of spirit.
The day after the fifth and final meeting of the Zero Zone series, I headed north to a Tibetan meditation retreat center—the same place that I opened this text with, where I stood with a group, listening to owls and star-gazing.
I had immersed myself in this tradition, beginning just a few months before I began 5Rhythms, undergoing hundreds if not thousands of hours of training, practice and study. Being immersed in both amplified the effect of each—allowing me to use each arena as a laboratory for the other. It also allowed me insight into what was common to the traditions, and what was completely unique to each. In 2012, I had a break with an important teacher at exactly the same time that I stepped into a grueling career stream. I tried to sustain my contact with the tradition, but it faded. At the same time, my faith in 5Rhythms deepened and deepened.
The retreat gave me a chance to honor the exquisite teachings I had received, and to re-consider my relationship to the tradition.
I arrived on Friday morning, though the 26 others (including teachers and coordinators) had arrived the day before. Before entering, I sat in the car, on the phone, crying with someone who could relate, about the death of Prince the day before and what he and his work meant to me. Walking up the road toward the farmhouse, I passed the annexed main shrine room. I slowed down, drawn in by my senses—by the songs of birds, the wind on small areas of exposed skin, the warm sun, the tiny, crashing waterfall cutting the far side of the grassy clearing behind the farmhouse. A staff member had left the key to my room in an envelope; and I quickly put my things away and repaired to the main shrine room.
Entering, the shrine room struck me as astonishingly bright. In fact, there was an incandescent light bulb in a ceiling fixture about every two square feet. All of the corners and the two central columns were embellished with gold scrollwork; and the big windows also let in light from the sweeping pine landscape. The polished wood floors reflected the gold, orange and earthy turquoise colors of the room. Elaborate Tibetan-style paintings adorned the space; and an elevated altar including glass bowls filled with water, crystal, and gold objects, was the front centerpiece. Photos of the founder of the tradition, and his son, the current holder of the tradition, also graced the front altar.
In the back right of the room was an altar devoted to Protectors—fierce-looking deities with scowling, snarling faces and curling fire—who steward the lineage, its devotees, and the retreat center itself. I recalled how important this concept had been to me. I never encountered any fierce protectors in my early Catholic training; and the idea that even what looks to me like anger might be skillful and might have its unique place, has been an important teaching for me.
I took my place in the circle of meditation cushions, and tears poured down my face. The man to my left turned and said softly, smiling, “Welcome.” The group had just completed a meditation period focusing on attention to the senses, exactly the space I passed through when I walked by the main shrine room from outside on arrival, just a short time earlier. I said as much, emotion shaking me as I spoke into the microphone that was being passed around. I felt a powerful sense that I was aligned with my destiny, somehow, and experienced boundless gratitude.
During the mid-day break, I walked in the barely-green woods. Almost back to the retreat center, I stepped up onto a wooden platform that is used for tent accommodations during the warmer months—taking in and letting out my experiences so far by dancing a wave. I picked up a stick that was about the height of me and planted it in the center of the platform, taking it as my partner as I moved in the first rhythm of a 5Rhythms wave—Flowing. I looped around it, keeping this axis, this earth center—changing it from hand to hand, passing under it, turning around, dipping and rising—moving in edgeless circles. My favorites of Prince’s songs were my internal soundtrack as the rest of the wave unfolded; and I passed quickly through Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness before returning to the retreat center for the afternoon’s program.
I was sleepy for much of the first and second days. Although I suspected that it would pass, I asked myself, “Why did I do this? Why did I come here? What was I thinking?” I had a lot of pain in my body, especially the hips, knees and a long-afflicted right shoulder blade. Despite the pain, I noticed that on the first day, a beautiful silver sky slipped into the room in the afternoon, as we passed the rest of the day alternating between sitting and walking meditation.
We ate our meals in the silence in the shrine room, too. We learned an elaborate ritual to move our cushions from the six organized rows facing the front altar into small eating groups of four or five; and each of us played our role in gathering the small oryoki tables, printed chant sheets and wet cloths to wipe our little wooden tables before and after the meal. The Meal Elder would indicate when it was time for each group to rise and approach the buffet table, where we gathered food using one bowl only. Walking back to our cushions and our little meal groups we held the full bowl aloft in front of us in a gesture of gratitude and acknowledgement. Eating this way was at times awkward. Sometimes the cooks gave us food that was really difficult to eat without a table, a knife and an extra plate, but I figured out how to make it work—for example declining to eat both salad and soup in one bowl.
