You’re SOOO lucky to dance with me!

After all my talk about the civility revolution, bringing back polite and respectful, wanting to be sweet and charming–my dance instructor told me to throw it all out the window tonight.

It was time to Tango. 

T-A-NGO–

We walked through the steps that I had mastered once-upon-a-ballroom-ago.  It was almost military. Like Carmen.  I remembered to tilt my head, bend my knees and lean slightly back.  I remembered more steps than I had most other dances.  So when he stopped and told me how nice I looked, I should have been tipped off.  First, by his stopping in the middle of the music, but mostly by how long he held the statement…and smile…in the air between us.  Needless to say, I really wasn’t expecting what happened next.

My gentlemanly dance instructor SNAPPED at me! 

“This is the dance of contempt.  Don’t look at me!  And the entire time we’re dancing, think to yourself, ‘you are SOOOOO lucky to be dancing with me!’”

My first thought was to giggle and turn 10 shades of red.  But I didn’t.

Instead, I mustered up all my courage, tossed my hair back, put significant mischief in my eyes and said, with the same amount of mischief, “But you ARE soooooooo lucky to be dancing with me!”  I tilted my head down and looked up at him through my eyelashes as my smile slid across my teeth.

My surprise only mounted as the same amount of mischief lit his eyes, and one eyebrow shot toward his hairline.  I looked him right in the eye to see how far he wanted to take this. 

…Long pause…

Blink.

Slowly and deliberately, I stuck my right hand out as if I was royalty waiting for him to step into my ready dance frame and move me about the floor.  Then, keeping my eyes on him as long as possible, I turned my head to look over his right shoulder, shifting my gaze abruptly to the corner of the room when I couldn’t see him anymore.  I tilted my head.  …pause…

He stepped into me, grabbed my left shoulder-blade, waited for my arm to wrap his elbow and extend into my hand, past his shoulder. 

…pause…

My right hand hung in space. The music resumed. We began to move.  I glanced over to my right.  His hand was tucked into his pocket.  He was refusing my extended hand! 

I snapped my head back.  And so we moved.  Me with my right hand still extended…waiting.  Him with his left hand in his pocket.  I was delighted and irritated all in the same moment.

T-A-NGO–

T-A-NGO–

I didn’t feel self-conscious, like you might think.  I held on to the thought, “he WILL take my hand, because he is SOOO lucky to be dancing with me.”  We moved through several different steps and into the Corte….when he took my hand.

As my head followed my torso out of the back arch, I smirked and shot him a quick satisfied glance. 

SNAP! 

The smooth movement changed so instantly to staccato, that for a moment I only knew my body was still moving.  I was totally disconnected from it, unsure what to do, but glad that my body seemed to know instinctively.

My confidence slipped slightly in the slight pause, so I ran a quick diagnostic over my frame to make sure my body was as it should be.  It was.  He did that on purpose!

T-A-NGO-snap! Step…Spin…Step.Step.Slide…Snap.

Step…Spin…Step.Step.Slide….

He moved me through several steps I don’t think I know.  And I followed him.  “I dare you!” was the only thought on my mind, my confidence–or perhaps by now it was arrogance–growing.  He led me through a spin, a dip–during which I surprised us both by extending my leg up into the air.  I caught our reflection in the mirror and was relieved to see that it looked good–not awkward as I feared.  I looked at him.  He was waiting for it and snarled, eyes twinkling.  I laughed.  Haughtily. 

SNAP! I was standing on both feet again…moving…my mind slightly behind my body, which, thankfully, still knew what it was doing.

When the music ran out, we continued.  T-A-NGO–  T-A-NGO–  T-A-NGO–

Then I heard applause.  That’s when I completely lost my attitude.  I stood there blinking, not sure what was going on.

Oh,

We were in the studio. I was slightly out of breath, but tingling with excitement.  The studio owner stood there towering in her tall, slender, natural-dancers frame applauding.  The young couple learning in the other corner had stopped and looked nervous while their instructor looked amused.  And the office manager gave me a dazzling smile with two thumbs up from around the owner’s willowy frame.

