One of these things is just like the other: The Glenwood Canyon Highway and One Happy Heart Dancing.
In the 1970s the Colorado highway department decided to rebuild the highway through Glenwood Canyon.
The river that cut the canyon still runs along its floor. It is narrow as rivers go, and happy-go-lucky. After miles and miles of majestic, barren sky and landscapes, relentless sun, the canyon is an oasis. Trees and grasses grow all along the banks, and there is shade. It is cozy down here by the water.
A two-lane highway runs along the edge of the river. It is impossible to drive it slowly enough. You don’t drive this canyon, you loll about in it.
Unless you are a trucker or a traveling salesmen or a parent with a carful of kids, all of whom have only one goal: Make good time.
These are the people the highway department had in mind when they decided to widen the road. They called it improving the highway. The environmentalists disagreed.
For decades, the environmentalists blocked the highway department’s every move. No plan was good enough. Real estate developers and trucking companies and everyone else who stood to make a penny off increasing the volume and speed of traffic through the canyon railed against the environmentalists. The greenies stood firm.
There was much screaming. Road-building costs skyrocketed while the environmentalists obstructed the developers’ plans. The developers took the case to the public: Look what this will do to your taxes! The environmentalists took their case public, too: Look what this will do to your pretty, beloved canyon!
Nothing good can come of this! both camps cried.
Eventually, the highway department scrapped its patchwork plans and proposed something brand new: an elevated highway. Now there would be no need to blast away the canyon walls, channel the river through enormous buried pipes, remove the tops of peaks, or move mountains.
They had everything they needed to make it happen: Lots of pillars and a brand-new technology that would allow the pillars to be set—and continue to stand—on mountain cliff walls for 100 years.
Voila!
Glenwood Canyon is not what it used to be, but to focus on that is to miss the miracle.
The miracle of the Glenwood Canyon highway is this: All that tussling, all those delays—inconvenient, messy, seemingly hopeless—created a space of time in which new capabilities could emerge, techniques could advance to such a degree that when builders and environmentalists finally came together, the resolution far surpassed what could have been accomplished had the project proceeded as planned.
Patience is a virtue. Persistence pays off.
Lovely, lovely, lovely.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Day After Festival Highlights
In the midst of a family party, my father and I compare notes on Grisha's music lecture/performance.
Your sister gave me a CD a while ago, he says. Guitar music. I used to listen to it, but it got boring. He ways this sheepishly, as if it's his fault.
I'm going to get it out and listen to it again, he says, see if I hear different things in it now.
Your sister gave me a CD a while ago, he says. Guitar music. I used to listen to it, but it got boring. He ways this sheepishly, as if it's his fault.
I'm going to get it out and listen to it again, he says, see if I hear different things in it now.
Ultimate Highlight of the 2008 Denver Memorial Day Tango Festival
Exiting the festival’s last class, a radiant Janette announces to the world, “I love this dance!”
5 Highlights of the 2008 Denver Memorial Day Tango Festival
1. Skilled teachers, fabulous music, gorgeous dancing. Especially the last. It's impossible to get enough of the pure, greedy pleasure of enjoying the show, as participant, spectator or understudy.
2. Lovely dances with out-of-towners. Sonny, Lev, Homi, Mark, a guy from Boulder, which is not really out of town but what the heck. Women complain that the local leads don’t dance with local women during festival weekend. I'm with the guys on this one.
3. Tomas’s class for followers on finding your voice. Listening to the other women talk about the difficulties they’ve had with that, I am relieved not to have to deal with that on top of balance and coordination and everything else I’m trying to learn.
I have never not had a voice in the dance. Many of my struggles in tango are due to my very loud voice. When a teacher insists that I move in a certain way, I acquiesce for the space of time I am in their class. Then I go home or to a milonga and do it my way.
After Tomas’s class, though, I have to tone it down because I find myself contributing a little too much … er, shouting right over the leads. They let me play around, but I can see one old favorite is counting the minutes until this festival is over and I consider the possibility of occasionally following again.
4. Playing dress up. Friday night I wear the softest, sweetest dress I own. It is gold and pink, ultrasimple, ultralight silk--the ultimate party dress. Saturday afternoon, I need a shot of grrl power, so wear tight, low-riding black jeans with a distressed, tight-fitting black t-shirt. I have saw-blade earrings in my bag, but this outfit is so tough I don’t need them.
5. My dad at the final day of the festival. He is 10x more shy than I am, and just as curious and adventuresome. We sit in the second row at Grisha’s performance-lecture on musical traditions that contribute to tango music. He observes Brigitta’s class on tango landmarks—from the very farthest back corner of the room. He squirms as I introduce him to friends in the hallway. And, he meets festival organizer Tom Stermitz.
