Category Archives: Uncategorized

A Serious Poem about Butter

Remember when butter
came wrapped in quarters
with an expiration date
a year and a half,
a full Year and a Half!
from its date of its purchase?

Imagine that–
good butter
from July to the January after next,
and things even more wondrous than that:
water melons at Halloween,
people whose only job it was to deliver couches,
ice cream for dogs
and factories whose only job,
whose only job!
it was to make tiny, tiny, tiny
plastic toys.

Oh, you should have seen the toys!
Rainbows on every surface,
lights so bright you could spend a lifetime
never knowing a star
and music that you could swallow and swallow and swallow,
and never feel full.

Do not cast blame when it comes.
We all ate of that easy butter
like it was nothing.


Poem of Awakening

Oh Boston!
You are my lost city of sorrow,
lost city of light,
of illuminated minds,
illuminate our hearts.
Calling all cars: hear ye! Hear ye!
We make movies of mobsters
with whom we’ve fallen in love
because we see ourselves in them:
We are the underdogs of life.

Oh Boston,
You teach me to look down
when passersby pass,
to pretend we are invisible,
but I see your hidden heart in parks,
in the corridor of London Planes that line the Charles in witness of
your sad soil, your grit and insistence, armies of wasps,
your tribalism and no-nonsense attitude.

Today I was awakened at the Fort
beneath Rapunzel’s tower,
listening to the Grandmother-wisdom of willows.
I witnessed my own mobster movie of rebellion unfolding
from within.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I never thought I could love you,
your fields of broken glass
where things still grow.
Four years ago
I saw a woodcock
undulating in the shade of the
massive puddingstone of Thwing Street.
Our eyes met for a second and
I thought I saw the gaze of my teacher.
The keys, hidden in plain sight.


Finding Your Voice

“The final statement is not a deliberate one. It is a helpless one.”–John Cage

I’ve always been drawn to visual art. As a child, I poured over my mother’s art books. I had an ability to project myself into a scene, to inhabit its world and to immerse myself into a story. This was during a time when we were not so innundated with images. Art was an entry into the magical parts of my own being. It allowed me to experience emotions that, at that tender age, had yet to be named. I think the way art stimulated my imagination served me as a dancer.

There were two paintings in particular that captured my attention: Rousseau’s “The Dream,” and Bosch’s “The Garden of Earthly Delights.” In the first painting, I was drawn to that mysterious woman lying on a couch in the jungle with the tiger lurking in the bushes. It appeared playful, sensual, yet dangerous. It was very exciting to my young mind. I wanted to know what was about to happen. I wanted to be the convergence itself of woman, jungle and tiger.

The Bosch was more complicated. I couldn’t figure out, based on its vision, if the world was a good place or a bad place. It seemed to be both. This terrified and confused me. I stuck with it because I so desperately wanted to understand the nature of things and this painting seemed to hold some kind of truth to my own life.

Now, in the art world, from the beginnings of one’s education, the necessity of finding your own voice is emphasized. You can’t go around doing splatter paintings and expect to be taken seriously. Jackson Pollock did it already. You can be inspired by Pollock, but you have to dig deep into the recesses of your own soul and speak from there.

As dancers, however, this search for one’s own voice is rarely emphasized in traditional training. Most dancers, it is assumed, will be interpreters of another’s vision, namely the choreographer. We are trained, rather, to take direction. To listen. To fit into the line and stay there. To match a previously held standard.

As a teacher of ballet, I try to encourage this individual expression. In my attempt to do that, I have to take a moment to apologize to the great ballerina Sylvie Guillem whom I’ve often used as the butt of a joke: I will often quip that her perfection of line and extension ruined it for everybody. But now I look at Sylvie in another light. She has in fact freed us. I’m not saying you should not get your legs up. I’m saying don’t try to be Jackson Pollock. Leave your own mark.


Abject of Beauty

…and the beauty of the leaf was not lost on him.—from Blood Meridian

Little children have a capacity for pure joy because they don’t yet know that everything is fleeting, mortal. They are still reverberating with the pulse of the other world. You can see it on their skin and on their eyelashes, like dew, and in the perfect, clear whites of their eyes.

As we grow, we inevitably come to realize the fact of death, and it forever shadows our experience of joy; true beauty has an element of sadness because we know it will not last.