She glided over to me, took my hands in hers and kissed both my cheeks.  “Bee-you-tee-full,” she said in her lilting accent.  “He IS lucky to dance with you!”  Threw a wink at my instructor, who looked just a bit too smug, and glided off the floor into the oblivion of her office once again.

That’s when I giggled and turned 10 shades of red.

Researchers at Berkley have identified the one emotion that a relationship cannot survive.  It is contempt.  I know this first hand, thanks to my most recent failed relationship. 

However, it’s marvelous for a Tango.

First Snow of the Season

It’s snowing here. Not a lot, but the first of our winter. I watch it from my bedroom window and feel it blanketing the noise and bustle of life. I feel myself slowing down. A peace envelopes me.

It is beautiful.

And it beckons me out to be in it. I look over my to do list and for the first time in a long long time-taking inventory, probably two years-I am truly happy, I realize.

 I’ve been sad mostly, melancholic and low lately, but more so I’ve been living in the midst of a raucous party with my friends fear, nervousness, anxiety and frustration. Interesting…I’ve thought I’ve been happy, but in light of my present feeling, I realize they were still full of nettles and prickles. Not at all like this silky skin I inhabit right this minute.

This is the feeling I’ve been trying to find. This is the feeling I want to master and succumb to. I hear my brain whisper “let go.” I feel my grip of control around my heart loosen. I feel the tenseness in my shoulders and chest lift. Tears run down my face, but as if caressing it lovingly, taking away my carefully painted mask.

“Let go.”

I don’t even find this peace and joy in meditation or yoga or exercise or drinking or hiking or reading or any of my vices.

I feel still. I hear nothing. And I am not afraid for the first time in longer than I can remember. I didn’t know that was the dominant feeling I’ve become acquainted with.

But it has been a day of awakenings for me. Reading my 2010 horoscope, I see that it promises to be an overwhelming year of romance and love. You’d think after all my sighing and crying I’d be happy. But I wasn’t. “Where is my revolution? My influencing half the world? Where is my calling? How does that fit in?”

I laugh. And I send out a sweet kiss to the old hags, the Fates. I renew my resolve to be still. I’ve already dedicated 2010 as the Year of Poise. The year of Change is almost over; it worked its charm.

Now.
Be still and quiet.
Find your poise.
Let go.

Big dreams, little steps

Six months later, my dreams of being Edith Kermit Roosevelt still stand dashed amidst the broken shards of my wine glass from that fateful night not so long ago.  But I’m starting over.  Finally.

I smile again.  I even laugh.  And I feel comfortable in my skin…possibly even more so than before the man who showed me life in different shades and hues.

But that’s not important now. 

For the first time in almost a decade Thursday nights in the warmth and romance of my lover’s arms no longer are the moments I live for.  Now I live for the arms of another…my dance instructor.  And while I find it romantic, it’s not for the same reasons. 

I love the feel of my body stretching and submitting with and to and without my mind.  I love the flowing movement.  Most of all, I love being led.  I don’t have to make any decisions, I just have to respond intelligently.  And I have fallen deeply in love with it!

Tonight as I watched my curves sway and swish and stretch and suggest, I feel the grip of fear…fear of stepping on toes or losing my balance.  Then my instructor firms his grip and whispers, “to make big movements, sometimes you have to take smaller steps.”

Yes.  It’s true.  I’m FINALLY standing at the edge of a cliff that I’ve run toward my entire life, but I’ve been inching toward it since the summer.  Now my toes literally grip the edge of the cliff as I look out over the magnificent topography all around me.  It takes my breath away with it’s splendor.  And it reminds me of Pilot’s Butte, Wyoming — another frozen moment in my memory.  The sage in the air kisses me, wrapping me in it’s embrace. 

I reach out my arms feeling the strength and control of my muscles.  Tone, my dance instructor calls it.  Without it, you have no control.

I dream about it almost nightly. 

Then, I let go and teeter into the updraft that’s been building in my Sfumato  It catches me like romance and sends me soaring over the terrain.  Dreams or dancing?  It doesn’t matter.  They are forever more intertwined.  (No I’m not going to become a professional ballroom dancer!)