“You must learn tango,” Tom says. My father demurs. “You must,” Tom continues. “It’s a requirement for all men of international mystery and intrigue!”
My father—avid fan of international mystery and intrigue, avid admirer of clever turns of phrase—shyly smiles.
2. Lovely dances with out-of-towners. Sonny, Lev, Homi, Mark, a guy from Boulder, which is not really out of town but what the heck. Women complain that the local leads don’t dance with local women during festival weekend. I'm with the guys on this one.
3. Tomas’s class for followers on finding your voice. Listening to the other women talk about the difficulties they’ve had with that, I am relieved not to have to deal with that on top of balance and coordination and everything else I’m trying to learn.
I have never not had a voice in the dance. Many of my struggles in tango are due to my very loud voice. When a teacher insists that I move in a certain way, I acquiesce for the space of time I am in their class. Then I go home or to a milonga and do it my way.
After Tomas’s class, though, I have to tone it down because I find myself contributing a little too much … er, shouting right over the leads. They let me play around, but I can see one old favorite is counting the minutes until this festival is over and I consider the possibility of occasionally following again.
4. Playing dress up. Friday night I wear the softest, sweetest dress I own. It is gold and pink, ultrasimple, ultralight silk--the ultimate party dress. Saturday afternoon, I need a shot of grrl power, so wear tight, low-riding black jeans with a distressed, tight-fitting black t-shirt. I have saw-blade earrings in my bag, but this outfit is so tough I don’t need them.
5. My dad at the final day of the festival. He is 10x more shy than I am, and just as curious and adventuresome. We sit in the second row at Grisha’s performance-lecture on musical traditions that contribute to tango music. He observes Brigitta’s class on tango landmarks—from the very farthest back corner of the room. He squirms as I introduce him to friends in the hallway. And, he meets festival organizer Tom Stermitz.
“You must learn tango,” Tom says. My father demurs. “You must,” Tom continues. “It’s a requirement for all men of international mystery and intrigue!”
My father—avid fan of international mystery and intrigue, avid admirer of clever turns of phrase—shyly smiles.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Dancing Scruffy Cheek-to-Scruffy Cheek
Brief ABC News report on gay and queer tango in Buenos Aires.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
One Happy Heart Dancing
Patience is a virtue, the sister of Persistence. If this were 1700 New England, you would have girlfriends with such names.
I am both of those girlfriends.
Patience is meek and mild. Persistence is a pushy broad.
Patience lounges on the sofa eating bon-bons, allowing things to unfold. Persistence is always tinkering, coaxing the world to align with her stars. Both are relentlessly optimistic.
Patience is a virtue. Persistence pays off.
For months I have been persistently friendly to a lead I turned down for a dance in December 2006. I would love to dance with him—but no luck. He’s friendly right back, but no invitations to dance. I have been patiently waiting.
Until last night.
Lovely, lovely, lovely.
I am both of those girlfriends.
Patience is meek and mild. Persistence is a pushy broad.
Patience lounges on the sofa eating bon-bons, allowing things to unfold. Persistence is always tinkering, coaxing the world to align with her stars. Both are relentlessly optimistic.
Patience is a virtue. Persistence pays off.
For months I have been persistently friendly to a lead I turned down for a dance in December 2006. I would love to dance with him—but no luck. He’s friendly right back, but no invitations to dance. I have been patiently waiting.
Until last night.
Lovely, lovely, lovely.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
If You Dump Me Mid-Tanda ...
I wish to speak simply.
Since last Tuesday night I have spent more than 20 hours doing what writers call clearing my throat. That is writing circles around a thing—dressing it up with lyricism or wit, dazzling, analyzing, explaining, contextualizing—all as a way of sidling up to a subject or avoiding it altogether.
To no avail.
That’s how it goes. You write, you toss. Write-toss, write-toss until you discover what it is you’re not saying. Then you say it. Like this:
If you leave me on the dance floor in the middle of a tanda, I won’t dance with you again.
It happened to me last summer, a lead dumped me mid-tanda in a way designed to call attention to the act.* I was humiliated, but I don’t think that was his intent. I think he staged the drama for his own benefit, to say to the crowd: I’m too good for this shit.
I’m over it. I’ve gained confidence and skill, and now when I see him I don’t cringe. Also, Tango Colorado is a large organization; we may see one another across a ballroom, but the chance of our paths crossing is slim.
Except for this: He keeps asking me to dance. Three times in the past several months.
The first time I simply said no. The second time I explained: You left me on the dance floor last summer. I will never dance with you again.
Last Tuesday night at the Turn, he asked again.
