See, I admit to being athletically declined. I also have no patience whatsoever, and am harshly critical of myself. I am a kinesthetic learner, so I have to try it to do it, but of course I spend a lot of time ragging on me for doing it wrong.
But I love to dance.
I love to feel my body moving in space, and I live for the times when everything goes just right–where you hear the music and your feet and hands know what they’re supposed to do and miracle of miracles! They actually just do it. But the getting there. O, the endless getting there.
So this whole dance thing has been a beach ball for me; where I hold it underwater, but it keeps popping out. I climb up on top of it–hah, now I have you! And then I fall into the water as it bursts out again.
And it’s not just a beach ball with bright and spiffy colors–no, this is the Beach Ball of Dooooooooom, the Beach Ball of the Apocalypse that presages the end of all things, the coming of the Gidget.
Worse yet, the horrible wet feeling of having failed at it (whatever IT may be) again.
But I relate to dance as a metaphor for moving with the flow of things as they are and not slamming my ego against the rocks as I insist that reality conform to my perception of things. (He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.)
I've tried movement based reprogramming before and enjoyed it (tai chi, NIA, yoga). However, I was coming from a fitness standpoint, which is like using a hammer to drive screws. You may indeed get the screw in the wall, eventually. You may also have a number of holes in the drywall, and a gouge in the tile from where you flung the hammer in exasperation before you picked it back up again and went to get that verdammnt screw in the friggin' wall.
But . . . what if I did this for [smallest voice] fun?
And the first thing that comes to mind is the time it takes to learn movement, and classes and schedules and my life is so full right now how will I ever make a hole for one more thing?
But, see, I have some DVDs and a six-disc player. I could pop one in and whenever I needed to get up and stretch (or--heresy!!!--make a POINT of getting up and moving every half hour or so, just get up and move it with Carmen Electra for five minutes in the living room) I could switch DVDs and shake my bootay; not gettin' fit, but moving the body. Heck, I lurves me some TV on DVD, I could just hop up and flip channels every episode.
And if the object is just to move and enjoy, then I don't have to be the World Famous Ecdysiast with the mythical perfect body who taught Salome everything she knows. I can just move, creaky knees and all.
Singing the body electric.
1. Savory tarts baked in a sweet dough. I’m thinking classic French onion tarts, or maybe the fabulous alligator-shrimp cheesecake from Jacques Imo’s in New Orleans, but on a salty graham cracker crust.
2. So where's the bitch-slap, Spike?
Well . . . the Dowager Empress herveryownself sent me a New York Times article about a yoga teacher. With a rubber duck mascot/assistant yogini/clever prop. And I laughed and was charmed and deleted the email/tossed the article into the wastebasket and never gave it a second thought.
Turns out that was a love tap to get my attention. ("Pay attention, dumb-ass!")
Today, I'm reading my Feedblitz digest (bless you Feedblitz, for filling my inbox with digests of bloggy goodness and wonderment) when
Hmm. Dance . . . Shiva? Ok, worth a clickthrough. (Second, more insistant tap on the shoulder. "Pay ATTENTION, dumb-ass!")
So I tapped the mouse and found . . . the Rubber Duck Yogini. With a movement-based reprogramming tool on DVD. And I just received some Xmas cash from the Most Excellent (Adoptive) Grandmother In Law with note that "Christmas is supposed to be joyfully spent."
Thwack goes the Clue-By-Four. "PAY ATTENTION, DUMB-ASS!!!"
Okay. Okay. Paying attention now.