A Dance Hope Explosion

I pause today and look back on the week.

My breath catches.

So much unimaginable good.


When Gala was over last year, the seniors took their bows at the final cast call. Ase had a far away look in his eye. Zany stood next to him-a Junior- playing his part honoring the seniors. His face held an empty smile.

It was not nostalgia.
It was not anticipating loss of friendships.
It was emptiness. Their dancing artistic soul was hollow from burn out.

Personality clashes turned nuclear in the spring. It soured the spirit of Ase's senior year accomplishments. Both were reluctant to dance again, nervous about repercussions, but they did. Zany reveled in the roll as Nutcracker’s Mouse King. Ase took classes and focused on a competitive dance team within our studio.


Through the year Ase realized the toll of working and going to school. He couldn't dance at the level he wanted to. Our small town had no other options for him. The potential offer across the country to dance professionally seemed an allusive goal. It seamed to be time to leave dance behind. It was time to focus on school and his future with his second passion, astronomy.

Ase prepared for the West Coast Dance Explosion, the last dance convention for the year. He got off work we piled into the car at 6:30. We knew it was going to be tight-LA Friday evening traffic- and the performances began at 5:00. Ase was slated to dance at 10:00.

Miracles of miracles on a Friday night in the rain, we hit no traffic and arrived with 40 minutes to spare. Plenty of time to calm nerves, warm up, walk it through and go on.

Once settled into our room, Ase opened his heart. Feeling frustrated and discouraged he didn’t want dance to end this way: in frustration. As a family, one of our mottos is:

Finish Well


Saturday started with a ballet class, his favorite. From there the day built to a satisfactory crescendo. The night’s performances were beautiful and there was joy in his eye again.

Sunday held a few classes and a conference audition. In the last class of the day, they are taught choreography then have to audition it. Depending on how well they do as individuals, a prize is awarded.

Ase's number was called and he went; not too surprised, boys are rare in the dance world. After the awards were handed out, I waited for him to find me in all the madness. Just as I was mind numbingly comfortable a friend rushed up to me:

YOU’RE GOING TO VEGAS!

I blinked. “What?”

YOU’RE GOING TO VEGAS!

Double blinked, “What?”

This time she took a breath and with deliberation said, “Ase is going to Vegas. He won the Elite Award.”

My breath caught, “Wait… what does that mean?”

“He gets to perform a solo and compete nationally against other dancers. IN VEGAS!”

I directed her to go tell him because I knew he had no clue. The expression from across the room was the “everyone gets a ribbon” face.


I watched as she went through the same thick headed dialog with him. His expression changed to the “deer in the headlights.”

We spent dinner, the drive home and two hours more discussing it. Figuring out fund raising and creative revenue streams were brainstormed. Somehow we will make it work: my sewing, his penny pinching, odd jobs...

Ase will be dancing on a national platform for a week: special performances, classes, auditions and competition against the other Elite winners. It is with this breath of possibility he is revisiting dancing professionally for a year.

Maybe it doesn't need to be over.

Marriage On Ice

After a long day I curled up next to Counting Mutant in bed. We began our wind down process; he on his ipad and me on my android. Just as I began to feel drowsy, a blog title caught my eye on Twitter: An Olympic Lesson for Husbands and Wives.


Within two paragraphs I laughed. Mutant turned, I read it aloud. He scoffed, “Well, that’s obviously someone who has never partnered.”

I've mentioned a few times that we are a family of dancers. Ase and Zany started dance when they were nine and ten. They practiced, ballet, jazz, modern, tap and hip-hop. They did other sports as well, but in Jr. High they focused on dance. Counting Mutant decided to figure out a way to join them. His thinking was: if they were in football, soccer, baseball, etc. he would help with the team and support them. It so happened that the role of the Nutcracker needed to be filled and Mutant became the wooden hero.

Over the years, the three of them performed together in Nutcrackers, Sleeping Beauty, Romeo and Juliet, Coppelia, and Les Miserables. In order to perform these ballet pieces, our studio formed a partnering class. Partnering at this level-either dance or ice skating- is not as simple as a man leading a woman.

I read it to the boys.


Ase said: That does not sound like ANY partnering class we've been in.

Zany said, “The beauty and perfection cannot happen if one person believes they are better than the other.”

Counting Mutant explains it like this, “There has to be trust and equal effort if not more by the woman. He throws her yes, but she is jumping just as much if not more. There is no leading they equally know the steps. They are coordinating their actions. They have to be equally strong to compete at that level. To learn it and perfect it, there was action, feedback, back and forth, action again, mistakes, coordinated improvement, until the both trust in their coordinated actions. If one is dominating or leading too much, it doesn't work.”