My dreams are even bigger than before.  My movements are polished, graceful and charming.  Just the way the red strokes of my masterpiece intend. 

And I know where I belong.

Learning to Waltz Again

One. Two. Three.

Starting from the top.  

“Your job is to draw the crowd into this dance.”

Which means look out into the crowd and tip your head as if you are hearing something interesting, which, as the music takes ahold of me as much as my instructor, I do…

“Relax into who you are.” 

Which means shoulders should be down and back.   I am, female.  You can definitely tell when I relax my shoulders.   Why is that so difficult for me to accept?  How many times a day do I embrace my femininity, yet the purest sign of my femininity is the one I hide most. 

“Moving in the same direction with someone isn’t the same as moving with someone.” 

This is the fairy tale dance, the one in which Prince Charming sweeps you off your feet.  And this, more than any other part of the waltz, is why.  I am perfectly capable of knowing and making movements on my own, but the prince I’m seeking is one who can propose and lead so we can share the journey.  You see, shared movement is the most magical kind. 

But once upon a ballroom ago, I learned the steps hoping to embrace the magic.  Hoping I would learn how to be led.  I put all my energy in my strength, knowing where I need to move.  Like a magician who knows the tricks and therefore no longer believes, it seems I’ve placed my expectation on the wrong thing.  I know all the dances and few still hold the true magic.  He switches to the hustle momentarily.  It is one of the few dances where the magic still exists for me, a sign (I fear) of my feminine weakness–strength.   I don’t want to be overpowering.  I don’t want to be base.  I don’t want the base, I want the romance. 

“It isn’t your strength that keeps you from it.  It’s your weakness.”

Your body must be strong to make the push and pull of the hustle work.  It seems that I long ago learned that to have too must strength makes you lose control.  To have too little strength makes you lose rhythm.  I learned to control of my strength.  Keep it gentle, but firm.  Confident. 

In the waltz it’s even more important.  When the woman maintains her gentle, but firm tone–her confidence–then all it takes to be led, to communicate with her partner, is awareness.  Awareness of the rhythm, awareness of your partner. 

I practice in front of the mirror alone to see the difference it makes in my movements.  And I gasp in surprise at how soft, how confident, how feminine I look when I relax into who I am.

We start to circle, and I feel the magic this time.  The romance of the dance, the sense of flying, of being led.  My body suddenly seems powerfully, but gently, alive.  The rise and fall happens naturally.  I don’t need to think about it.  I don’t need to think about anything. 

Then something else happens.  I find that somehow I have knowledge of steps I’ve never learned. 

It seems that I didn’t need to learn the waltz all along.  I needed to learn a new language.  Body language.

Wild Horses: Part 1

When I was young, I dreamed I would be a famous journalist, or pilot, or jockey.

When I was young, I dreamed I would roam, see beautiful places and experience the world.

When I was young, I dreamed I would be in charge of my own destiny.

It should be no wonder that I found myself feeling slightly frantic, like a wild horse in the starting gate straining against the bars, biting the bit, flinging my head and stomping madly, waiting for my lead so I could race out of C____ the last day on the job. 

Each moment felt like an eternity that last day.  I remember the angry pride as more and more acquaintences gave me that “you fool” look as I told them of my plans.  I remember the fiery satisfaction I kept on smolder as I thought of what was to come the moment I was set free.  Mostly I remember the thrill of anticipation because I knew life would begin the moment the shot of 5 PM sounded.  I’d be off…

Once I passed those glass doors, my life was mine.  Truly.  Completely.  MINE!

Literally, I was off.  With ever the briefest stop at home to pick up my daughters, we were on a 21-hour drive across country. 

It reminded me of all those times as a child, I tumbled imagination first into every story in the Black Stallion series.  A million times I’ve dreamt of myself as a race horse running frantically the way of the Black and his decendents.  I know what it feels like to be given my head.  To run, almost tripping, because you have so much energy and desire.  To pour every bit of every bit of you into what you are doing.  That’s how I felt as we pointed the car West. 

I don’t think I settled into my stride until we were an hour or two out of Indy.   And then my writer’s romanticism took over.  It was dark across Illinois.  I’m not sure we saw a single bit of it, except the halos on the horizon showing us where the next town was and the white and yellow lines on the road showing us how to get there.  Kate and Meg finally gave in to the monotony of white wind noise of the open windows. 