I wonder if this is the reason why, in our modern culture, we have fabricated a sort of fake, superficial, soulless standard of beauty with our Kim Kardashians, our shopping malls, our manicured lawns, our home theaters and botox parties. It’s an attempt to experience beauty without its aftertaste of loss.

Of course it doesn’t work. But we will keep pretending.

It’s no wonder that art is a constant threat to a culture that cannot grieve.

The latest thing in Boston is that everyone is perpetually in exercise clothes. Customized sneakers and Lulu Lemons have replaced boat shoes and khakis. People are running along the Charles with a possessed gleam in their eyes. I suppose they are slimming down for their Match.com photos, polishing their armor with each stride.

I don’t get it. I walk slowly in the midst of things. In the mist. So I don’t miss. Things. The Is-ness that is everywhere.

I look at my little one with awe. She is two. Her beauty has a translucent, shimmery quality. At times it seems that she is made of magic. While watching an episode of surprise eggs on youtube, she said with perfect articulation and fake exasperation, “It’s so boring. I want a cup of tea.” I felt that familiar twinge between laughter and tears that only the coyote can speak.


Shared Music

I am a truthful man from this land of palm trees.

Before dying I want to share these poems of my soul. –Guantanamera

People are always telling me I’m too much in my head. I think I know what that means now. I think it means that I hold myself apart from things as they happen, from people, so that I can analyze the moment while it’s happening. The majority of my being is focused on this analysis, instead of being in the moment, as they say. It’s like, I don’t trust myself to simply respond to things as they arise, but you can’t look at it and be it at the same time. Wave vs. particle.

Sometimes, I could let go and be it when I danced. I think I do that when I’m teaching dance class as well. I can clearly see when the dancers are too much in their heads. But when the music stops, back in my head I go. Maybe it would be useful to think of everything as a dance. Well, it’s one thing to think it and another to dance it. Thoughts are things but they are not the thing, I’m learning.

Tomorrow, I’m going to try that. I’m going to have my coffee like it’s a dance. I’m going to go to work like it’s a dance. I’m going to listen like it’s a dance of sound. I’m going to eat a turkey burger like it’s a dance. I’m even going to let my thoughts flow like they are dancing.

Maybe that’s why people listen to music with their earphones all the time these days. They want to be in the dance. The only quarrel I have with that is that it seems a bit isolating. You are not dancing with others, but I think that’s when the dance gets really interesting.

I did an ayahuasca (shamanic drug) ceremony once and I could feel how energy moves in waves. I could actually feel it moving through the room and could witness its affects on people. By observing others, even the dog and myself, I could follow the energy’s path and see how it connects us all. We become individual expressions of the wave but we are connected by it at the same time.

I never wear headphones because I know about the wave. I want to see it coming. You can’t do that with headphones on. I mean, talk about being in your head! I don’t like being out in the world, yet cut off from it at the same time. We have to stop and ask ourselves what are we cutting off?

Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s a lot of things I’d like to avoid in this crazy rag-tag world of ours, but I just don’t think that’s useful or healthy in the long run. What we resist persists. And as one of my teachers, Ken Ludden, said: “The lessons we avoid in life come back around with interest and the interest is pain.” Yeah.

I look upon those ever-present ear-buds, generally, as a numbing mechanism. Same thing with those hand-computers we call phones. Sure, they are useful, but we are often on them with no real use in mind other than to escape. Everybody, Tai says put down your phones. Put them down. Well, it was worth a try.

There is something in me that wants us all to look in the same direction, even if it’s just for a moment. But oh, what a moment it could be. Like when Michael Jackson first did the moonwalk. Like when Obama got elected. Like when the wall came down. Maybe in that terrific moment we could all just look at each other. Really look. The music that unites us is the music that is shared.


The Art of Making Time

Before I had my daughter, I was lost in a maze of mirrors. At every angle, I’d see a new face reflected eternally, like a scene in one of those crime dramas where the hero shoots  the villian in the maze and only shatters the glass. The villian’s laughter can be heard, even seen. But we don’t know what’s real, what’s reflection.

I kept asking the mirrors Who am I? What am I doing here? What do I want? Who’s asking these questions?

It seemed as though hours, years, decades of time yawned before me in infinite reflection. I was pulled against my will into its hungry, empty, sharpened jaws.

I did not have a baby to fill my time or complete my sense of self. I had one because I heard a calling in my heart and I accepted that calling without expectation.

