A mere 5 or so days after getting my computer back- all fixed and fresh with a crisp new screen- I broke it again. Yup, I broke it this time. I could get into the why's and how's and but it wasn't fair's, except that will only lead me down the road of discouragement and despair.
The positive thing about not having a computer at home is that I don't work all evening, every evening. It's not possible. When I go home at night to be with my family, the work stays in school- where it rightfully should.
Of course, it occasionally makes it hard to keep up with deadlines and I don't really enjoy spending every Sunday in my classroom- complete with cute little bunny in tow. It certainly makes writing for pleasure ever harder to get to, but...yeah, I was trying not to go down the road of despair.
The only things that offer true release from the world of work (aside from my little sunshine's laughter) is the world of dance. And drum. Music has a way of pushing all other things aside and claiming complete control.
I remember dancing in Congo- forever remember the zombie analogy- and see how far I have come. I actually miss Congolese dance, for one. The style and rhythms have helped me grow as a dancer in general.
My early teacher- a source of frustration for me at the time- has exploded into an amazing video choreographer and is working with a fabulous team in Belgium. I applaud her talent, her reaching for her dream and her success. Jolie is the shining star in many a video!
I am actually surprised at times by how much I miss Congo- and it's rhythms- especially since I recall the first year or so when my mind was colored by all things Guinean. It was hard to appreciate Kinshasa when my heart was aching for Conakry. But I am growing now and have found that loving dance and art and culture is a bit like being a parent. There is always room for the new and the old and the yet undiscovered.
These last few weeks, however, the drummers have been treating us with rhythms that remind me of my birth into the world of traditional dance. Oddly, I end up feeling a little nostalgic about African dance in New York. Moving across the floor as my body replays those steps from another time- it is like a warm and welcoming friend come to visit. When the teacher points me out to her group of young recruits and says, "She- she gets it. The only one." I know it is not fair. I want to tell her that the moves are good friends of mine. We go way back. I learned them long before coming to this class, this country, this time and space. But I remain silent, keeping our relationship hidden, secret and therefore all the more sacred.
At the same time, I have come to know some of the Ivorian dances pretty well. We are not lost in the jungle, bent-kneed and straight-backed zombies. Now- now we are peasants and villagers. We sow. We harvest. We cook and serve. We entice and praise. We dance with all the ordinariness of daily life and turn it into beauty. Most of the movements are low with a forward bend. Our backs pulse and arms circle out and around and in again. The movements are fluid and smooth, a perfect accompaniment to the drums. But we are never low enough.
"Get down,' our teacher will say. "You are bowing to kings." I've been keeping this piece of humility in mind as my reality spins out its tale. Yes, I am bowing to kings here in Abidjan. There are so many ways to interpret this- and currently my state of affairs fits them all.
