Lifedancer

You often have to give your email address out-- at the doctor's office, children's schools, cashiers when signing up for rewards programs.  My email address has the phrase "lifedancer" in it and often the person collecting the information looks up and says, "Oh, are you a dancer?"  Sometimes the tone is curious, sometimes skeptical if they've taken notice of my age, often they just want to talk about dancing..."My sister is a dancer she performs at..."

No activity gives me more joy than dancing.  However that is not why I identify with "Lifedancer."  About 8 years ago I was in the middle of a physical and emotional crisis.  I was very sick and depressed for a few weeks, but when the symptoms started to improve enough to leave the house I went shopping.  I happened upon a deck of tarot cards that had beautiful artwork and were large and circular which seemed unusual and very feminine.  The deck was called "Daughters of the Moon" and I've always been drawn to the moon so I bought the cards.  Every day during my recovery from that point I would draw a card from the deck and each day the card seemed to mirror how I was feeling.  Until one day, when I not only physically felt well, but was also in a very optimistic and energetic frame of mind I chose "Shakti, Life Dancer."    (If you are familiar with tarot in a traditional deck it would correspond to "The World.")

One of the lines that the author of the book that accompanies this desk is:  "The ecstatic life-dancer creates the rhythmic pattern of life, revealing that all endings lead us to new beginnings." When you are dancing you must finish one step in order to take the next.  Usually when you start dancing you are familiar with the song and generally know what steps you are going to be taking.  Sometimes the music changes though and then you need to chose whether or not you want to learn the new dance.  You can even chose to create your own music.  

So when the receptionist or cashier confirming my email address asks, "Oh are you a dancer?"  I usually just smile and reply, "Yes...are you?"

The Secret

"Write a secret down.  Something that you’ve never told anyone else.”  That was the assignment one day during a week-long poetry workshop that I was participating in.  We were to write our secrets down, they would get mixed together and we could use the secret that we randomly picked as inspiration for a poem.  The secret that I drew was about sneaking into our camp’s dining hall and eating whipped cream from the container.  It was a really fun poem to write since the subjects I usually fell into were so serious.  A good friend of mine admitted later that it had been his secret.  I was glad that I didn’t know that beforehand since I would have written the poem an entirely different way, but I was also glad that is was his because it gave us a shared experience.

Although I didn’t know her, I vividly remember the woman who wrote about my secret.   I remember what her voice sounded like as she read her work.  Sincere and timid--she didn’t consider herself a writer.  It was one of the most moving pieces that I’d ever heard, and I would do anything to have a copy of that poem now.  But at the time I couldn’t admit to my secret.  My secret was:  “I fall in love almost every day.”

I had been married for about 14 years at the time, and my husband ran the camp where this workshop was being held.  I thought that people might get the wrong impression of what I meant.  Like I had a wandering eye.  People still might, but it does not really matter any more.  There are very few people that I feel accountable to at this point, and I think those people get it.  Get me.  So it is okay, and five years later I feel comfortable taking my secret public.  I fall in love almost every day. 

With the checkout person who has the bright genuine smile and interesting story, with the gardener who makes our space beautiful, with Geddy Lee because he is so comfortable in his own skin and sings crazy-high notes.  With my children because they are growing into remarkable men, with my boyfriend because we keep finding more things to like about each other.  With elderly people walking down the street holding hands.  Feeling connected to all sorts of people, enjoying all of the small and large interactions.  I fall in love almost every day.  

Vigilant Coziness

I have a lovely young woman in my life that surprised me one day by saying, “You always sit curled up like a cat.”  There were two things remarkable about that statement.  That she was right and that she noticed.  I had not really thought about it much until she said that, but it is true.  When I sit in a chair I pull my legs up, snuggle in tight usually with a throw blanket and settle in.  Like a cat I like to be vigilantly aware but cozy.  At work there is a spot where the sun shines in through large panes of glass.  When I need to get a break for a few moments I sit there on the concrete floor propped up against the wall.  Hidden in plain sight, quietly soaking in the sun.

