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 thousand sisters....or even just one

It took me awhile to approach this book. It found me in the way that good books often do, sneaking up when I am least aware. I'd heard about A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon often enough, living in Congo and trying to keep up with the current state of affairs. I'd put off reading it for a variety of reason, the first of which, I must admit, was the title.

Sisters....growing up in the fractured family that I did, family has become an issue for me. Women family in particular. It's something I notice always, have quietly observed with fascination and envy. I've felt that lack of a mother presence, a supporting family presence since "the move" - one of those defining moments that separate the cozy childhood memories from the on-my-own indendent memories. Most often, I push it back into some dark corner, solidly hidden away reacting only with annoyance whenever it pops up (am I going to get over my childhood....don't people get over these things...ever?) It could have been the move, or the illness or the divorce, all of those things happened at the same time. But what I know is that after they happened, I found myself without the mother figure and squarely on my own. I was 10. It's time to get over it. But the truth is, I have never really felt embraced by women or part of the "sisterhood" that other women seem to claim so easily as naturally theirs. It's always seemed like more of a crutch, a hurdle to conquer so I can accomplish the things I really want to do.

I spent two years attending an all women's college and that was, for a brief moment, a glimpse into what life could be like seen through the unique perspective of being a woman. I began to feel a bit of pride and joy in my femaleness- but the door was not opened long enough for anything substantial to take root. I was quickly whisked back into roles and images that didn't quite match, all the while trying to understand this woman thing (strong and prideful or weak and frivolous?)  The name of this book seemed to suggest something that just wouldn't be able to speak to me.

I came across it at an informal book swap. I saw it lying there on the table amidst a random display of books, all appearing a bit depressing in their subject matter. Reading in Congo can get like that. The pickings are slim and after 3 years, I've read most of what is on offer from the school libraries and the small community library on campus. I prefer stories about Africa, biographies and true accounts, but they can be draining. African stories require time to process and heal afterwards. I wasn't really sure I had room for another depressing tale of how the world has gone wrong.

"Did you read this? I've heard a lot about this." I was inquiring another book swap attendee browsing the table. It turns out she had brought the book to swap.
"Its ok," she replied, emphasis on the ok, suggesting it wasn't the greatest read. I had just finished Bite of the Mango, a story about a girl from Sierra Leone who had her hands amputated during that country's civil war. The story had been a quick read on the flight back from Nairobi. It had the detached quality that often happens when the main character is not also the author...a quasi-autobiography. The central thoughts, doubts, fears and emotions seemed to be missing. Not that I wasn't affected by the book, but somehow, I was looking for more. The response I received from the fellow book swapper seemed to suggest I might not find it in the thousand sisters either.

I took the book anyway. Choices were limited. The book sat on my table, in a rare waiting-to-read pile. I avoided it for a few more weeks. It turns out the books I had given higher priority -This Child Will Be Great, by Ellen Johnson Sirleaf (the name should have tipped me off but, surprisingly it didn't hit me until half way through the novel, which read much more like a propaganda campaign) and another fictional (I think, it's still not clear to me if this one was supposed to be some kind of memoir) book about a South African aspiring author and poet didn't merit finishing  - a rarity for me-though I read both nearly to the end before giving up in frustration and boredom. It was in this search for something satisfying that I finally picked up A Thousand Sister's, the ok echoing in my mind.

I read it in 2 days. Captivated. I wondered what it was about this recount that didn't speak to its previous owner. Because everything I read sounded just like me. I appreciated Shannon's candid thoughts and reactions. I found her truthfulness to be comforting. She was moved to do something and in the very heart of her actions suffered self doubt and angst about whether any of it was meaningful. I got this exactly.

In the midst of trying to create positive change, there is the nagging question is this really helping? am I really helping? A bit of humility is good for the soul, but it doesn't always provide the inspiration or motivation to continue, especially when your actions don't result in immediate change. It is easy to feel like you are "tossing teaspoons of water on a raging fire." In the face of Africa, it easy to feel that all of your efforts are "silly stunts...paltry presents...ridiculous."  As Lisa Shannon goes on to write, "Who am I against Congo?"  It is easy to become overwhelmed when faced with the enormous suffering and paralyzing depth of poverty that families survive in. I most appreciated the tales when women were motivated and able to make a change for the better. It is something I don't see often enough in the capital. The air is different here.