I wasn’t always sure what to do with my gaze. I didn’t want to shift and move around too much, but sometimes I had a hard time staying still. Although it was tiring and awkward to eat this way, I appreciated the continuity of practice, and enjoyed the patient attention to the flavors, textures, temperatures and energies of the food—sometimes I was even delighted, my face opening, eyebrows rising, and spine straightening with happy attention.
We were also instructed to take only what we knew we would eat, and to leave nothing in the bowl. I found that it was tricky to take exactly the right amount, and that I took way too much for the first two meals. Since sitting was physically grueling, I felt like I should make sure to eat enough. I had to remind myself intellectually that sitting isn’t the kind of physically grueling that actually requires extra calories!
As I settled into the retreat, I enjoyed the quiet conversation with my body, including my stomach. I noticed the first pangs of hunger; I noticed the workings of digestion; and I once noticed my early morning tea gurgle as I lay down on the floor to release my back, then turned onto my side.
On the morning of the second day, the teacher dismissed us for a thirty-minute period of morning exercise. She explained that we could either silently join the slow outdoor walk, the vigorous outdoor walk, or undertake a personal practice in the shrine room. I would have joined the vigorous walk, but I was in a full skirt—not suitable gear for the tick-infested woods. Instead, I stayed in the shrine room and danced a 5Rhythms wave. There were three or four others in the shrine room, too, all engaged in still, quiet movements—perhaps yoga or chi gong or tai chi. I didn’t want to be too obtrusive so I tried to take it easy. I sought a section of the polished wood floor that had no creaks—a quality I had already investigated at length during walking meditation.
On the floor, entering into Flowing, I found energetic movement right away—curling and twisting, one part of me always attached firmly down, much like the stick I had danced with on the wooden platform the day before, moving in great circles, stepping far behind and around myself, turning under my arms and shoulders, casting back up beginning with the momentum of rising from hands and knees as it stretched up into my heels. In Staccato, I presented, oriented toward the front altar, exhaling sharply, landing deep in the knees and hips, sharply engaged in the arms, shoulders and elbows—movement coming more and more quickly until it opened into Chaos. In Chaos, I felt slightly self-conscious, but let go nonetheless, to the extent that I could, letting my head and neck be free, letting every part of me loosen, with few edges at this time, staying in Chaos only briefly (as I self-consciously wondered when the walkers would be re-entering the shrine room). Despite the brief period of Chaos, Lyrical broke through completely, and I used every bit of my imaginary square of shrine room floor in leaping and bounding, delighting in extension and lift, cadence and breath. Stillness came easily—the most natural rhythm in this beautifully quiet room, and I gently pushed the currents of air and let the currents of air push me, expressed through the arms and hands and in long, low, tracked gestures.
The teacher offered clean, simple, straightforward meditation instructions—in keeping with the tradition of datün, which are long meditation retreats characterized by intensive practice. We were told to settle into a comfortable posture, to place our softened gaze 5-8 feet in front of us, and to keep our attention on the physical feeling of the body breathing. The thematic teaching—and what we are likely to notice when we do this kind of practice—was about Basic Goodness, the idea that we are fundamentally correct, good, and wholesome, despite the obscurations we distract ourselves with. I welcomed this beloved teaching, the foundation of everything in this tradition, though I continued to feel exhausted.
In the afternoon on the second day, still draggingly tired, I had to leave the land for an unavoidable errand. I asked the retreat coordinator where I might find a pharmacy nearby, and he offered only vague directions. I wished for more specifics, but figured I would just put “pharmacy” into the phone’s GPS and hope for the best. Unfortunately, I had not charged the phone. I climbed into the car and attached the car charger, which makes spotty contact with the terminal at best, and realized that I would have to wing it. I became angry and irritated, yelling loudly at the phone once I was alone inside the car. Within moments, I remembered that I had navigated countries where I don’t speak the language and know nothing of the geography before GPS was ever an option. I settled down immediately, found a pharmacy without incident, got what I needed, and returned as quickly as possible. Still impossibly tired, I went on a short hike on a trail that originated near the graveled lower parking lot. Coming around a bend, I was surprised by two gigantic turkeys who seemed like little dinosaurs in the early spring woods.
