Lessons to be learnt: yoga & dance therapy

My exercise routine has been whittled down to yoga and salsa, twice a week each. For the moment, I've had to let go of my gym routine (one day I will have arm muscles and be a bada#$ at kickboxing or capoeira- the dream is not dead, just postponed.)

My routine doesn't include traditional dance or drum, which is a major disappointment for me. Luckily there is a light at the end of this tunnel- I've got my eyes on Mali to restore me to my former self. In the meantime, there are lessons to be learned.

Both classes are the only ones I've found that have the potential to challenge me (except of course the beautiful people at Compagnie Mouye, who inexplicably broke my heart, though I don't think they know how deeply.)

My yoga teacher is Anne, from Ananda YOGA Abidjan. She has a great way of differentiating class- I guess yoga lends itself to that naturally, but she is knowledgeable and encouraging. A bonus is her home studio, which has an aura all its own. It's a quasi outside studio with open windows and a soft decor. Her yard has illuminated trees, which remind me of Kenya, and a dreamy porch. Sometimes we meet on the grass, and other times we meet in her garage-turned-studio but always the air is quietly enveloping. Even when we meet at the Bushman Cafe, the class is tranquil and the music enchanting.

I would describe myself as in the middle of my yoga journey (physically speaking)- there are several who can go further than me and plenty who can do less. It is the right mix of reminding myself I'm not half bad, but I have plenty of room to improve. As I often tell Mohamed, you never want to be the best on the field. You need to see the challenge and not let your ego get too comfortable. Humility is important.

There are days when my yoga workout leaves me in an emotional state near tears. Apparently, this isn't so unusual. I am still convincing myself of the mind-body connection, having long decided I could plow through anything if my mind were strong enough. In reality, a lot of what I am 'plowing through' gets stuck up in muscle memory. I am only half as strong as I think I am. It's what leaves me emotionally vulnerable after an intense hour and a half of yoga.

I'm only slightly interested in tracking what positions elicit what emotional response. A friend is doing her master's on a related topic which has increased my interest a bit, but I spend more time trying to figure out what I need to let go of and what's worth hanging onto.

Forever indulging in self-reflection, I know about the arts as therapy. I believe in the arts as therapy. But I admit to not experiencing much more than the visual arts- my go-to in times of crisis. Lately, I've begun to understand, truly feel the power of movement. That is to say, movement as therapy.  I don't mean therapy as in, I do it to prevent sadness or stave off depression (which is where I concentrate a lot of my effort.) But I mean therapy as in, I have a lot of issues to work out. (which I do, though the list is getting smaller.)

I've always understood I need to dance- and have been dancing since I was 6....or 4? I recognize that the worst times of my life- the teenage years- were the ones where I stopped dancing, and often regret. What if I'd kept dancing, wouldn't they have been so much more formative, in the positive sense? I have no doubt.

Just before I stopped dancing....

It's not so much that I stopped dancing, but I stopped publicly dancing. I stopped believing in myself as a dancer. Many a night I found my own beat in the privacy of my bedroom, but never, ever in public. It wasn't until my early twenties that I decided to tackle the problem- the fear- of public dancing. And so began my love affair with traditional African dance.

But for all of the twenty something years I have since been dancing, I am still only comfortable with a routine. A prescribed set of steps I can memorize and present. I harbor great issues with free form dancing or anything outside of a class, really. Or a performance that has been rehearsed and can be anticipated.

A class represents safety. I can make mistakes, there is a low level of judgement and I can stop at any time. A performance represents security, anticipation, no surprises. But there is something else going on in class, especially salsa class, which I have only just figured out.

My Friday nights are dedicated to a private class. This is a chance for me to receive instruction tailored to my individual level- and to dance with a master. Because I know I am leaving, I've asked for the class to be accelerated. I am somewhat new to the style, but not to dance as a discipline.

I resisted salsa for many years, unfortunate really, because, back in those aforementioned dance-less teenage years there were quite a few Latino hot-spots in my neighborhood, and if I'd been inclined, I could have been an accomplished salsa dancer by now (oh, the could haves and would haves...) One of the main reasons for my resistance was the machismo quality of salsa- or what I perceived as that anyway.

On occasion I am still troubled by the imbalance of power. It is hard for me to let the man lead, to surrender, in essence. Because I have issues, being a woman. If you are a woman, you might know something about what I am talking about.  I say it's not fair that the man gets to call the shots and can plan his moves in advance, while, as the woman, I have to be ready to respond to whatever direction I am given. This perspective is not helping my salsa.

Henri, my teacher, tells me that the move is always the same, a right turn is a right turn and cumbia is cumbia no matter what the man is deciding to do with his hands, or whether the position is open or closed. He's right of course, but he is a man. He gets to be in the lead. And he is probably coming from a much healthier perspective than I, I who have all of my issues buried deep in the memories of my muscles, just waiting to pour out at the most inopportune and inappropriate moments.