This persistent asking is a mystery. Other men, I turn them down once for very good reason--my feet are on fire, my taxi is waiting--and they never again ask me to dance. For months I have been friendly (painfully so, quashing every shy urge to run and hide) to a lead I would love to dance with--but no luck. He's friendly right back—but no invitations to dance. I turned him down in December 2006.
So what’s with the Bad Cowboy?
I have my theories—he doesn’t remember who I am from one day to the next, he thinks if he keeps asking I’ll change my mind--but that’s all conjecture. I prefer fact.
Here it is:
If you dump me on the dance floor in the middle of a tanda, I will not dance with you again.
Never in your lifetime.
Stop asking, please.
_____
*This is not the spectacular dumping described in a previous post, only the warm-up act.
Since last Tuesday night I have spent more than 20 hours doing what writers call clearing my throat. That is writing circles around a thing—dressing it up with lyricism or wit, dazzling, analyzing, explaining, contextualizing—all as a way of sidling up to a subject or avoiding it altogether.
To no avail.
That’s how it goes. You write, you toss. Write-toss, write-toss until you discover what it is you’re not saying. Then you say it. Like this:
If you leave me on the dance floor in the middle of a tanda, I won’t dance with you again.
It happened to me last summer, a lead dumped me mid-tanda in a way designed to call attention to the act.* I was humiliated, but I don’t think that was his intent. I think he staged the drama for his own benefit, to say to the crowd: I’m too good for this shit.
I’m over it. I’ve gained confidence and skill, and now when I see him I don’t cringe. Also, Tango Colorado is a large organization; we may see one another across a ballroom, but the chance of our paths crossing is slim.
Except for this: He keeps asking me to dance. Three times in the past several months.
The first time I simply said no. The second time I explained: You left me on the dance floor last summer. I will never dance with you again.
Last Tuesday night at the Turn, he asked again.
This persistent asking is a mystery. Other men, I turn them down once for very good reason--my feet are on fire, my taxi is waiting--and they never again ask me to dance. For months I have been friendly (painfully so, quashing every shy urge to run and hide) to a lead I would love to dance with--but no luck. He's friendly right back—but no invitations to dance. I turned him down in December 2006.
So what’s with the Bad Cowboy?
I have my theories—he doesn’t remember who I am from one day to the next, he thinks if he keeps asking I’ll change my mind--but that’s all conjecture. I prefer fact.
Here it is:
If you dump me on the dance floor in the middle of a tanda, I will not dance with you again.
Never in your lifetime.
Stop asking, please.
_____
*This is not the spectacular dumping described in a previous post, only the warm-up act.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Let Those Love
Let those love now who never loved before;
Let those who always loved, now love the more.
Thomas Parnell
Let those who always loved, now love the more.
Thomas Parnell
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Balance 2
Once I stood on one foot through the whole of The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys. The song is 11 minutes long.
This was before Jaimes Friedgen taught me that standing on one foot is hard. Rather, before Jaimes Friedgen taught me that standing on one foot is not the same thing as finding stability, achieving balance.
We often objectify balance by using it as a noun. We say that we try to ‘attain’ balance in our lives—but balance is not a static place that you can actually reach. Like an active verb, balance constantly rebalances itself each moment in a moving equilibrium of relationships. (Yoga Journal)
Last Saturday, under Jaimes Friedgen’s direction…
We Jump!-ed, we balanced, more or less. We got scolded for putting a foot down prematurely. That was the warm-up. Great fun!
Now we move on, Apilado.
I have no idea what this is. But I am not worried. The class is billed as moving in and out of close embrace. Two weeks ago, I took a class on this very same topic. I had a great lead; he and I moved in and out like nobody’s business. I am sooo ready for this!
Do this, Jaimes Friedgen says.
Shit no. No. No. No.
You have got to be kidding. Never. No. I am not doing this.
There are many moves in tango that I don’t like to do. Gancho. Boleo. Volcado. I like to watch them, I think they’re pretty. Someday I will enjoy doing them. After I achieve balance, perhaps.
Apilado is different. It is the one position in tango that I abhor. The woman thrusts her breasts into the chest of the man as if she had just escaped from a deserted isle where she had been sequestered for all of her reproductive years save this day, this one, her last desperate chance. It is an appropriate move for springtime. If we were doing it in the wild, the animals of the forest would applaud.
It’s a shared axis position. The man is supposed to be leaning into her, too, so that neither could stand alone, but together they find balance. But when I look in the mirror, I see only the women in this exaggerated pose.
What woman in her right mind lets a man shove her around the floor by her breasts?
Eeew!
Partner up! Jaimes Friedgen says.