To my surprise and despite the fact that I did not have a nap, my energy soared that afternoon. The world became bright and precise. Instead of holding my gaze just five to eight feet in front of me and returning my attention repeatedly to the feeling of my body breathing (in accordance with the instructions for this retreat), I lifted my gaze, softly and laterally expanded, taking in the space of the room and sensing the vast sky above.
The teacher gave a two-word phrase to use as a contemplation, a practice of repeating a word or phrase internally until the phrase falls away and the underlying meaning is revealed. After the contemplation practice, one woman shared that although she had been exposed to contemplation practices for many years, she really didn’t “get it”. It didn’t seem to work for her. I nodded, connecting her comments to how I feel about working with body shapes in the rhythm of Stillness in 5Rhythms. The teacher wondered if it might in part be that the phrase she chose wasn’t sitting right, and invited the woman to come up with a different phrase related to Basic Goodness for the group to contemplate in a future session.
I snuck out to the parking lot before the final session of the day to call my parents and my six-year-old son, Simon. I nervously explained to my mother that I had very bad phone reception and that if there was any emergency, she would have to call the pager of the on-duty staff member. My mother handed the phone to Simon. “Hi, Simon! How are you, little one?” “Hi, Mommy. I’m good. How’s it going at the meditation place?” He is as tall as my collarbone now and growing fast, but as he spoke he sounded like a tiny little kid, his voice adorable and expressive.
I was blessed to have a little room all to myself, owing to an occasionally noisy style of nighttime breathing. I moved fully into it on the first day, discovering that it had exactly the right number of hangers for my garments. The room also had a comfortable double bed, a night table, an open closet, one straight chair, a small bureau and one low window. I had created a personal altar on the bureau, mostly with items I brought from home; and I lit it a small beeswax candle to invigorate it. Then, I settled deep into the soft, billowing pillow and fell asleep immediately, deeply.
In retrospect, the third day of the seven-day retreat was the high point for me. Again, I danced a wave in the shrine room during the morning exercise period. This time, I realized that I didn’t have to be reticent, that I could fully express my dance, then offer it to the space, to the protectors, to my fellow practitioners. In this tradition (as in many Buddhist traditions), there is an often-employed practice called the Dedication of Merit, when we formally offer up whatever benefit we have accumulated through practice; and I ended each session in the shrine room with the silent recitation of the Dedication of Merit chant, my hands facing out, radiating, as Stillness concluded and the wave dissolved.
That morning, I sat while the world lightened and energetic form got vivid. I cried and cried, having visions of both Gabrielle Roth, the creator of the 5Rhythms practice, and of the founder of the lineage I was now immersed in. I felt very called to the dancing path, and also called to the Vajrayana Buddhist path. Gabrielle gathered me inside her raven’s feathers—somehow I both faced her and looked out—regarding the retreat center from above and soon, too, regarding the big view of the wider world. Again, tears poured out of me. Every time I got up when the bell rang for walking meditation I noted the puddle of tears on my cushion.
I met with the teacher that morning. During our meeting, I was emotional, telling her that I felt called to the Vajrayana path, but had no idea how to make space in my life for it, how to find a teacher, how to begin. I also shared that I was afraid of being struck down. Vajrayana practice is considered very dangerous. As big as its payoff, too is its risk. With a small child at home, how could I justify it? Going to the edge of crazy might not work for me right now, though I crave it.
In response to her questions, I explained, too, the particulars of my practice during the retreat so far. In terms of paying attention to the body breathing, I shared that I had been very internal—not keying in to a specific place of feeling the breath, but, rather, feeling it globally, behind the sternum, behind the lungs, in front of the spine, in the upper back, even feeling the rush of oxygen in the blood in all parts of my body, for example in the feet.
As I got more attentive, minute observations presented. When the shrine room grew cold, I noticed the planes of my body that got cold first, and noticed the process of my core temperature falling until I reached the point of feeling cold and needing to adjust my clothing. In walking meditation, I noticed the brief sunny patches on the floor and how my bare feet craved them and hesitated to move back into the dominant dark and cold sections of floor. After holding my hands in the mudra prescribed for walking meditation, I unclasped them to let them release. The little bit of sweat that had gathered in my palms turned my hands slowly cold as the chilly air touched the sweat. Walking in a patient clockwise circle around the shrine room with my fellow practitioners, I lingered in the patches of sun, noting the orange blood I could see through my closed eyelids.
