We’ve been dancing from the pelvic floor these last few weeks in class.
At the end of one such class, when the buzz between everyone was especially high, Agness said, “This strong connection between all of us today…I think it’s being generated from the hum of the pelvic floor.”
We continued to speak about the pelvic floor in more detail, where it’s located and how it’s held in the body.
We spoke about the pelvic bowl, a basket-like structure where the organs, like fruit, sit and hover just above the floor of the pelvis, where there is a hum, isn’t there?
In a little dance studio, out in the fields, the last rural outpost within the city limits, down a dirt road, only land, all around, doors and windows thrown open to the prairie and the wind, the sound of meadow larks filling the space, under the radar and far from the mainstream — something is brewing.
As this country unravels at breakneck speed, we are slowing down.
The dance we are doing in this little studio on the edge of town is unhurried and meandering. It’s a tiny blip in a world that can be mean.
But it’s our blip, and as this country and the current leaders of it, break the codes that keep us standing, we keep dancing, in that unhurried and meandering way.
Valuing stillness as much as movement, and silence as much as sound, this dancing:
Can it keep a world that is falling, or so it seems, aloft and possible?
It’s a fine line between everything and nothing, and I am only at the beginning of understanding this.
I fall off the line daily — bumbling along, until I climb back up and try again.
For me, everything is:
- Bodies moving across the earth while carving into air.
- Bodies expanding and contracting with other bodies that are also moving across earth, carving into air.
- Breath: my own and others’.
That’s the balance I’m trying to find on the little line that I am forever walking.
I am making 2 ginormous assumptions about the 400 or so of you who read this newsletter every week.
I assume that each and every one of you respects, cares about, and is kind to women. True, yes?
I assume that you feel the same way about guns that I do. I have no idea if this is true or not.
I am bringing this up because two things happened on my vacation last week related to these assumptions.
10 minutes, right after you wake up perhaps.
Roll out of bed, find your way to the floor.
Notice your breath, see what arises and follow the thread, first thing in the morning.
Two students of mine have been doing this for awhile now.
They made a pact with each other — a simple nod when they see each other in class — “I’m dancing every morning…you?”
What’s happened is that they are able to “drop-in” more quickly, with more depth, and for longer periods of time.
My mom started taking a cocktail of medications for nerve pain in her lower back a few months ago.
Because of the mix of meds she’s on, she’s hallucinating now and then.
She’s clear and bright eyed when she re-counts her latest sighting:
“To be astonished is one of the surest ways of not growing old too quickly.”
— Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette
Immediately after reading this, I received an email from Johannah discussing her experience in class this past Friday.
Johannah has been taking class with me since I started teaching in 2003, and the Friday class has been a struggle for her at times: I don’t always use music, there is very little instruction, and sometimes there is a minimal amount of big muscle movement (i.e.. leaping, jumping, locomoting, spinning, swooping).
A question that continually comes up for Johannah about this particular class is, “Is this really dance?”
What happens when you dance ?
When you are in motion, what do you feel, sense, perceive?
What about stillness?
What about the in-between?
Just yesterday I was dancing with my class and a new pattern emerged.
I felt the thrill of new and old laying ground.
As I sat on the sidelines later on to watch, long moments of fullness and ease moved in, and stayed for awhile.
I felt, sensed, and percieved awe.