 

Preteen girls are busy.  They are immersed in the job of getting to know themselves, navigating social ins and outs, doing homework and other extracurricular activities.  So for a very busy young woman to take the time to notice something about me that I hadn’t really noticed myself really struck me.  In fact I’m surprised when I find out that anyone has really paid attention to me.  Or to anyone else for that matter.  We all have so much going on in our own lives.  When is the last time that you’ve really looked at someone closely or long enough to be able to make an insightful observation?    This particular young woman is a talented writer and artist so imagine that her innate curiosity contributes to her successes.  Gives me something to think about when I’m curled up in the sun tomorrow.

Love By the Book

In late August of 1979 I decided it was time to get myself a boyfriend.  Not one to wait around for things to happen I picked up a Bell Telephone book and isolated the white pages.  I closed my eyes, opened the book up to a random page and pointed.  I opened my eyes to reveal the name of the person that would be my first love interest.  John Anderson*.  Sounded like a good match.  I realize the flaw in my plan was that an 11-year-old would not have a telephone number listed under his name in the phone book but I trusted the Universe nonetheless. 

A few weeks later I was in homeroom on the first day of school and the teacher was calling out roll call.  The first name read was "John Anderson.”  He actually went by Jonnie.  And yes, whether by fate or by design he soon became my first "boyfriend."  I don’t remember much about our relationship except that our first kiss was on the bus on the field trip to Harrisburg.  But our first “French” kiss…well that was an event and it seemed like most of the sixth grade knew it was going to happen before I did.  And many of them watched.   It was during a showing of the animated version of “The Hobbit.”  It was disgusting…no offense to Jonnie.  I don't think that my reaction had anything to do with his technique.  I just was not prepared for what a tongue actually would feel like no matter how many times I watched Joanie kiss Cha Chi on Happy Days.  It was slimy and bumpy like sea urchin sushi.  I don’t remember kissing him again.  I may not have.  But somehow, somewhere along the way, kissing became my favorite pastime. 

I met my current love interest (and hopefully my last) in a slightly less random way but it still felt like an invisible hand giving me direction.  Considering his last name is that of an animated character I have to wonder if I had opened the phone book to his name would I have trusted the Universe and sought him out?  Or would I have turned to a new page and pointed to a someone else?  Who knows.  But luckily I was given a little more information to go by, because he is a great match for me and turned out to be an excellent kisser.

*name changed to protect the very innocent.

In Tune

My 13 year old son had his first guitar lesson this evening.  All of the chairs in the waiting area were mismatched and were of varying degrees of comfort.  I tried three of them before I settled in.  The lighting was harsh and the walls, trim and floor were all different shades and tones of grey.  It was not particularly clean and on the “coffee” table which was missing all of its drawers were random pages of a few of the city’s free papers.  None of the stories that were visible were compelling enough to pick up.  So to pass the time I listened to the different lessons going on behind closed but not soundproof doors.  The adolescent boy in room 7 started his lesson finger-picking “Oh Shenandoah” which was a surprising choice but sweet and simple.  His father, sitting in one of the seats that I had passed on was tapping his foot, presumably to what he thought was the rhythm, while making notes in the margins of a Business school text book.  I could hear bits and pieces of my son’s conversation with his new teacher although he was in room 8 so a little farther away.  I was happy to hear how comfortable he sounded.  They started in on learning the first 4 chords of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” A relatively easy beginning but with a satisfying alternative rock sound.  Something that he will likely want to practice so that is good!

I was a little younger than him when I started guitar lessons—I was 12 but I was going on 26.  I had a crush on my teacher but I think it had very little to do with him.  I had just seen a Rex Smith movie called “Sooner or Later” in which a 13 year old falls in love with her 17 year old guitar instructor and  I thought it was terribly romantic.  I did like playing the guitar and I was fairly competitive with myself—I really wanted to figure out the songs before the following lesson.  The problem was, no matter how solidly I could play the song alone at home, the second I got to the music store my hands would sweat so badly I could not even hold a pick.  Rhythm and technique also went right out the window …well metaphorically since there was not a window in the 5’x5’room.   And even though my guitar teacher probably never knew I learned “Stairway to Heaven” so well that 32 (really?) years later I use it to tune guitars.