There have been many times that I have craved what I might call “shamanic” experience, and that I have craved opportunities to discuss shamanic aspects of practice with others. The Zero Zone series seemed set up to encourage this kind of space, but ironically, it was an emphasis on this very humble, direct contact with the tangible world and with the physical senses, as I found in the first few days of retreat, that felt like just what I needed.
After lunch, I had the absolute best nap of my entire life. I fell asleep instantly, drooled on the pillow, and woke up bright.
In the afternoon, the teacher brought up the subject of fears. She asked us to share what we are afraid of. The responses were very affecting. One woman shared that although so many people seemed to crave open-heartedness, to her, open-heartedness didn’t feel good. She hadn’t realized she actually had a heart until a short time before. In fact, it hurt to let her heart open. Another woman said something about how she had to find a way to consider opening up and loving again after trauma. I connected with what she said and raised my hand to share, too. In a way, I wanted to push myself, to be brave, to go to my edge. I did share a deep fear with the group, but immediately after was plagued with my unskillfulness. I wondered with horror if the woman who spoke before me was really saying that she had lost her child—a comment that should never, ever be followed by someone else’s lament. I felt like a total asshole.
I thought about this at length. I thought about saying something by way of apology when the whole group was convened. Since it was really about not being an asshole and not seeming like an asshole wasn’t as important, the next day I wrote the woman a private note that I paraphrase here:
“I am very sorry that I spoke after you in our discussion yesterday. Reflecting later, I wondered if you were trying to say that you actually lost a child. That is a remark that should never be followed. I was so eager to “be brave” and share one of my fears that I neglected to see what was happening in the moment.”
We were observing functional silence, when you only exchange perfunctory words, but I handed my note to her with a little bow.
Later that day, she handed me a note in response. Sadly, this note was in my washing-machine-bound pants, but I do remember that its substance was very kind. I also felt relieved to learn that she hadn’t lost her own child. She did, however, lose a child she worked very closely with and loved like her own.
On the fourth day I was charged with serving food for the group—a task that rotated amongst all participants. This sucked. The head server, who had done the job before, seemed very rushed and anxious to quickly complete the job well. Since we were observing functional silence, I couldn’t speak much with her, otherwise I would have asked if it would be ok if we slowed down. If it really mattered if we served lunch 5 or 10 minutes later. I really didn’t like being bossed around, either. And I felt mad at the tradition that set it up so somebody could boss and somebody else had to be bossed around. Precedents in my life came to mind.
I knew I would fuck up dinner and I did. It was almost like I had to get triggered. It was a garlic bread fiasco. I can’t! You just have to trust me. Enough said, right? It made me angry, but there was no one to blame but me. Once I fucked everything up, I was finally able to relax a little. Even to enjoy being one of the people who had the honor of offering the food.
During this final meal I helped to serve, one participant requested gluten free bread (instead of the problematic garlic bread). I had considered bringing it along when we were gathering food in the main dining area of the retreat center, but the head server had tried to make things easier for me, saying, “Forget it. I don’t think anyone is eating gluten free.” After it was requested during the serving of the meal, I decided to go back and get the gluten free bread. By then, I was really feeling bad. I had to hurry to fill my own bowl so I wouldn’t keep the entire room waiting to eat. The head server said, “Just so you know, now they don’t have any gluten free bread in the main dining hall.” I was exasperated and replied, “Ok, thanks.” Feeling defensive and ashamed, I still made sure to gather two pieces of gluten free bread on my way to my dining group.
I intended to give the bread to the person who had asked for it, but as I stood up in the small group, I slipped on the mat for the meditation cushion, nearly spilling the soup from my one-bowl-meal bowl—which would have been an embarrassing disaster. I sat back down, petulant, irritated. “Great. Now I have to eat this yucky, gluten free bread,” I thought. Once the meal got underway, I took a chance and stood up again in the quiet and still room, and walked to an adjacent meal group, trying to ignore the fact that the whole room was conscious of my movement. I smiled with my head lowered and offered the gluten free bread to the person who had asked for it. She whispered, “Oh, you are so sweet!” I returned to my group and finished my food, thankful that I didn’t have to eat the gluten free bread myself, and very grateful when the meal was finally completed.