Now that she’s here, however, time has taken on new dimensions, new value. There never seems to be enough. Seriously, if you asked me right now to choose between a 5 carat sapphire and 5 hours of free time to do what I want, I would choose the hunk of time.

I’d spend it lavishly on myself, reading that new novel by Miranda July, while soaking in a hot bubble bath. I’d do a meditation, get a massage, make love, take a yoga class, write this blog, feed, feed, feed myself with beauty.

Suddenly, now that time is scarce, I know exactly what I want to do. I know who Tai is. She is ready to saturate the world with her juices and she is a lot less afraid of what people think.

She is learning, through the fierce initiation of motherhood, that time has a texture, like dough, that can be kneaded and expanded. It’s the raw stuff of existence that you can shape by hand.

I’m not going to take on more than I can chew with this time thing. But I promise to make it. For myself.

And the infinite reflection?

Maybe it’s all there is. Now, that doesn’t scare me one bit.


Prayer for Dancers

 

Dear Universe,

 

Help me to love myself as I am.

 

Let my dancing be an expression of that love.

 

Help me to recognize the Light in others without diminishing my own Light by falling into jealousy.

 

Help me to move through doubt, fear and self-hatred into the dance of Love.

 

Help me to love every part of my body without exception.

 

Help me to practice recovering quickly from my mistakes,

and to honor my limitations with patience

so that I may uncover the gift in the disguise of that limitation.

 

Help me to see through the obstacle of the Ideal Image and to trust that my best is good enough.

 

Help me to nourish myself mind, body and soul so that I may be a vessel for Grace,

and help me to let go so that I may be One with ecstasy.

 

Thank you for this day of dancing.

 


Happy Snake Day

I lifted the lid of the diaper genie with my foot and there it was again: a whiff of fear so strong it cut right through me. I got angry. “How the fuck am I supposed to deal with this?” I asked out loud.

What I was referring to were the tsunami-like waves of worry that I experience with regard to my new daughter. She is a plump, healthy little thing. I have no logical reason for this overwhelming fear response but sometimes gruesome images suddenly snap into my brain without warning. I call them panic-visions. I asked my husband if he had them, in general, and he said yes. I’d had them before too: of the truck plowing into me, of the subway blowing up, but now, with my baby bird, these visions have spun out of control. A couple of times every day, I am reduced to tears that I will lose my hold on her while falling down the stairs and she will be sent tumbling, or I will get into some other kind of accident, or worse yet, that someone else will be holding her at the time of said accident, for which I will feel guilt as well as grief.

I wonder if I am experiencing postpartum depression. A friend of mine once brilliantly described depression as the result of refusing to change when it’s time to change. Then, what is depression if not a form of fear? Images of depression on tv are of listless, un-showered people, staring off into space, refusing to play with their dog. I don’t feel like I fit that description exactly. I’m still wearing lip-gloss and have moments of downright perkiness. What I’m feeling is a little more violent. More passionate. But maybe it is a form of depression after all.

I know with postpartum, there are hormones involved. Women are often told that our experiences are due to hormones, as though that makes it less real. But maybe the added impact of hormones upon depression makes things more real and adds to the urgency of needing to change. I’m not saying this is my fault. I’m saying, hormones or not, it’s my responsibility.

Makarta, a spiritual teacher, channeled by Ken Ludden and a few others, once said that one of the purposes of incarnating as a female is that it forces you to deal with your emotions. I thought of this now, in the wake of one of my panic-visions. Either I learn to put my fear in a box or it will eat me from the inside. I can already literally feel it draining my life-force.

I take a deep breath. I think of the multitudes of mothers who have come before me and have suffered The Worry. This gives me strength, knowing that others have endured this aspect of motherhood. I check in on my little one, sleeping soundly. I try very hard to receive this moment with gratitude. On some remote level, I know it is helping me to grow. Helping me to appreciate life. Also, it’s one thing to meditate when everything’s hunky dory. It’s quite another to find stillness in the heat of the blaze.

I am stripped and raw. I had no idea what this would cost me. Yet, I have no regrets. I am in love. I have wanted love more than anything. And love this big brings about a restructuring of sorts. Maybe part of what I’m feeling is the fear of the snake the first time it sheds its skin, the fear of the tree in its first autumn, mistaking the loss of leaves as a sign of death. And it is a little death. If I can manage it with a measure of grace, who knows, maybe I’ll manage the big death with some of that same grace. That is my hope.