I wished I could explain the instinct I felt for driving that night.  It was as if I was born to run off on wild adventures. As if I was meant to occupy that particular space and time on that highway that night.  I felt no fear, no worry, no recrimination. 

Champagne stank of burning rubber.  Peoria looked like a gem.  We slipped into Iowa only feet from the flowing Mississipi on a low bridge and under a light rolling fog.  By morning, the rolling fog melted into rolling hills and farm fields as tall, sleek windmills spun above the plains. 

For about 20 miles we played leap frog with a passenger van, which now, in the light of dawn, we could see carried a unicycle strapped to it’s back.  How odd!  I wonder what story it’s occupants had to tell.  I laughed out loud and made such a stir about it that Kate asked “suspiciously” if I needed any sleep.  I did, but I couldn’t stop.

–continued–

Curse or Destination

The day started out hard, bright light, high pitched chirping of the birds, a dull ache in my head as if I had been crying.  I had, I remembered.  As I wake up, I think about how very many nights I’ve spent crying over the past three months.  How many days I awoke with a dull ache in my head and increasing pain in my chest.  It had to stop.

Putting on the cheeriest face I could muster for not having had my tea and with my head humming annoyingly, I sat up and stretched, then headed to the bathroom.  If I hurried, I could make it downstairs without any conversation.  Then I could hide behind the tasks of the morning and the radio.  It was a routine that I remembered from a nightmare I once lived.

As I poured the water for coffee, I plotted the territory.  He would be down shortly and probably head for the garage.  I would be safe until at least breakfast.  I felt guilty for feeling this way.  “To love some thing is to know and love it’s nature,” says Francisco d’Anconia.  I’ve been quoting him alot lately.  Perhaps in my undying love for Hank Rearden, I haven’t given d’Anconia enough credit.  I do love him.  I do know his nature.  And I do value it immensely.  The thought makes me relax for a moment. 

How did I get here?  How did this happen?  The story he read me had the line “things don’t just happen.  You make a choice and then another choice and then another…”  What choices had I made?  The answer popped too quickly and readily into my mind.  I wiped it away as easily as I wiped away the drips I was making from the coffee pot.  Taking ownership of my answer threatens to undo my forced calm.  I tighten my face and feel the weight in my chest grow heavier. 

It is always my worst undoing.

I seek solace in stories.  I thirst for them like I thirst for water after a hard workout, or after working in the yard on a hot, humid day.  I can’t get enough.  It’s become an addiction of sorts.  Great women.  He wants to know what I’ve learned from them.  I can’t face him.  I make something up that causes us both to laugh lightly.  Silently I say it in my head, “what I learned is ‘a woman’s best bet or worse undoing, is the man she chooses as a partner.’”  After reading stories of more great women then my bookshelf can hold, that seems to be a arduous task.  Not for one who is weak, nor one who is afraid of change or challenge.

A friend writes me from overseas and says “it’s a long life and I know better then to swear by somebody.  I care about him deeply.  And he knows.”  I smile.  Very wise, and true.  That’s what I wish to master.  That thought right there. 

You see, I know the secret to being a great woman…focus on yourself first.  It’s a constant and failproof theme. 

It’s like those takeoff procedures on the airlines say “secure yours before helping others.”  Anne Morrow Lindbergh says women should focus on themselves as the axel of a wheel–with spokes pulling in every direction, the axel must remain constant or the wheel becomes unbalanced.  The only real-life woman I look up to says “never need anyone.”  Heck, Epictetus says the same thing!  And so does “Start with No” negotiation.

Even knowing this, I find my course drifting…MY course.  Mine. 

My head hurts.  I just want to be free.  But I don’t want to be careless like the boy in the DeRay story who romanticizes freedom.  He will spend his life like DeRay, always searching for where he fits.  DeRay isn’t happy.  Yes, but he’s free.  Francisco d’Anconia says “every form of happiness, every desire is driven by the same motor – by our love for a single value, for the highest potentiality of our own existence – and every achievement is an expression of it.”