Under the beautiful costumes and graceful movements is a well guarded secret. Women dancers have to be physically strong, capable and know their own center of gravity. Along with their strength, men have be in tune with their partner. In order for him to lift her with a look of ease, she must bend her knees and jump: plie. Her core muscles engage and hold her center of balance. Her arms and shoulders control her direction.

In twirling and catching, her whole body engages as she plies. He lifts. They read each other’s center of gravity and shift to match-equally. The illusion of unity. She jumps into his arms and he adds his strength to her motion. He directs that motion to a mutually agreed spot for her to land. The combination creates incredible lift that defies gravity. The partners work in tandem for a common goal.

The illusion of dance and ice skating is to suspend reality. We think of them as super human, possessing qualities we don’t have. What we miss seeing are the hours of rehearsal. The mistakes both make. The falls. The injuries. The blood and bruises. By the time the pair enters the ice we see the fruit of their hard work. The art. The perfection.

Marriage, like dance and pairs ice skating, is work. Sometimes the man takes the lead, other times the woman. They are partners equally engaged and responsible to create something beautiful.

The Art of Falling

A week ago I fell.

A complete and total face plant walking Watson. My fantastic Audrey sunglasses scratched. Both knees scraped and bruised. My right shoulder still complains when I lay on it.

And… What happened in that fraction in of a second revealed a complete freedom.

On 8mm film, when I was 3 years old, flickers an odd little thing which is the perfect picture of my basic personality.

I run as fast as I can.

I stop.

Step warily over a garden hose.

Then continue running.

I remember at 5, learning to ride without training wheels. I was a two wheeling success for three days. Then my Grandparents came over. They wanted to see me ride my bike.

Proud, and feeling quite invincible, I pushed away.

Began pedaling down the sidewalk.

I was great riding in a straight line, but the bike decided to turn. I hung onto the bike as we both found the rosebush at the end of the apartment row.

I refused to ride my bike for the rest of the summer.

I. Hate. Falling.

Then I had boys. They jumped. They climbed. They fell. Ase was cautious and I realized very quickly he looked to me for bravery. I had to lead by example.

These were our mantras:

Being brave is being afraid and doing it anyway.

If you fall-point your toes. (Patrick Swayze’s Mom told him that.)

Then we moved to Mammoth. Counting Mutant worked for the resort which of course meant Ase and Zany learned how to ski.  Here they were, wanting to hurl themselves down an ice covered mountain on waxed wood pieces.

 

I was the parent.

I needed to set the example.

I needed to get my ass on a chair lift and learn how to ski. In throwing myself upon the mercy of gravity a truth emerged from the ski/snowboarding culture: falling is an art form. All falls are braggable accomplishments, because it means you tried.

Life happened and we moved into the Central Valley. The boys, now with sister in tow, decided dance would be their new passion. I would watch through the window of their classes, or in the audience during rehearsals. Beautiful, graceful dancers flowing across the stage would fall on their face. They would bounce up like a rubber ball, smile firmly in place and continue. It reminded me of what my Mom used to tell me when performing a musical piece: “If you make a mistake, keep playing. Don’t pause. Don’t start over. Just keep going because the audience won’t know you made a mistake. You are the only one who knows the music.”

I have listened to people the last week, express concern, sorrow, regret and warnings to be careful in the future. Each interaction leaves me a bit befuddled. I fell and it was spectacular. It was the rare person who could revel in the beauty of my wounds. Who could celebrate with me that I was alright in the grand scheme of things.

 

And I realized today:

Falling is not the worst thing that could happen. 

I bounced back up.

Smile on my face.

Bravely facing the next moment.

Never afraid to fall again.

Ethics of Motherhood

The Counting Mutant sent this to me today. With these words, "I thing you have accomplished most of this."

My heart skipped a beat.

Someone had read my mind. I was not the only one with this ethos fighting the battle of perception.

I honestly thought I was alone in this. 

Struggling to conform to a Cultural Christianity version of mother and wife kept me feeling like a constant failure. Dichotomy waged its war in my head, yet these criteria led a charge. Because of this code, I felt a measure of success. 

My kids are now 18, 17 and 12. It is true what they say, Childhood flies and before you know it, they are gone. As I look at the backend of this season where time is not my own, I am a little sad. I will miss the chaos. 

Let these rules free you up for lots of laughter, a heart full of possibilities and above all joy.

Thank you Lisa-Jo Baker:

Repeat after me:

1. I shall not judge my house, my kid’s summer activities or my crafting skills by Pinterest’s standards.

2. I shall not measure what I’ve accomplished today by the loads of unfolded laundry but by the assurance of deep love I’ve tickled into my kids.