But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.  At this point, motherhood is teaching me, through its sheer impact, to live one day at a time. Today, I took us all out for a walk, baby, dog and me. We watched the leaves falling in the breeze and the light peeking through the trees, teasingly. We stood beneath the noble evergreen and for a moment, embraced in that green, I felt safe.

And of course, writing always helps. Being heard is the icing on the cake, so thank you.

Happy Snake Day to me.


Little Grandmother

Painting by Nick Zaremba

Painting by Nick Zaremba

“If somebody tells you to do something during dream-time, you better do it.”–Unknown blues singer

I turned 42 in 2012. It was my cut-off year.  If it didn’t happen soon, it wasn’t going to happen.

My husband and I had been having the conversation for months: Do you want to have kids? I don’t know. Do you? Well, I don’t not want to have them…We couldn’t seem to commit more than that, each trying to hide behind the other while tip-toeing towards an unknown door. Yet every month my period arrived and I’d feel an undeniable sadness.

Then one fall evening, I was awakened by a desperate voice, screaming from the other side, “MOMMY!” Time was running out. Someone wanted to come through, badly. Even then, I am ashamed to say, something in me resisted. What was I waiting for?

A miracle?

I got pregnant.

It must have been around Halloween. I remember going to a party and not feeling quite myself. Already, a little thickness through the middle was budding above my plastic hula skirt. My heart felt funny. It hurt, expanding as it was to a different dimension.

Sometime after Thanksgiving, it was confirmed. I peed on the stick and a pink plus sign spread across the test window like tiny fingers, saying yes, yes, yes.

True to my animal totem, the squirrel, I prepared. I applied for health insurance (that is a story in itself!). I found a doula and a birthing center.  I practiced pre-natal yoga, took a five-week birthing class and read the books, especially Ina May Gaskin’s Guide to Childbirth. My diet was healthy and plentiful. I organized the baby stuff. I spent hours praying and visualized a natural, easeful birth. I programed my talisman towards this end and placed it on my altar.

I went past my due date and could not deliver at the birthing center. I would have to deliver at the hospital due to increased risk of still birth that came with first-time mothers over 40. I balked initially, believing myself to be more fit than a lot of twenty-year olds, but would soon discover that this was only the first of many concessions I would have to make.

In fact, by the time the birthing process was done, I would have to discard most of my carefully researched plan. After two days and two nights of labor without pain medication, the baby was stuck in my pelvis in the rare breech position of presenting forehead first. Then we tried an assorted menu of medical interventions and ultimately resorted to a c-section.

In a period of two days, I had to confront a whole list of fears: fear of hospitals, fear of drugs, fear of surgery, fear of death, check. I tried to take a spiritual lesson from the experience of surrendering my plan and instead flowing with what was actually happening, moment-to-moment. This was hard because my ego was attached to a certain image I had of myself as “natural,” even “neo-indigenous.” I witnessed how the ego can usurp one’s best intentions and that spirit has no use for labels, especially spiritual ones!

As for that doggone talisman, note to self, it always seemed to give me what I needed, not necessarily what I wanted, in this case a doozy of a lesson in letting go.

But it wasn’t all hard-knocks. There were gifts too.

My greatest fear was that if I delivered a baby all full of drugs that I would miss the ecstatic bonding that happens between mother and child. That the drugs would somehow short-circuit the flow of hormones that facilitate the rush of emotion. But here’s the thing: just because something can be explained physically doesn’t mean that there are not other forces at work.

After they cut me open and removed the baby, I later learned that there was an awful moment when she wasn’t breathing. I was behind the curtain and couldn’t see anything, but felt the anxiety in the room. One of the nurses found a plug of mucus in her throat and was able to remove it. While this was happening I heard my husband talking desperately to the baby.

Finally she unleashed a hearty, ripping cry. Whatever turned her on moved through me like a tidal wave at the same moment and opened some hidden chamber in my heart. I too screamed out, helplessly, because I couldn’t contain that rush. It was not something I could stop or control. I have never felt anything like it in the world, this force of love from the other side. We could not see each other, baby and I, but we could hear and feel each other, connected by this force.

Prior to this moment we did not know the sex of the baby. There was a lot of speculation, even from complete strangers about whether or not it was a girl or boy. But in that moment of our first meeting, all the ideas and projections of gender didn’t matter. I knew she was The One: Little Grandmother-Trickster-Coyote Woman-Golden Hummingbird.