“Full inhalations and exhalations create a supple and centered body, while shortened or suspended breathing creates rigidity and disconnection…. (Yoga Journal)
I am built like a boy, so the whole breast thing is not really an issue. I have much better issues than that, anyway: Control. Trust. An existential hatred (hatred, yikes! yes) for domineering behavior. Not domination as in the Hallliburton-World Bank-OWG conspiracy theory. More personal than that, like Nurse Ratched. I will always be McMurphy. I will never outgrow the refrain: You are not the boss of me!
I abhor apilado. It is vulgar and demeaning. And don’t even say the word Gavito to me.
This is only my opinion, of course. I believe that, whenever you have a strong opinion, you should examine it closely.
Why?
It is fun to mess with your own head,
and…
“We have conclusions, which are the products of senility or incompetence or credulity, and then argue from them to premises. We forget this process, and then argue from the premises, thinking we began there.” (Charles Hoy Fort)
An opinion is a conclusion. It’s a thought and a feeling combined. You can’t do anything about your feelings, but you can examine your thoughts.
You can refuse to be dead-ended by your conclusions; you can say to your own strong opinions: You are not the boss of me!
As Jaimes Friedgen explains what we are to do next, I buck up. I am an adventurer of the moment! And this is some moment!
I can do this, no problem. It’s just a matter of lowering the veil, the steel partition. This is standard procedure for women under mortal duress. It would help, though, if I could breathe.
I rotate through a few partners until I come to Roberto, who is embarking on his own teaching career.
I do my Audrey Hepburn apilado.
Lean more, he says. More.
Fine! I give it everything I’ve got. If he were a Mack truck with brakes full on, he could not withstand me.
More, he says.
I sneak a look in the mirror. He is not meeting me anywhere near halfway. I hold my position, miffed. Why should I do all of the leaning?
Would you fall over if I stepped away? Roberto asks a touch impatiently.
I like Roberto. He helps me dance better, and as long as I’ve known him, he’s always been kind.
So I don’t retort, Are you insane?! I give him a look that retorts it for me.
Also I do not say, Why should I trust you now?
Don’t worry about being able to maintain perfect balance right away. Instead, use these poses as opportunities to explore how balance works, and watch the subtle ways that your body moves to find balance. (Yoga Journal)
A friend and I talk about the nature of certainty.
There isn’t any, he says. That’s hard.
No. Uncertainty is easy; you can rely on it. The lullaby doesn’t say “If the bough breaks…” but “When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.” Uncertainty is easy. You stand poised at the ready, and when it strikes, you ride it out.
It’s certainty that’s hard. It’s hard to go along blithely whistling, ever poised but never quite ready for the bough to break.
So the long answer is no, Roberto, if you stepped away I would not fall down. No way! I am not about to put myself in a position in which I would go tumbling if—when—that upon which I rely were to suddenly vanish.
Whoa, One Heart! It’s only a dance.
Change partners! Jaimes Friedgen says.
All balancing postures provide an opportunity to learn and experience the dynamic nature of balance. …
No matter how still or statuelike you become, you will notice that you must continually listen, feel and react responsively to each moment, or you’ll fall. (Yoga Journal)
I am not about to let my own strong opinion be the boss of me! I am going to do this horrid thing, and do it well.
But now Jaimes Friedgen is raising the stakes. We are going to do this without using our arms, with the basic eight exit, or something like that.
The first step for the man is a back step. There is no telling how large or how small his step will be. To keep from breaking her nose against that beautiful bamboo floor, the follower must Velcro her breasts to the lead. This requires some serious thrusting effort.
IamanadventurerofthemomentIamanadventurerofthemomentIamanadventurerofthemoment!
Stand like this, Jaimes Friedgen says. He thrusts his chest out, throws back his shoulders to pinch his shoulder blades together, rotates his dangling arms so the tender flesh of the inner elbow points forward.
This is how girls stand, he explains. He looks a ship's figurehead, like that girl in the movie Titanic.
Good grief.
At moments like this, how can you not believe in God? Clearly, there is Something out there that just can’t leave well enough alone. And we are made in its image.
Those who are motivated only by desire for the fruits of action are miserable, for they are constantly anxious about the results of what they do….
Therefore, devote yourself to the disciplines of yoga, for yoga is skill in action. (Bhagavad Gita, 2:50)
I’m OK, they’re OK.
After two hours I’ve had a few go’s through the rotation and am willing to give these leads a break. They are not really Nurse Ratcheds or Leisure Suit Larrys. They are just guys trying very hard to steer without using their arms or stepping on toes or letting anyone fall on her face.
I’ve been close to tears twice, but nothing full on, nothing I couldn’t work through, though I feel sorry for David, who saw them.