What will be his achievement is of his concern.  I may value it, I may not.  That is for time to tell and each of us to decide.  I have no control over anything but me.  And I want to achieve too.  And I want to be loved for it. 

Why is that so difficult?

A secret cry, like a signal reflected off the clouds in the sky

Where have all the good men gone
And where are all the gods?
Where’s the street-wise Hercules
To fight the rising odds?

Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
Late at night I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need

I need a hero
I’m holding out for at hero ’till the end of the night
He’s gotta be strong
And he’s gotta be fast
And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight

I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero ’till the morning light
He’s gotta be sure
And it’s gotta be soon
And he’s gotta be larger than life
Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat
It’s gonna take a superman to sweep me off my feet

Up where the mountains meet the heavens above
Out where the lightning splits the sea
I could swear there is someone somewhere
Watching me

Through the wind and the chill and the rain
And the storm and the flood
I can feel his approach
Like a fire in my blood

I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero ’till the end of the night
He’s gotta be strong
And he’s gotta be fast
And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight

I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero ’till the morning light
He’s gotta be sure
And it’s gotta be soon
And he’s gotta be larger than life

I need a hero

Channel Hopping

Has it really been more than two months?  I can’t say it’s because of American Idol or Survivor.  I don’t own a TV.

I’ve typed a million words, strung countless sentences, strategically placed thousands of punctuation marks, read and rewritten paragraphs a hundred times since then, but I haven’t written.  And now, with fingers poised over the keyboard I envision a concert pianist about to begin a symphony.  I feel my energy and emotion surge unexpectedly.

But my imagery changes channels and instead of the graceful elegance of Chopin, the movie theatre that is my mind shows me horses almost recklessly wild in their bays on a dusty track waiting for the gates to open, shivering with harnessed energy…waiting…tension increasing…almost anxious…wild.  My outstretched fingers shiver similarly as I move them up from the keys to keep them from releasing their pent up energy.  They threaten to be reckless, and while I am not opposed to that, I adamantly refuse to give credence to the sloppy carelessness that often accompanies recklessness.

And my emotion, so carefully contained, threatens to spill over at the start leaving me nothing for the homestretch.

I’m not entirely sure I know what happened really.  My absence from writing was more than voluntary, it was purposeful.  I was trying to harness my energy and guide it toward something “productive.”

     Productive: “yielding or devoted to the creation of utilities”

Change the channel.  Utilities.  I think of water, electricity, gas.  Not really glamorous, they represent the necessities in a home.  But any good student of negotiation would tell you that one of the very first lessons is to know what you need–to really reduce your needs to true needs–like air, water, food, shelter.  Without knowing what you really, genuinely NEED, you will always be dependent on something.  And people will want to save you. 

Change the channel, and I see a well maintained lawn.  It looks so lovely in its verdant vertigried, coiffed organization.   I look out the window now and take pride in my tangible accomplishment that is freshly cut grass.  I love the smell, especially after a hot summer rain, like the one we just had. 

And I think of grass instead of my lawn.  It’s pretty tenacious, growing in even the toughest soil in the harshest of conditions.  I recently planted grass in my backyard from seed.  It came up in less than two weeks and was quickly outgrowing the existing lawn.  I worried about stepping on it as I cut it for the first time.  I didn’t want to “hurt” it.  Yet, stepping on it, I find out, actually toughens it up, gives it strength.  So too with people.  The best people, the ones that thrive, have withstood pressure. 

However, the minute people…er, grass begins to excel, to grow a bit “too” freely, we feel the need to cut it back and spray it with fertilizer and/or weed killer to keep the lawn looking nice…all together now.  In fact, the more freely grass grows, the more we fight it’s natural tendency to allow it to grow freely.  We like it better coiffed and conformed.  

Like people.

Then come the dry months of summer and the lawn begins to die out.  So we desparately try to save it…to keep it alive.  And the lawn dies…taking ALL the grass with it.  The only thing that would have saved the lawn is letting the grass fend for itself…naturally.  Trying to save it weakened it completely.  And all of it, completely.

So too with people. 