After the meal was cleared away, I apologized to the head server for the garlic bread oversight. “What, you’re not perfect?” she said, smiling. Her tolerance and kindness at this point helped loosen me up; and I was grateful for it.
Very early the next morning, at the invitation of the retreat coordinator, I joined a birding walk. Again, as a group, we had agreed to observe functional silence—so I was bound to speak only if necessary and to avoid chit-chat or small talk. The coordinator told us about the red-winged blackbirds that had put down stakes near the center’s tiny pond; and he set up a spotting scope so we could observe one (particularly vocal) bird. Peeking through the scope, delight overtook me. I kept my silence but looked up to meet the others’ eyes, lit up. The little bird was in the middle of a sentence when I looked in on him, his beak open in an emphatic expression of his personal truth. Not only was he minutely amplified, but the powerful lens refracted light into the image, and the background circular frame around him seemed to glow white. As the walk progressed, I learned that as much as “birding” was about bird watching, it was also about bird listening; and the space of the forest became stereoscopic as we keyed in to the calls of birds, located at different angles and heights all around us.
After our adventure, we gathered, as always, in two lines outside the shrine room while an assistant teacher went through an elaborate gong-ringing procedure, in part to call us to task. We flowed through the routines we had established, beginning with a period of morning chants, then sitting and walking meditation, then a morning exercise period (during which I would dance a 5Rhythms wave), silent breakfast, a brief break, sitting and walking meditation until afternoon, silent lunch, a break (during which I usually took a brief nap and then a had a brisk walk/run/climb in the woods), sitting and walking meditation, perhaps a brief teacher’s talk, a brief period of stretching and exercise, more sitting and walking meditation, afternoon chants, silent dinner, a brief break, more sitting and walking meditation, evening chants, and finally, bed.
The next day, the teacher stopped me in the hall near the dining room. “I have a question for you,” she said, smiling warmly. I thought she had an inspiring story, perhaps a request uttered in confidence. As it was, she pulled me into the dining hall and said, “I have been wanting to talk with you. I’m wondering if you would want to have a session with the teacher who practices Alexander Technique.” I said, “And this is because…you think I have a problem with posture?” “Yes,” she replied, “I’ve thought so from the first day, since I first sat behind you.” I thought I had been sitting beautifully, and it took me by surprise. It made me feel slightly defensive, but I tried to talk myself out of it, and said, “Well, I’m open. In the past when someone tried to tinker with my posture it really didn’t go well. It really messed me up, actually. But I’m open. Sure. Thanks for thinking of me.” She told me to meet the teacher after dinner in one of the smaller meditation rooms. She ended with, “She’s our best shot!”
I took this with me into the afternoon’s practice. After so much discussion of Natural Confidence and Basic Goodness—and emphasizing the fact that however we feel, however we are, is fine, nothing needs to change—I had a hard time with feeling like something did need to be changed about me, even something so clearly impersonal. Coincidentally, before the discussion with my teacher, I had been thinking of something 5Rhythms teacher Tammy Burstein has said many times at the beginning of a workshop. “We are not broken; and we don’t need to be fixed.”
I know it wasn’t anyone else’s intention, but in sitting that afternoon I let the emotion that got rubbed get full-blown triggered. Suddenly, I did feel like there was something that needed to be fixed. Something that was not ok about me—even though it was just this small question of posture. I have been wondering for years why this one hateful voice that occasionally plagues my inner dialogue—a voice of self-hatred that becomes extreme at times—has never really presented during practice. For years, I thought it was because practice took me to a place that was more spacious and where the small hateful voice seemed less important.
In the past several months, since I made a shift into the energetic field of Lyrical, I have realized that it is time to let go of the stories that hold me back. This includes not only the negative or painful stories, but also the seemingly “positive” counterstories. I sort of assumed this would mean that I would just shed these outworn skins and step fully into the big arena of the absolute. Not so. Instead what has happened is that experimenting with letting go of even my counterstories has unleashed some of the painful stories that I have spent years trying to manage. And there it was! This voice of self-hate reared its head. I had been waiting for it. I welcomed it—even coaxed it. What it feels like to think I am completely NOT ok. Ill-ease, constraint, despair. It all rose up. I heard the voice of one person in particular that I have internalized as my own voice of self-hate, again and again.