I despise this position as much as I did when I started. More so, because once you’ve done a move, it is inside your body and even if you haven’t done it well, it’s part of your muscle’s memories.
Eeew.
So why do it?
Balancing involves correcting errors and then, in turn, correcting any overcorrection of those errors. …
To an external observer, you may appear to be still, or “in balance,” but from the inside, you will be able to feel the continual adjustments within this stability. You will feel the constant interplay of movement within stillness, and stillness within movement. (Yoga Journal)
Balancing is a journey, not a destination. You will not find it by following systematized or formulated modes of living and being; you will discover it by developing a sensitive awareness that responds and adjusts to the ever-shifting moment.
In other words, instead of seeking to attain balance, you will fare better by learning the art of balancing. (Yoga Journal)
(Yoga Journal, March 2008)
This was before Jaimes Friedgen taught me that standing on one foot is hard. Rather, before Jaimes Friedgen taught me that standing on one foot is not the same thing as finding stability, achieving balance.
* * *
We often objectify balance by using it as a noun. We say that we try to ‘attain’ balance in our lives—but balance is not a static place that you can actually reach. Like an active verb, balance constantly rebalances itself each moment in a moving equilibrium of relationships. (Yoga Journal)
* * *
Last Saturday, under Jaimes Friedgen’s direction…
We Jump!-ed, we balanced, more or less. We got scolded for putting a foot down prematurely. That was the warm-up. Great fun!
Now we move on, Apilado.
I have no idea what this is. But I am not worried. The class is billed as moving in and out of close embrace. Two weeks ago, I took a class on this very same topic. I had a great lead; he and I moved in and out like nobody’s business. I am sooo ready for this!
Do this, Jaimes Friedgen says.
Shit no. No. No. No.
You have got to be kidding. Never. No. I am not doing this.
There are many moves in tango that I don’t like to do. Gancho. Boleo. Volcado. I like to watch them, I think they’re pretty. Someday I will enjoy doing them. After I achieve balance, perhaps.
Apilado is different. It is the one position in tango that I abhor. The woman thrusts her breasts into the chest of the man as if she had just escaped from a deserted isle where she had been sequestered for all of her reproductive years save this day, this one, her last desperate chance. It is an appropriate move for springtime. If we were doing it in the wild, the animals of the forest would applaud.
It’s a shared axis position. The man is supposed to be leaning into her, too, so that neither could stand alone, but together they find balance. But when I look in the mirror, I see only the women in this exaggerated pose.
What woman in her right mind lets a man shove her around the floor by her breasts?
Eeew!
Partner up! Jaimes Friedgen says.
* * *
“Full inhalations and exhalations create a supple and centered body, while shortened or suspended breathing creates rigidity and disconnection…. (Yoga Journal)
* * *
I am built like a boy, so the whole breast thing is not really an issue. I have much better issues than that, anyway: Control. Trust. An existential hatred (hatred, yikes! yes) for domineering behavior. Not domination as in the Hallliburton-World Bank-OWG conspiracy theory. More personal than that, like Nurse Ratched. I will always be McMurphy. I will never outgrow the refrain: You are not the boss of me!
I abhor apilado. It is vulgar and demeaning. And don’t even say the word Gavito to me.
This is only my opinion, of course. I believe that, whenever you have a strong opinion, you should examine it closely.
Why?
It is fun to mess with your own head,
and…
“We have conclusions, which are the products of senility or incompetence or credulity, and then argue from them to premises. We forget this process, and then argue from the premises, thinking we began there.” (Charles Hoy Fort)
An opinion is a conclusion. It’s a thought and a feeling combined. You can’t do anything about your feelings, but you can examine your thoughts.
You can refuse to be dead-ended by your conclusions; you can say to your own strong opinions: You are not the boss of me!
* * *
As Jaimes Friedgen explains what we are to do next, I buck up. I am an adventurer of the moment! And this is some moment!
I can do this, no problem. It’s just a matter of lowering the veil, the steel partition. This is standard procedure for women under mortal duress. It would help, though, if I could breathe.
I rotate through a few partners until I come to Roberto, who is embarking on his own teaching career.
I do my Audrey Hepburn apilado.
Lean more, he says. More.
Fine! I give it everything I’ve got. If he were a Mack truck with brakes full on, he could not withstand me.
More, he says.
I sneak a look in the mirror. He is not meeting me anywhere near halfway. I hold my position, miffed. Why should I do all of the leaning?
Would you fall over if I stepped away? Roberto asks a touch impatiently.
I like Roberto. He helps me dance better, and as long as I’ve known him, he’s always been kind.
So I don’t retort, Are you insane?! I give him a look that retorts it for me.
Also I do not say, Why should I trust you now?