I also appreciated Shannon's accounts of dealing with the muzungu effect. Here in Kin, we're known as mondele but the effect is all the same. It's the idea of extremes. For some, for many, this means, by white association, you have unlimited funds and can fix any problem. Endless giving. (For others, of course, this means you are the root of all evil and have caused all of mankind's suffering....both of which probably have an equal measure of truth.) It often confuses what could otherwise be a good and simple friendship. It also means a constant fluctuation between wanting to help and just wanting to be (as in, leave me alone, I can't do anymore.) It becomes a constant battle between have I done enough and am I doing anything? I believe that true change can only be brought about by motivation and action. While I am happy to be part of the solution, I clearly recognize that I am not the solution. It must come from the people themselves. Charity does not equal change, though it can lead down a pathway to change. It is ultimately the decisions of the receiver that will determine the final outcome. Lisa does a wonderful job of clarifying some of the ridiculous choices extreme poverty and war create. "Only-in-Congo choices" she coins them. They appear to be hypothetical questions children would tease each other with, the kind you can never answer because both choices are equally grotesque. Would you rather eat a worm or a cockroach? The only answer to that is, No. Except in Congo the questions aren't a child's game and the consequences are much more dire than merely eating bugs. The questions require an answer. Simply refusing to play is not an option.

Would you rather be raped or watch your children starve? Would you rather be killed or will you kill your neighbor? Will you get this child a doctor while the 7 others may die or let this one go, so the rest can be fed? Do you want us to rape you or marry you?

There is no understanding a world that continues to allow these kinds of questions to dictate the future of any single person's life. There is no understanding the hatred and rage and humiliation that has built enough within someone to inflict this kind of torture on another human being. Causes and contributions can be easily identified, but understanding is a different matter altogether.

And so is witnessing. It's an idea I've been confronted with on a number of occasions in these last 3 years, not all having to do with Congo herself but many reaching out across the borders and oceans into other countries. Witnessing is an act. It's an idea expressed somewhere in the last quarter of the book and one that is helpful to remember. People need to tell their stories. They need to know that others are listening and caring and making a connection. Whether it is Sakineh from Iran or the women from Kaniola, the truth of their lives needs to be heard by others. And that's step one.

The next steps vary, I suppose, somewhere between action and education. I have a mix of ideas that overlap the two worlds. And, M, I'll be sending you my copy of the book. I hope you'll read it and pass it on to someone else to read, who will pass it one to someone else to read.... Maybe some of them will decide to run, or talk or create an entirely new idea. Maybe some of them will choose to simply witness, and I think that's ok too.

Works from Congo

For 2009, I've decided to stop apologizing for being me. In the spirit of this, some works from Congo. Nabih has knocked out the camera so, awaiting a better photo:

Headlines from DRC
upper text: Afghanistan Iraq Israel Ukraine Pakistan Zimbabwe Sudan Rwanda India Myanmar Jordan Guinea Ethipoia Liberia Sierra Leone Chad Nigeria Somalia Armenia Nepal Cuba Ecuador Korea Haiti Iran Columbia Tibet China Mexico Sri Lanka Turkey Eritrea Yemen Samoa Bangladesh Angola Benin Ivory Coast Democratic Republic of Congo Cambodia Azerbaijan Zambia Central African Republic Lesotho Tajikistan Palestine Senegal Guinea-Bissau Uganda Republic of Congo Peru Philippines Ghana Gambia Vietnam Bhutan Kiribati Vanuatu Malawi Cape Verde Burundi Mali Maldive Laos Comoros Tuvalu Togo East Timor



lower text:

One of the poorest most chaotic nations on the planet Insecurity fear confusion slaughter Home to innumerable resources Home to innumerable crimes against humanity humans Diamonds Poverty Copper Gender-based violence Iron Preventable disease Coal Ebola Cobalt Civil War Coltan Malnutrition Lead Sexual Exploitation Uranium Rape Petroleum Cholera Zinc Malaria Hydropower Culture of Corruption Gold Child Soldiers Silver Child Miners Magnesium Child Deaths Tin 5,400,000 deaths 4,000,000 orphans 40,000 rapes 10,000 child soldiers 45,000 die each month every month 17,000 MONUC do not prevent 16 villages attacked 500 killed for Christmas and Happy New Year don't talk chop off your lips chop off your hands dead hands living hands 2 1/2 year old child raped 1 in 5 die before 5 30% of children quit school to dig in mines 1,000,000 people displaced homeless hungry running from violence fear insecurity slaughter chaos poverty sexual violence carnage savagery crimes against humanity humans

La violence faites a la femmeJacques' disturbing and hauntingly relevant ballet.