Change the channel.  Fanny Brice sits on a stoop outside her Brooklyn home singing that “people who need people are the luckiest people in the world.”  I disagree vehemently.  I don’t think people should ever need people.  It is a poison apple…looks appealing, but can be completely deadly as the poison spreads from it’s attractive, “healthy” coating.   One a day and all that jazz… 

Now, gentle reader, before you think I am becoming reckless, please understand that I vehemently believe it is important to have people–important people–as part of life.  But no more pretenses.  No more false manipulations or trappings dressed up in well maintained lawns.  It isn’t natural.  And if you’re not careful, it too will wither and die.  Taking you with it.

Twenty minutes later (movie time) Fanny Brice climbs aboard a locomotive in Chicago, heads cross country to a dock in New York, hitches a ride on a tug boat and chases down a tans-Atlantic passenger ship on a whim, all the while admonishing the viewer:

Don’t tell me not to live, just sit and putter
Life’s candy and the sun’s a ball of butter
Don’t bring around a cloud to rain on my parade
Don’t tell me not to fly, I simply got to
If someone takes a spill, it’s me and not you
Who told you you’re allowed to rain on my parade
I’ll march my band out, I’ll beat my drum
And if I’m fanned out, your turn at bat, sir
At least I didn’t fake it, hat, sir
I guess I didn’t make it
But whether I’m the rose of sheer perfection
A freckle on the nose of life’s complexion
The Cinderella or the shiney apple of its eye
I gotta fly once, I gotta try once,
Only can die once, right, sir?
Ooh, life is juicy, juicy and you see,
I gotta have my bite, sir.

I hear strawberries are in season.

Let’s Play Catch

This weekend started spring and I’ve never been so thankful to see it. 

You see, my youngest and I love to play catch.  Doesn’t matter the sport, or which ball.  Pit her against me and let the games begin.  But it must be outdoors, in the sunshine.

It’s our own private battle for domination. 

She thinks she’s stronger, smarter and faster than me.  She likes to think she’s in charge of her own destiny.  I let her know regularly who she really should battle–herself.  Control your drive, emotions and energy.  Push yourself past what you think you can do.  Not me.  Nor your sister.   Self control is a personal tool and vital to both of us. 

This weekend our battle was physical and non-stop.  Who would show weakness first?  We ran.  We skated.  We played soccer, kickball, catch.  We raced.  We climbed trees.  And we waited for the other to drop first. 

She tells me I snork, which I guess is a sign that I dropped first.  And I experienced a brief defiant moment thinking she might be right.

Then I looked around.  I also did 4 loads of laundry, 2 loads of dishes, hosted two parties that included cooking full meals for our family plus guests.  I cleaned the entire house, straightened up after games and meals, managed a full schedule of activities and still managed to get some freelance work done. 

She, on the other hand, took a nap, sang while swinging in the tree swing for an hour and watched 2 movies.

I pointed that out to her.

“Oh.”

When Meg and I play pass with the soccer ball, we have a rule.  The game is about aim–to make the other person work for it.  We run, we dive, we sprint, we reach, we roll, and we laugh.  A lot!  When we’re done, we both know we’ve given our best and given our all.  It’s the best feeling in the world.

So, I’m pleased to see Meg puzzle on my revelation about the additional stretch I had.  Then she volunteered to take out the trash.  I’d say our game of domination is more like a game of exponentially increasing admiration.  For both of us.

The Key

What is the secret?

What is the key?

At last, I know the answer.

Now how elusive will it be?

It is not easy.

I never thought it would be.

Still I had hoped it wouldn’t be this.

For you have always been my enemy.

I’ve spent my life competing.

A race I knew I wouldn’t win.

Still I hoped it would strength.

Now I see, a fool I’ve been.

Yet, somehow the key seems closer.

I know you better for that race.

I know your steady constancy.

I know your ills and grace.

Still I fear and dread you.

Are you taunting or haunting me?

But I feel more likely to conquer.

Well, more than I use to be.

The rewards will be greater.

The victory will be complete.

I need only wait now.

And it will all come straight to me.

So I work hard and practice.

I move. I smile. I breathe.

I won’t win by faking.

And you will not conquer me.