* * *
Don’t worry about being able to maintain perfect balance right away. Instead, use these poses as opportunities to explore how balance works, and watch the subtle ways that your body moves to find balance. (Yoga Journal)
* * *
A friend and I talk about the nature of certainty.
There isn’t any, he says. That’s hard.
No. Uncertainty is easy; you can rely on it. The lullaby doesn’t say “If the bough breaks…” but “When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.” Uncertainty is easy. You stand poised at the ready, and when it strikes, you ride it out.
It’s certainty that’s hard. It’s hard to go along blithely whistling, ever poised but never quite ready for the bough to break.
So the long answer is no, Roberto, if you stepped away I would not fall down. No way! I am not about to put myself in a position in which I would go tumbling if—when—that upon which I rely were to suddenly vanish.
Whoa, One Heart! It’s only a dance.
Change partners! Jaimes Friedgen says.
* * *
All balancing postures provide an opportunity to learn and experience the dynamic nature of balance. …
No matter how still or statuelike you become, you will notice that you must continually listen, feel and react responsively to each moment, or you’ll fall. (Yoga Journal)
* * *
I am not about to let my own strong opinion be the boss of me! I am going to do this horrid thing, and do it well.
But now Jaimes Friedgen is raising the stakes. We are going to do this without using our arms, with the basic eight exit, or something like that.
The first step for the man is a back step. There is no telling how large or how small his step will be. To keep from breaking her nose against that beautiful bamboo floor, the follower must Velcro her breasts to the lead. This requires some serious thrusting effort.
IamanadventurerofthemomentIamanadventurerofthemomentIamanadventurerofthemoment!
Stand like this, Jaimes Friedgen says. He thrusts his chest out, throws back his shoulders to pinch his shoulder blades together, rotates his dangling arms so the tender flesh of the inner elbow points forward.
This is how girls stand, he explains. He looks a ship's figurehead, like that girl in the movie Titanic.
Good grief.
At moments like this, how can you not believe in God? Clearly, there is Something out there that just can’t leave well enough alone. And we are made in its image.
* * *
Those who are motivated only by desire for the fruits of action are miserable, for they are constantly anxious about the results of what they do….
Therefore, devote yourself to the disciplines of yoga, for yoga is skill in action. (Bhagavad Gita, 2:50)
* * *
I’m OK, they’re OK.
After two hours I’ve had a few go’s through the rotation and am willing to give these leads a break. They are not really Nurse Ratcheds or Leisure Suit Larrys. They are just guys trying very hard to steer without using their arms or stepping on toes or letting anyone fall on her face.
I’ve been close to tears twice, but nothing full on, nothing I couldn’t work through, though I feel sorry for David, who saw them.
I despise this position as much as I did when I started. More so, because once you’ve done a move, it is inside your body and even if you haven’t done it well, it’s part of your muscle’s memories.
Eeew.
So why do it?
* * *
Balancing involves correcting errors and then, in turn, correcting any overcorrection of those errors. …
To an external observer, you may appear to be still, or “in balance,” but from the inside, you will be able to feel the continual adjustments within this stability. You will feel the constant interplay of movement within stillness, and stillness within movement. (Yoga Journal)
* * *
My deep-thinking friend says:
"Thoughts arise in our minds as a result of our existence in the world. Which thoughts one thinks is a influenced by not only our interaction with the world, but also our upbringing, education, training, habit or all of the above.
Emotions arise from thought. Emotions can cause people to act, and thus have consequences, but I would say the real culprit here is thought and not emotion."
Which comes first, thought or emotion?
I have always felt my emotions come first, shaping my thoughts as they rise. In this class, I was surprised to hear thoughts roaring through my head like a freight train, with emotions rushing in its turbulent wake.
I know my ego is not queen of the show. I know this knee-jerk, judgmental reaction I have to apilado comes out of my thoughts, my upbringing, education, training, experience, habit or all of the above. I know it was not my axis that was seriously off-kilter in this class, it was my internal balance.
Many people stand on two feet solidly planted in the illusion of certainty.
Some people can balance on the tip of one toe for what seems an eternity.
We wobble like the earth on its axis, like the dancers we are.
* * *
Balancing is a journey, not a destination. You will not find it by following systematized or formulated modes of living and being; you will discover it by developing a sensitive awareness that responds and adjusts to the ever-shifting moment.
In other words, instead of seeking to attain balance, you will fare better by learning the art of balancing. (Yoga Journal)
(Yoga Journal, March 2008)
Balance
I am standing in the dark. On the table there is a plate, and in the plate a slouched-over, clove-scented candle nearing its last hour. Through thin walls of wax, the flame casts a magenta glow that fills the plate exactly to its rim.