Salsa is a beautiful dance, an image of positive communication between the partners. But I am just now realizing that throwing someone like me in the mix can produce some unexpected results. I spent a lot of time trying to get over the fact that I am not in control. I was trying to "let go" and feel loose and free, and actually suspecting I had conquered that whole need-for-control aspect. (or mostly. Well, I was aware it existed, at any rate, and awareness is a great step, right?)

The dance was going well, and I felt beautiful, like those salsa dancers. Henri is an excellent teacher, providing just the right amount of critique and positive feedback to keep one encouraged, but motivated to improve. I felt like I might actually be able to learn this style, and who knows, maybe even go out for a salsa evening and meet some real people. When, WHAM! He didn't come flying into me- he is the professional after all- but it felt like that.

Our turns were a bit faster than I'd been practicing and he was really challenging me with varying the position between open and closed. When all of sudden he made the move from open to closed just a bit too fast and a hand too firm. I broke away feeling dizzy and slightly ill. I shook my head and waved my hands. What was that?

He was truly bewildered, poor unsuspecting guy, just trying to teach a dance class when the student has a traumatic reaction right there in the middle of it all. He looked at me with a question on his face.

"That was....that was..." I couldn't really get any words out. I wasn't sure what it was. "Too much," I finally sputtered. I'd thought at first that I was just responding to things moving too fast and not being able to keep up, a slight embarrassment about not being able to rise to the challenge he was presenting.

"That was great, no?" He seemed oblivious to all of my discomfort, happily. Something was going on with me, but I surely didn't want to advertise it there, in that space where I had been seeking refuge from my demons. I relived a few moments from my past, moments I thought I'd long put to rest and realized I was dealing with a bit more than an 'it's-not-fair-I-don't-get-to-chose-the-dance-moves' response to salsa. There was something inherently more complex going on there for me.

I am glad that dragon finally revealed itself, so I can slay it once and for all (or maybe that won't actually be possible?) but at least I can look him square in the eye and show him I am not afraid of dragons. Then I can get back to enjoying my dance. I am going to try and focus on the positive aspects of salsa and learn the lessons that need to be learnt. And embrace the person I am now. Nevermind the one I used to be. I can see there is a reason why my exercise routine has been whittled away to salsa and yoga. We need each other.

A Good Read

Preparing for the annual trek across the ocean means stocking up on reading material. Experience tells me the planes will be long, the layovers fraught with early morning awake hours and children too hyped up and overstimulated for much sleep to occur.

I've spent the early part of my vacation painting furiously, writing frequently and reading frivolously. I have a weakness for crime novels. After gorging on these potato chip reads, I am ready for something real. On the heels of lost loves, deception and dissolved friendships,  I am looking for novels of substance by women with insight. I am searching for empowerment and strength of the kind inspired by early college days when exposure to new ideas was breath taking and profound. Ah, but where to find such depth of work?

Internet searches have done little to offer illumination. I realize I don't want to read any more accounts of ethnic heritage, having none myself. I am not interested in strong families and supportive friends, living in the isolation of Africa. So what is left to make a woman strong?

I found some solace in Falling Under by Danielle Young-Ullman which seemed to reach inside me and grip my soul. Books about painters often seem to do that. The only other one I can remember having such a hold was White Oleander (my ability to remember the title after some ten years of my first reading speaks volumes. I am never good at titles and authors....) Unsurprisingly, both of these feature lonely, tormented spirits on the edge of self-destruction. Luckily, art serves as their savior.

What I found in Falling Under were recounts of emotions I never imagined anyone else could feel. And that's why we listen to stories. We are searching for a connection to others and reassurance that what we're going through is something countless others have experienced before. The undying strength of the African oral traditions have at their base a human desire to assure ourselves that people before us have walked these roads and persevered. They strive to comfort, inspire and educate. Yes, we can learn from the errors of others- or of ourselves. Yes, we can make better choices. Yes, the path we are on is the journey we are meant to undertake.

Good literature serves to impart the messages of our ancestors with poetry and prose that creates images we cannot deny. It captures the essence of who we are and unravels the mystery of the individual. Nothing we feel or endure is unique.

But it is also about recognizing the stages of life we pass through. I see the young kids, spending their days on the street and remember when it was me searching for shelter, bouncing and tumbling about trying to pull loose ends together. I talk to college students and remember those days, when my eyes were opened and the world held out its hand to me. I see young couples and remember building family foundations- only to watch them crumble away  I look at new mothers and remember being enraptured with the fragile wonders occurring daily- only to see them grow and declare their independence. So I've arrived at this new stage- occasionally feeling the patience that comes with age, the acceptance that comes from fighting long and hard and well to attain some semblance of life, and the desire not to rest- to keep searching, keep envisioning, keep moving forward. If only I could find the direction.

And so begins the search for myself in a good read. Stocking up on novels for the trip across the ocean to that other part of me.