Tag Archives: music

She is quickly…

dance 3

Here pulls a pulse, without and within you

harder than words and

softer than shadow in a warm, sun-day meadow.

There!

She stands, clothed in a smile

poised to unfurl like the newly made fern

Which springs with the speed

that a smile reaches heart

or jump-jewelweed’s gift to the world.

Soft as the touch of a warm summer night

Yet strong like the grip of cub’s mother jaws.

there is no north, south, east, neither west.

Nor have we up or down, day, night,. month or year.

There is a moment, stretched out in steps,

Pauses and pulses and gaps between notes.

Forwards and sidewards and on to tiptoes

Half seconds of gossamer iron

with thistledown drifting

And suddenly but

Slowly

she is quickly

she is pause

Then she is

The sum of everything

the universe around her

the music within her

She is, in this moment

All that does matter

circle, half circle,

sideward and forward

spinning and speaking

words without meaning

feel without feelings

All that does matter

Is she is and I am

Lost in a movement.

dance 2

Above lies an attempt to understand the way dancing makes me feel; or the way that dancing is experienced by me.

Everything stays, but lingers on the outside, like the encouraging circle of a birthday jam. So I may have a bill to pay, a friend to worry about, toxicity from elsewhere. These don’t vanish, but they step back, like a minor role in a play, lines spoken, lingering in the background, quietly susurrating, a part still to play in the seasoning of the drama.

Remains an understanding that, the circle serves to sweeten the dance in the middle.

Remains the knowledge that sweet would not be sweet if sour did not exist.

Remains the realisation that the moment of joy relies on normality to serve as a marker.

It’s taken me a long time to find my still point, this silly, funny, infuriatingly difficult dance that is lindy hop. I am glad that I found it, found the warm and smiling circles, throughout the country, that happily part ranks and embrace me, wherever or whenever I wander into a club or a dance hall. We need no words, just the sprung steel anticipatory connection. The journey changes with each and every dance, even if the song was the same one played on repeat.

How do I dance? Sometimes I mess it up, sometimes the pulse eludes me, sometimes it’s nerves when I dance with someone who I’m a bit in awe of. But it’s all worth it, and the dance muscle strengthens with each dance, each missed step, each acknowledged ‘reset’.

Now, I’ll not worry too much about what I’m going to do, it usually seems to happen. Every now and then my brain will go, “ooh! remember you know how to do ‘kick the dog’!”

And I’ll do that move, whilst accepting that another move will shuffle off the rolodex of my dance memory, for a short time.

What has it taught me? Well, it’s helped me to realise that, despite being introverted by nature, I can still jump around a public place and make mistakes; that I can blend into the background when I want; that I can forget, forget, forget, just for the phrase, the 32 beats of musical perfection. I can make new friends, wherever I go, regardless of age, sex, class, race, colour or creed. It levels me.

And the people, the amazing people. Thank you, each and every one of you, including the ones I’ve not met yet. dance

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After a storm…

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After a storm comes a new sunrise.

After a storm

Comes a pause, a deep breath.

a moment of blissful

Unknowing.

a conscious step

survey  damage, tread boundaries and

take stock,  the next breath.

 

After a storm

Comes applause, a steep path

a moment of mindful

Knowing.

unconscious steps

repair damage, strengthen boundaries and

make stock, a new breath.

 

After a storm

Comes a new you.

After a storm

Comes renewal.

 

Life, like a storm, can be unpredictable. We can be bumbling along, blissfully unaware that, all of a sudden, a storm is going to hit. Then life can change, on a penny. I started considering this after the horrendous slew of events that have happened in the world recently.

Those people, innocently living. Unconsicously only breaths away from their time of dying. It’s the randomness that strikes home. And it strikes hard. What if they had missed a bus, lost their keys, gone to the toilet?

And then I started thinking about aftermath. That’s when the mettle shows. What do we do after a storm?

Sit and wonder what on earth the first step is going to be? Take a deep breath and just start?

Over the years, I have weathered many storms. I won’t go into them, but I will say that they have taken me right down to the bedrock of who I am. I have been broken. Shattered. Excoriated and ravaged.

I kept on breathing and took the little steps. Because those are the hardest ones. I heard a song, many years ago. It is called ‘Keep Breathing’ by Ingrid Michaelson. I suspect it may have been on a TV programme, but I heard it during a wander through You Tube. Please listen to it:

“Keep Breathing” by Ingrid Michaelson

I then came across the Japanese art form called Kintsugi. This amazingly beautiful process takes broken items and repairs them. But the wonderful thing is that it doesn’t try to hide the repairs. It highlights them by using gold to make the repairs.  It’s breathtakingly beautiful. And it’s a superb metaphor for how we act after a storm. Don’t hide the scars, the stretch marks, the wonky bits. Polish them and be proud. They show that you survived…

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