The flame is my focal point. Any stationary point would do, but candles are known for their hypnotic power, the power to take you outside of yourself.
I am standing before the table, staring into the flame. My left foot is wearing a gorgeous Comme il Faut, the right foot bare.
I am seeking stability. Balance. The abandonment of ego.
This is what happens when you mix tango with half-assed understanding of Eastern religions, Catholic ritual and Jaimes Friedgen.
It’s not working. There may be too many chefs in the kitchen.
Let’s deconstruct. Start with Jaimes Friedgen.
Saturday, 1 p.m. in a hip-hop dance studio hidden at the back of a junkpile of industrial shacks.
The floor is beautiful, brand-new bamboo, and you hardly notice the ridges where the boards meet. A big garage door, half of one wall, lifts to flood the room in cold air and sunlight. Opposite the mirrors, the backdrop wall is bright green as a red-eyed tree frog, decorated with huge, leaping hip-hop silhouettes.
James Friedgen stands facing his students. In the mirror behind him, silhouettes leap and loom.
Jump! he says. We are to land on one foot. Stay there. Find stability. No wobbling ankles, no tremors, No matter how long it takes.
Some of you will find it in a minute … a minute and a half …
4 months, he adds, smiling, as if that were a joke.
It took me 18 months to find my hips. When I found my hips, I discovered the key to finding my balance. That was a few weeks ago. I am still figuring out how they work.
We stand and stand and stand. Wobble and wobble and wobble.
“I am wobbling, too,” Jaimes Friedgen reassures us.
We are to stand like this, on this one foot, until the wobbling stops or our leg gives way. Then we must Jump! to the other foot.
The wobbling will stop someday, he promises. But not for long. As soon as we become aware the wobbling has stopped, as soon as our ego takes note…
… we will start wobbling again.
It never fails, he says. You can’t remain in balance when your ego gets involved.
According to Yoga Journal, “An ancient, oft-quoted definition of yoga from the Bhagavad Gita is samatvam yoga uchyate (2:48), or “yoga is balance.”
Really?
My version says: “Yoga is perfect evenness of mind.”
A chicken-and-egg proposition.
The Jaimes Friedgen workshop is for intermediates. Do I belong here? How would I know? Every teacher defines the term differently. It is useful when a teacher says “to be comfortable in this class you should know …”
I know three things:
I’ve seen Jaimes Friedgen dance on YouTube. That’s all I need to know about him.
David Jones, the local teacher who is hosting this workshop, and I go way back, though he doesn’t know it. After my very first class, hanging out at the fringes of the dance floor to see what all the fuss was about, I couldn’t take my eyes off him and his partner, couldn’t resist what they promised.
This workshop is the first opportunity I’ve had to take advantage of anything David has to offer. Whoo-hoo!
The third thing I know, that I am coming to know with a sinking feeling in the moments before class begins, is this: there are a lot of people in this room and almost every one is a stranger.
Once that would have sent me into a panic or straight out the door. Suddenly I realize I know something new: how to stay in the room, stay in the lesson, in each moment of it.
Find the focal point. Forget yourself. Listen to the teacher. Work hard. Work harder.
This ritual thing, the candle, the dark, it’s too self-conscious. You don’t create a tableau and expect it to do all the work. No. There are ways to enter into a moment—slowly, sidling, layered
as when
at the end of a long day of hiking high up in the mountains, at the end of a long night, with a good dinner and long hours of talking and not talking behind you, the campfire turning to embers, only you and your partner left awake in this part of the world with the bears and mountain lions, you get up off the stump, stiff and butt-sore, and wander into the woods for a moment. When you come back to icy stars and burning coals, you do not sit back down but stand for a moment at the very edge of the fire circle, your toes nudging the coals, watching the undulating glow, and you raise one foot off the ground, you don’t know why, maybe you meant to step firmly on a coal, press down with your shoe to see it go dark and then glow again, but you have a second thought and so you stand that way, between, one foot raised, watching the embers and feeling the stars at the back of your head, the cold dark of outer space surround you. For no better reason than that it feels good, you shift your weight to the other foot, feel the solidity in muscles and bones and earth, hear the coals’ snappish murmurs, feel your icy nose because the mountains are always cold at night, even in July, and that is magic. Across the way your partner, heavy-lidded and hypnotized, the most beautiful thing that lives, is no more capable of leaving this moment than you are, but still you know that in some hour’s time you will turn your attention away from these dying coals to the heavy, double-wide sleeping bag, his side unzipped because he’s always too hot and you cuddled so close you could crawl up inside him, and then your nose will be warm, and your feet and heart too, and you will fall asleep to the scent of his skin and in the morning wake to the same.
