Dance.
Foundation. Fundamental ways of being. Radical: “with deep roots.”
I was three years old when my mom brought me to my first dance class with Janet Bicknese. I remember the mauve and blue chairs we used in lieu of a traditional ballet bar. I remember my pink ballet shoes that I coved and took extra special care of. My sister showed me how to tie my slippers, first to fit my feet, then to cut the laces and hide them on the inside so that the strings wouldn’t show. That’s how the big girls wore them.
We sat in a circle and let our feet say “hello.” Janet played classical piano music from a cassette tape player in the corner. We practiced our leaps across the floor. I believed that I could fly. We practiced plie (to bend), battemont (to beat), fondue (to melt). I’d never eaten fondue, but I’d eaten quesadillas and cheese omelets and I loved melting cheese. I loved my teacher because she put me in the front of the class because I listened well and was attentive to her every word. I loved learning to move my body. I loved the music that made me move.
Dance.
I loved dancing once I got there. To that little carpeted room in a double-wide with fluorescent lights on the ceiling and no mirrors. Getting to dance class was always a struggle. I remember fighting with my mother. I have no idea why I resisted going to dance class so much. I can only speculate now at age 31. Perhaps it was because I knew I would be asked to try new things, to do things I didn’t know how to do yet. I didn’t like making a fool of myself. I didn’t like the feeling of being awkward and learning new dance steps. It was uncomfortable and sometimes scary. But my love for dance won out. Making shapes with my body. Breathing, laughing, music. The music moved me. I could move and be free and I loved it. So I would eventually get in the car and go to class. I continue to thank my mother to this day for holding that firm line and “making” me go to dance class. [Thanks mom!]
Some girls were mean. They pushed and cut in line. I listened. I wanted to learn. I didn’t interrupt the teacher. I knew this was important. I didn’t know why. Mrs. Bickenese cultivated in me a desire to learn. She made dance fun. The created space for us to explore our bodies through movement. She made falling down okay.
Age seven. Dance with Jan Cavillary. Since I was a quick learner she asked me to into a more advanced ballet class with girls that were nine and eleven. I couldn’t keep up. I switched half-way through the year and when all the other students knew the warm-up routine, I was always on the wrong side, with the opposite foot. Jan taught dance not only as an art but also as a science. She demanded presence. No BS. “No street clothes,” she would chide. Mrs. Cavillary walked like a dancer, feet turned out, spine erect, majestic, stately, like a queen. I believed she was a goddess. She was 5 foot 2 inches tall. She instilled in us a sense of dedication to the craft of dance. Then Jan stopped teaching dance and went on to study Rolfing.
Dance at Donna’s. Age eleven.
I went to try out for point class. This is a big deal in the dance world. First, you have to be old enough so that the bones in your feet art stable. And second, you have to be well-practiced and trained. That day I came into the studio on a Saturday afternoon. There were 30 other young dancers. Turns out I didn’t have the right clothes for try-outs. I didn’t know there was a “uniform.” Black leotard, pink tights, pink shoes, hair in a tight bun on the very top of your head. I wore my favorite purple leotard, black tights, and my white ballet shoes. My hair wasn’t long enough for a bun. One of the older girls was very kind and helped to find me the right clothes. I wore clothes that didn’t belong to me. My hair was plastered to my head with hairspray, and I didn’t know anyone else in the class. I was brave. I finished the tryout. I didn’t make the cut. Even at a young age, I hated feeling unprepared. That’s the moment I “quite” ballet and never looked back.
Donna taught me how I didn’t not want to be.
I found Flamenco dancing at age 12. I learned rhythm, rigor, and timing. Loud, full flamboyant. I developed capacity and strength. I fortified myself to never return to ballet, (although there are some days I play the “What if game” with myself and it never ends well).
I learned partner dancing in middle school ages 13 and 14. African dance at age 18. Hip-hop, Jazz, Tap, Modern, and Contact Improvisation in college. Dance became my life. It was no longer just a hobby, I viewed dance a lifestyle.
Dance.
The discipline, the craft, the art, the science.
Inhabit the body. “The body is the way in not the way out.”–Lee Lozowick
I took my first public yoga class when I was 17 years old. I studied irregularly for six years. I completed my first yoga teacher training when I was 23. For the past ten years, I have steadily increased my yoga practice. At age 31, it is now something I cannot live without.
Dace.
The floor as our first “partner.” Not just feet or legs on the floor, but face, breasts, shoulders, elbows, butt, hands, knees.
Yoga.
“How we do one thing is how we do everything.” –Bhavani Silvia Maki
Healing through movement.
Dance taught me how to show up and practice anyway, even when I didn’t “feel” like it. Dance gave me a foundation.
Yoga added the layers of spirituality, heart, Grace, Divine Energy. A bigger, richer, deeper conversation. Psychology. Intentional breath, meditation, mindfulness. Yoga allows me to ask the question, “Who am I?” Over and over.
“I am That,” –Nisirgitatta Maharaj
Dance.
Through each teacher I have been asked to open, to see, learn, grow, and experience a new aspect of myself. I have been pushed to find a larger picture of connection. I have been offered a new way of savoring the world, this life, this body.
Intention. Move. Close your eyes. Listen.
“The body knows.” This was reinforced by dance and confirmed through yoga training. The importance of rigor and discipline in the context of learning any art or science is necessary.
“Open to Grace.” –John Friend
Dance.
Cheek to floor. The smell of wood and sweat and the full wall of mirrors. Learning to self-correct. Learning to hear instruction and implement that cue into my own body. Rhythm of the dancers moving together, in syncopation, our bodies making shapes, pulsing with breath, beat, nature. The music. The instructor’s slap. The demand. The attention. The rigor. The discipline for one hour each week. Twice a week. Three times a week. Five days a week, plus Saturday.
Dance as doorway to self and other and Universe.