In the quiet, still, bright room I found myself sobbing. It started off slowly at first, then grew and grew. For a long period of sitting, tears poured out and my chest heaved with ragged sobs. When the bell rang to switch from sitting to walking meditation, the woman who had been the head server the day before walked over to me, whispering softly, “Are you ok?” I held onto her neck and cried and cried. Another woman brought me several tissues and bowed graciously as she handed them to me. The tears dissolved before long and I flowed around the room in the circle of practitioners in walking meditation.
At the end of the afternoon session, the teacher who practices Alexander Technique asked if I wanted to meet before dinner. I said, “I need to talk with you, please.” I watched while the others exited, hoping to speak with her privately. “I am so grateful for your willingness. No doubt the offer of a session with you is very valuable! But I am just not receptive at this time.” “Oh, I thought…OK, that’s no problem.” She started to move away, but I needed to say a little more. “The thing is that in this environment of Basic Goodness and Natural Confidence I have really let myself go there. Then, when the teacher said she thought there was something wrong with my posture, well, I got really triggered, like there really was something fundamentally wrong with me. Of course, it has nothing to do with what was intended, this is me, something coming from me. I am grateful I was able to be so triggered. I sobbed at length today, letting it arise. But I’m just not in a place to be receptive to being adjusted right now.”
I had a meeting with the head teacher the next day. At that point, she did share that I seemed to settle down after the first couple of days and to sit much more comfortably. I said, “Yes. I think I just needed a chance to work with my body. This (I put my hands on my cross-legged body, on my legs, my torso, my arms) this is all that I really know for sure. The only thing I am really an expert on. The only thing I am really an expert on.” One dignified sob rode a big exhale out and filled the space between us for a moment.
After a brief, glorious nap on the last day, I decided to hike the longest trail on the property. I entered the woods through the lower parking lot, again encountering the giant turkeys. I passed a fellow practitioner in the woods who was walking the trail in the other direction. “How long did this walk take you?” I asked. “About an hour and a half.” I had just an hour and a quarter before the afternoon session, but I pressed on. “I will just have to run part of it!” I said. However, the trail kept going up and up, and running seemed impossible. My phone (and therefore my means of timekeeping) had run out of battery, and I had no idea what time it was. The trail seemed to go on and on, but I thought it was too late to turn back. Though I moved at a strong pace, I decided that I might as well enjoy myself. Emerging on a sharp ridge, I took a seat on a rock perched at the edge of a cliff that was higher than the pine trees beneath it. A gliding raven passed just beneath me. Hills covered with pines and still-leafless trees stretched for miles. Continuing the hike, I ascended and descended again and again, moving in and out of dark stands of trees and sweeping vistas.
Returning, I was late. I didn’t even change out of my outdoor clothes before going to the shrine room. I waited outside the door until the gatekeeper thought it would be a good time to enter. Walking in, the teacher surprised me by addressing me directly, saying she had put a sweater of mine on a railing, just in case I was looking for it. I was taken aback, suddenly the formal and still shrine room felt very informal. I thanked her and apologized for arriving late, explaining that I hadn’t fully realized how long the trail would take. Many nodded and said they had experienced the same thing. They finished the discussion they had been engaged in. They had done a contemplation practice, using a phrase selected by the woman who didn’t “get” contemplations. I only caught the tail end, but I loved her willingness. I never had a chance to ask her if she was any better able to connect with contemplations afterward.
As happens, the end seemed to taper on for ages, then to come suddenly. I left feeling like I had a lot to sift through, and both disheartened and inspired at once. Since I was slightly sore after so many hours of sitting, I was able to organize a massage with a local provider. She was kind and patient, and seemed to be working as much on an energetic level as on a physical one. At the end, she remarked, “I really enjoyed this. You seemed like you could really receive my work. I felt like I was working with clay, in a way. I think it will affect my approach moving forward.” This was a beautiful compliment, and I happily received it.
Very much at ease physically after the massage, I took the drive back to my parents’ house slowly, crying loudly off and on. I was blessed by many insights and made many connections amongst different strands of my experiences.
That evening, gathering together with family to leave for a big, loud meal at a popular seafood restaurant, Simon said, “Mommy, look at me!” He sat on the top step at my parents’ house, cross-legged, and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m meditating!” “Wow! Simon! You sure are! What do you do when you meditate?” I asked. He smiled with abundant charm, blinked, looked me in the eye, and said, “I notice things!” then rushed off to play something else before it was time to go.
May 18, 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.