You should not get the idea that I play often.  The frequency I’ve opened my guitar case over the years follows the Fibonacci sequence.  After my guitar teacher quit to play tennis I probably did not pick it up again for 13 years, then 8, 5, 3, 2, 1, 1, and that brings me to now.  I’ve been inspired a few times this year and have taught myself a few songs.  What I’ve found interesting is that every time I’ve picked it up I’ve been better not worse no matter how much time has gone by.  I keep have to relearning where the chords and notes are, but what I lacked as a young girl, confidence and forgiveness, has grown through the years and that has made the difference between strumming series of chords and playing a song.  Now, I’m still probably better by myself than when I have an audience, but a lack of self-consciousness and the courage to make mistakes is key to unlocking our true potential.

Puzzling

There is something about putting a jigsaw puzzle together which appeals to my need for order.  I can actually hear people snickering but it is true—under this chaotic whirling vortex of crazy hair, post-it notes, candy wrappers and children—there is order.  Well at the very least there is the desire for order. 

I’ve never watched the process in which other people do puzzles so perhaps I’m not unique in my technique.  The very first thing that I do is go through the entire box and separate out all of the pieces that have straight edges.  Completing the perimeter is a way of getting a sense of accomplishment early in the process which gives you confidence to go on.  Once you close up all of the sides you also have a better idea of what you are dealing with.  Even though the measurements are written on the box the actual size always comes as a surprise to me. 

The next step differs depending on the puzzle.  If there are several discrete objects which look different enough then I’ll go back to the box and sort by color and set upon putting the different sections together. These are another series of little victories to keep you going, and eventually they all fit together and make sense as a whole.  I was about to go into the process of how I put together a puzzle that looks entirely uniform like the migraine-inducing Where’s Waldo pictures.  But the truth is I would never buy one of those puzzles.  If it all looks the same—if each individual piece lacks individuality—I would quickly grow bored or crazy. 

What if before we are born into this world we are briefly shown our puzzle box?   Maybe we were given a quick glimpse of the completed picture, the dimensions and how many pieces we have to fit in.  Our task is to figure out how to make all of the pieces work. 

Occasionally, when I think of how old I am (almost 44) and I think about how I’ve not lived my life the way I feel it was meant to be lived, panic sets in.  My chest hurts.  I can’t breathe.  My pulse quickens.  I feel overwhelmed and guilty by my failure to waste this precious chance that we are all given at birth.  In life you can’t start by framing out the picture.  That is my problem.  I really want to know where the edges are.  But instead I’ve been fitting together the pieces that are easy to find matches for.  The home with the kids section, work session, life with the boyfriend section, karate section, friends and family section, spiritual work section, and I suppose now the writing section.  I enjoy all of those pieces and do feel they are all accomplishments in their own way—but it does not feel even close to the complete picture yet.  Am I missing entire sections or have I just not figured out how the sections I have are supposed to make a whole?

Wish for the New Year

Sitting on a bench near the top of a mountain sat the Creator.  He was tending a roaring fire.   The light radiating from him burning just a little brighter than the flames.  I had sought him out to ask what blessings I should be passing on to my friends and family for the New Year.  What would be the most useful gift.  He didn't answer right away.  He smiled and picked up a long stick with a marshmallow on the end and put it over the fire.

I watched the marshmallow gently brown over the dancing fire.  He was clearly better at me than making S'mores.  This summer I bought the jumbo sized marshmallows thinking that for kids bigger is better.  But the jumbo marshmallow wouldn't cook through all of the way so the center was cold and too firm and the outside was burned because I was not patient enough to gently roast it and thrust my stick deep into the flames to speed up the process.  The 4 small Hershey bar pieces and 2 graham crackers were over-shaddowed by the unwieldy, messy and awkward jumbo marshmallow.   Now a treat is a treat and we enjoyed them for sure, but still.  When I snapped out of my flashback he had finished putting together two S'mores of the ideal ratio and handed me one.  It was amazing.  Warm, gooey, full of interesting textures and familiar tastes and smells.  In companionable silence we ate and watched the flames.  Although the metaphor for flames dancing is so overused it feels cliche to use it.  But I can't think of any other word to describe them.  For me dancing is the ultimate expression of joy, being one with all of the senses, full of energy.  Honoring life with abandon.


He took a moment to lick the stickiness off of his fingers and then turned to me.

"Send them the wish of playful reverence," he said.   "The way to honor the gift of life is to enjoy it.   Find the balance of ingredients.  Be messy.  Have fun."


Happy New Year!