When we left the hospital five days later and went out into the world, I perceived a subtle shift in my perspective. Before the birth, I wanted to know where I stood with the world, to penetrate its mystery, to have a greater affect on it. But now I saw that the world was just the world. And it’s nothing to get all worked up about.

There is still the magic of nature, which I no longer feel a need to de-code. It is enough to just feel it, the kiss of an evening breeze. What is real becomes available.

Love and Deep Gratitude to Cyrille Conan, Blanche Jimenez, Liliane Conan, Shivani St. George, Kat Rowan, Nurse Terri Paine, Cambridge Birthing Center and Cambridge Hospital


Initiation

As a dancer, there were certain things I had naturally and other things I had to work at. I expected there to be a certain amount of pain. While working to develop my flexibility for example, pain became a sort of daily ritual meditation.

At times, I was overwhelmed by the level of sacrifice the art demanded, but I knew I wanted to go all the way, where ever that was, where ever that led. That journey was stressful, terrifying, confusing, ecstatic, spiritual and devastating, not necessarily in that order, and sometimes all those things before lunch.

I think my failures outnumbered my successes, which made the successes more meaningful.

Now I can look back on that journey and see it as a kind of initiation process towards becoming an artist. Certain things in life can’t be gotten at without going through the door of transformation, no matter how gifted you are, and it usually doesn’t feel good when it’s happening. The struggle of the butterfly to emerge from its cocoon is what strengthens its wings and enables it to fly. The struggle is inseparable, and, as Malidoma Some suggests, equal to the gift that awaits you.

In our culture, we are taught to lead with ego, to always look cool and to avoid vulnerability because it equates with weakness, but Some also teaches that Spirit can only work with us when we are in a vulnerable state. He says, “Sometimes your not-knowing cooperates better with a process than your knowing.” These are hard words for modern people to embrace, we who want to know the outcome of every step before we take it, we who have invented insurance for our insurance, we of the homogenized beauty, of the entitled, we in the “Yes, we can,” demanding change under the guise of security.

Security is an inside joke; you can’t find it on the outside, get it? Hahaha.

Ah, what can I say? My brother is the comedienne of the family. Anyway, now that I’ve hung up my pointe shoes, another initiation is on the horizon: parenthood.

So far, so good: the little tea-pot is kicking and appears healthy. I am quite comfy in my maternity jeans and enjoy food in an almost orgasmic way. I’m talkin’ peanut butter and butter and jelly. I have boobs for the first time in my life; I have to lift to get up under there and wash. Ladies, y’all know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. And I feel a kind of immunity from the cares of the world, like I’ve just won a challenge on Project Runway and cannot be eliminated for the next round. There’s a sort of energy of respite that confused me at first, but that I now wallow in quite contentedly.

Mostly, when people find out that I am pregnant, and at six months it’s hard to miss, they are sincerely congratulatory, but then there are those others, the rainers-on-the paraders, who take the opportunity to unleash their cynicism about parenthood under the pretext of giving me a head’s up. Thanks. They complain about how unhappy they are, stopping just short of out-right blame towards their kids followed by an insincere chuckle and an awkward silence.

Maybe I caught them at a bad moment but it seems…maybe they’re missing the point? They cannot see the bigger picture and place their experience within the context of initiation. They cannot see the hope of unconditional love.

I’m not saying that there’s not an appropriate place and time to express one’s heart-ache over parenting. Of course there is. But I suspect our above mentioned cynics also lack a context for expressing grief. Maybe we don’t have to choose between the image of the new-agey, bullshit, eternally cheery positive thinker and the cynic.  Maybe we can let ourselves off the hook by honestly accepting how we feel, without resistance, without labels. By resisting our humanness, we become trapped in a prison of expectation, a maze with no center, no exit and no reward. And I only know about the maze because I’ve been there. I guess getting lost is sometimes part of it. We forget that it’s not who we are.

I often look upon the Spiritual journey, of which parenting may play a big part for those who choose it, not as a process of gaining special psychic powers or existing in some perpetually blissful state, but as a process of becoming fully human. And don’t worry. If you don’t choose parenting, initiation will find you some other way.

And then there are those, many of whom are quite accomplished in other areas of their lives, who say, without doubt or hesitation, that parenting is the best, the greatest thing they’ve ever done.

Ashe.

Here we come to welcome you, Little Big One.


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