The flame is my focal point. Any stationary point would do, but candles are known for their hypnotic power, the power to take you outside of yourself.
I am standing before the table, staring into the flame. My left foot is wearing a gorgeous Comme il Faut, the right foot bare.
I am seeking stability. Balance. The abandonment of ego.
This is what happens when you mix tango with half-assed understanding of Eastern religions, Catholic ritual and Jaimes Friedgen.
It’s not working. There may be too many chefs in the kitchen.
Let’s deconstruct. Start with Jaimes Friedgen.
* * *
Saturday, 1 p.m. in a hip-hop dance studio hidden at the back of a junkpile of industrial shacks.
The floor is beautiful, brand-new bamboo, and you hardly notice the ridges where the boards meet. A big garage door, half of one wall, lifts to flood the room in cold air and sunlight. Opposite the mirrors, the backdrop wall is bright green as a red-eyed tree frog, decorated with huge, leaping hip-hop silhouettes.
James Friedgen stands facing his students. In the mirror behind him, silhouettes leap and loom.
Jump! he says. We are to land on one foot. Stay there. Find stability. No wobbling ankles, no tremors, No matter how long it takes.
Some of you will find it in a minute … a minute and a half …
4 months, he adds, smiling, as if that were a joke.
It took me 18 months to find my hips. When I found my hips, I discovered the key to finding my balance. That was a few weeks ago. I am still figuring out how they work.
We stand and stand and stand. Wobble and wobble and wobble.
“I am wobbling, too,” Jaimes Friedgen reassures us.
We are to stand like this, on this one foot, until the wobbling stops or our leg gives way. Then we must Jump! to the other foot.
The wobbling will stop someday, he promises. But not for long. As soon as we become aware the wobbling has stopped, as soon as our ego takes note…
… we will start wobbling again.
It never fails, he says. You can’t remain in balance when your ego gets involved.
* * *
According to Yoga Journal, “An ancient, oft-quoted definition of yoga from the Bhagavad Gita is samatvam yoga uchyate (2:48), or “yoga is balance.”
Really?
My version says: “Yoga is perfect evenness of mind.”
A chicken-and-egg proposition.
* * *
The Jaimes Friedgen workshop is for intermediates. Do I belong here? How would I know? Every teacher defines the term differently. It is useful when a teacher says “to be comfortable in this class you should know …”
I know three things:
I’ve seen Jaimes Friedgen dance on YouTube. That’s all I need to know about him.
David Jones, the local teacher who is hosting this workshop, and I go way back, though he doesn’t know it. After my very first class, hanging out at the fringes of the dance floor to see what all the fuss was about, I couldn’t take my eyes off him and his partner, couldn’t resist what they promised.
This workshop is the first opportunity I’ve had to take advantage of anything David has to offer. Whoo-hoo!
The third thing I know, that I am coming to know with a sinking feeling in the moments before class begins, is this: there are a lot of people in this room and almost every one is a stranger.
Once that would have sent me into a panic or straight out the door. Suddenly I realize I know something new: how to stay in the room, stay in the lesson, in each moment of it.
Find the focal point. Forget yourself. Listen to the teacher. Work hard. Work harder.
* * *
This ritual thing, the candle, the dark, it’s too self-conscious. You don’t create a tableau and expect it to do all the work. No. There are ways to enter into a moment—slowly, sidling, layered
as when
at the end of a long day of hiking high up in the mountains, at the end of a long night, with a good dinner and long hours of talking and not talking behind you, the campfire turning to embers, only you and your partner left awake in this part of the world with the bears and mountain lions, you get up off the stump, stiff and butt-sore, and wander into the woods for a moment. When you come back to icy stars and burning coals, you do not sit back down but stand for a moment at the very edge of the fire circle, your toes nudging the coals, watching the undulating glow, and you raise one foot off the ground, you don’t know why, maybe you meant to step firmly on a coal, press down with your shoe to see it go dark and then glow again, but you have a second thought and so you stand that way, between, one foot raised, watching the embers and feeling the stars at the back of your head, the cold dark of outer space surround you. For no better reason than that it feels good, you shift your weight to the other foot, feel the solidity in muscles and bones and earth, hear the coals’ snappish murmurs, feel your icy nose because the mountains are always cold at night, even in July, and that is magic. Across the way your partner, heavy-lidded and hypnotized, the most beautiful thing that lives, is no more capable of leaving this moment than you are, but still you know that in some hour’s time you will turn your attention away from these dying coals to the heavy, double-wide sleeping bag, his side unzipped because he’s always too hot and you cuddled so close you could crawl up inside him, and then your nose will be warm, and your feet and heart too, and you will fall asleep to the scent of his skin and in the morning wake to the same.
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