3. I shall say yes to blanket forts and see past the chaos to the memories we’re building.

Amazing Blanket Fort Ideas

4. I shall surprise my kids with trips to get ice cream when they’re already in their pajamas.

5. I shall not compare myself to other mothers but find my identity in the God who trusted me with these kids in the first place.

6. I shall remember that a messy house at peace is better than an immaculate house tied up in knots.

7. I shall play music loudly and teach my kids the joy of wildly uncoordinated dance.

8. I shall remind myself that perfect is simply a street sign at the intersection of impossible and frustration in Never Never Land.

Photo taken by alisha

9. I shall embrace the fact that in becoming a mom, I traded perfect for a house full of real.

10. I shall promise to love this body that bore these three children out loud, especially in front of my daughter.

11. I shall give my other mother friends the gift of guilt-free friendship.

12. I shall do my best to admit to my people my unfine moments.

13. I shall say sorry when sorry is necessary.

14. I pray God I shall never be too proud, angry or stubborn to ask for my children’s forgiveness.

15. I shall make space in my grown-up world for goofball moments with my kids.

16. I shall love their father and make sure they know I love him.

17. I shall model kind words to kids and grown-ups alike.

18. I shall not be intimidated by the inside of my minivan (or Durango) this season of chip bags, goldfish crackers and discarded socks too shall pass.

19. I shall always make time to encourage new moms.

20. I shall not resent that last call for kisses and cups of water but remember instead that when I blink they’ll all be in college. 

Burr In My Saddle

BoyA graduates highschool on Thursday. This beautiful boy still dances and loves the art form. He has gained strength through out of town intensives, a fantastic girlfriend and Ryan Gosling. Fashion is still a passion. One prom he insisted Girlfriend match her dress to his awesome tie. The male dancers at the studio has blossomed to more than 10 including The Counting Mutant.

The burr still digs, but daily fighting against ignorance have made BoyA and BoyZ resilliant and respectful of everyone.  

Originally posted on Monday, November 29, 2010

A burr.  Digging and twisting for a long while.  It became unbearable on Halloween. Nerdy Apple Bottom, posted about her 5 year old son who wanted to dress as Daphne from Scooby Doo.  She met with ridicule from other mommies.  Their concern was her son's sexuality

The Counting Mutant read it.  BoyA and BoyZ read it.  

I was not alone, another Mommy battled for her son's right. It had nothing to do with who he would fall in love with as an adult.  

My boys dance. Ballet, Jazz, Modern, Tap and Hip Hop. AND THEY LIKE GIRLS!

I have battled those Moms in the market line.  Counting Mutant watched eyebrows rise with a flourish of testosterone from other men as he talks about what sport the boys are in.

That burr.  It gnaws at the flesh of my heart.  BoyA in his freshman year of high school, he stoically endured brutal bullying all year.  Once going so far as to offer a transsexual prostitute for him to figure out what he liked.

I only heard a fraction of it.  

Thanksgiving holiday, BoyA in his Sophomore year and BoyZ in his Freshman year, we caught up on Glee.  After watching, we talked and slivers of truth appeared.

I asked BoyA, "To this day, with BoyZ on campus and everything cool now, do you still feel that dread of being bullied?"

BoyA, always fashion forward, pondered and said, "Yes. I don't think it will ever go away."

"I changed the way I dressed. This is one of the main reasons I am not teased anymore.  I blend in now."  He paused, "If I thought I could, I would take the fashion class at school.  I just want to learn all about it.  It would be the end of me though.  I would never live it down."  His eyes dropped.

The burr sinks its spines deeper and my blood begins to flow.  

I see a shimmer in his eye, "Do you know how many girls I would get to know?!"  I watch as he calculated dating opportunities. "Oh well, maybe in college."

I groan.

As parents, we are supposed to give our kids roots and wings.  To encourage their sense of self while empowering them to become what they were created to be.  Exploring interests and developing talents to their fullest.

How it is in a world of civil liberties, opportunity and equality, boys and men are judged so harshly and condemned to a stereotype?  A girl can be a tom-boy, climb trees, shoot deer, play baseball, wear pants, hate dresses, shun pink and never once is her sexuality brought into question.  No one wonders if her gender identity is confused.  No one wonders about her sexuality. She is an active girl!  She has great potential.  She can do anything. 

Boys on the other hand, if they dance, like fashion, wear pink, are not interested in sports, are gentle and non-confrontational, they are labeled as gay.

Interrogations start: Maybe the parents aren't infusing them with enough testosterone, like we should have an IV on hand and give them a dose of it in their sleep.  

Boys can't dance.  

Boys can't design fashion. 

Boys have to be tough.  

Boys have to confront.  

Boys have to challenge each other to the pain in order to prove their manhood. 

It makes me sick.  I hate the double standard. That stupid burr. All I can do but be a safe place for them to come home to.