Each Moment is a Choice

We when engage with life, we usually have a strong reason why we choose what we choose.  I'm not saying that the strong reason is always a good reason nor is it always a healthy reason, but we are propelled to do things all day long by strong reasons. Why did you get out of bed today? Was it out of a love of the quiet morning hours? or perhaps it was the fear of being late to work and losing your job? Was it to care for your children whom you love so much?

Each moment is a choice.

That is the reality. For most of us the choices are small-- or rather seem small.  Do I agree to this project? Should I do my laundry today or tomorrow? We are fortunate that we have this much freedom of choice. Some people in the world face the choice to continue with the status quo or die as a consequence? THAT is a strong reason behind one's choices.

For those of us with depressive tendencies reasons can feel a little murky.  Sometimes I feel I don't know what I want at all. I can't tell what would bring me joy or what would perpetuate my state of discomfort and fogginess. This is one of the ways I experience the apathy of depression.  It is not that I don't care, but I can't tell what I care about. 

We are emotionally fragile beings. I think that we are all thin skinned when it boils down to it.  We are sensitive to our situation, and we can choose to notice that or to shut it down, stifle it, move on.  When we feel what we feel more fully, we can learn that is truly motivating us.  Joy or Fear, Love or Hate, Generosity or Greed. 

Engaging with life means more than going through the motions. Each day, each moment, we have a choice to drop into the full experience of the present. The more frequently we drop in, the more honest we can be with ourselves about our motives. And, if we really want it, then we should enjoy it.  We can love it and ourselves in the process.  We can't be perfect, but we can be more aware. 

Awareness is the choice. 

How do you really feel right now?

What do you really want to do in this moment? Why?

What would it take to make you excited to wake up tomorrow? Why?

The UpsandDowns of Performing/Producing

How do you prep for the post show let down? 

Note: When I bring up the idea of performance, I bring it up not just for fine art performers, but for all people in all "life-performance" situations. 

(Written 5/25/13)
It's 1am on the night after the MeCo (Megill & Company) performance, and I am wondering with all theadrenalinestillgoingthroughmybody how do I not crash from post show let down.

Deep down I know:  The answer lies with not getting so far up that you have to crash and burn afterward.

But, when it is rally time, you rally. Right? When it is go time, you go. Right? At least that is what I try to do, mean to do, hope to do. Sometimes the natural stressors in life combined with our chosen stressors lead us to these moments of crisis. But, then what? We survive them to what end?

I don't know how I will feel tomorrow, or the next day or the next. My brain chemistry is already wobbly, so something like this can really send me into a tailspin. But this is the first year, the first show, the first time in my life really that during my adrenaline high, I am considering the next step, considering the after effect, considering what I can do to not crash, to not have post show depression.

The good news is the show was a success; the audience loved it; the guest artist were fantastic; the raffle prizes were a hit. I personally had a great time today. And, I mean the whole day, even leading up to the show. I was funny, fun and generally relaxed. Meaning, I didn't stress up or break down. I tried to delegate where I could and help as I was needed, not fretting about the things that couldn't be helped. I was trying to stay as mellow as possible.

So, just having a better more balanced day is a good start to avoiding the emotional rollercoaster of performance. Great start really. The performance was fantastic. How was my performance? It was about 85% as I hoped it would be.  Overall, I had a great time on stage.

I did my best. I had many successes. As a performer I succeeded in dancing (after my recent history of injuries, this was big). A year ago I left the stage with a pretty tight and unforgiving back. Progress can only be made so quickly. I am making big strides. I shared my message and got the word out. In all of these aspects I have mission accomplished.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

(Written 5/31/13)

I wrote the last bit in bed the night of the performance (I edited, but the sentiments are the same).  I couldn't sleep because I couldn't quite calm my nervous system down. 

Now, a week later, I am sitting on my porch at Brandeis after a week of the rollercoaster I was trying so hard to avoid.  The day ofter the show, I was exhausted and spend the day doing CFR (brain based movement therapy). The next day I was back in the studio rehearsing then crafting to keep my mind busy. The day after that was when I hit bottom.  A foul mood.  Tired, agitated, ugly. Nothing to "do" and feeling gross.  It took me hitting this bottom for me to mellow out and find balance again.  I wish it wasn't like that, because in the end I love putting on performances, I love performing and I love producing dance.  So, how am I going to change?

The flow of life is such that we have peaks and troughs in energy.  And, navigating them is no easy task.  When we first take on a huge task, we are often incredibly unskillful in most aspects, and we discover that it is hard and painful and usually ends in either tears or a some other breakdown. At least, that is how I experienced it.

Then we try again.  And again. And, in my case we try every year.  But, the learning can only happen once a year so the learning is slow going.  Yes, I crashed again this time, but not quite as hard and not quite so cathartic.

The learning I will take away is:

1. Detach, detach detach: It is so hard not to identify with the popular or financial success of the show.  Keep the art about the message and let go of all responses, good or bad.  Detach from the need to be a success.

2.  Keep what I already learned: I prepared much better than I have in the past and it made me feel more at ease with the process. I had more reasonable expectations that were more easily met.

3.  Be selfish much earlier:  This goes for my personal performance.  If I am going to dance, then I need to force myself to practice more for myself. This will be the hardest lesson to implement next time because that means I need to leave enough time and energy to actually do the work long before the performance date. Then at least I can feel good about the dancing. 

4.  Meditate everyday the week of the show!  Meditate everyday period!  My mind and nervous system had run of my body that whole week, and the only thing I could do was succumb to their agendas. I was usurped by my mind.  Not a surprise. 

I don't know if this post is very good, It seems kind of boring as I am writing it, but perhaps that is because this isn't an exciting "ah ha! lesson."  It is the work.  It is the work that needs to be done in order to navigate life with greater awareness and skill.  The work is not always bright and shiny and pretty. More often than not it is just how it is here: simple, dry, and obvious.  But, that makes the work no less challenging, no less potent and no less important. 

About the Back. . .

I found myself this morning curled up on the couch, face buried in surrounding pillows and blankets and back seizing. Again.

In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be unconscious. I wanted to leave the waking realm so that I could forego the pain and patience for healing my lower back.  A familiar and recurrent injury. This was nothing new and after a week of "staying positive" I had had enough. I wanted to run and punch someone, throw a fit and smash furniture (or walls if I could).  I wanted the relentless ache and radiating pain to go away! I wanted to shout it out of my life. For good.

This was all happing within a hour of my dance company rehearsal.  In less than an hour, I was going to have to be presentable to the world and a helpful leader to the group.  But, at that moment, I was paralyzed with frustration and hurt.  Hurt due to the actual pain, but hurt also from the psychological toll being injured takes on a "mover."

Being sedentary for the last two days wasn't helping my mood either. I had been laid up sleeping on and off for two days.  I realize now just how sensitive my brain chemistry is.  It seems I can't go more than a day without physical activity of some sort.  It is funny, because I think it is ok at the time, in fact in the moment I like the feeling of "resting," but after two days, I am melancholy at best and flat out depressed at worst.  Today I was experiencing the worst.

Injury and depression mix a dangerous cocktail.

And, I have been drinking it non stop all weekend.  The weekend planned for recovery turned into a weekend of downward spiraling.  No need for chemical enhancers, I can do this all on my own. So, curled into a ball, face pressed into the back couch cushions, I had to act.  I had to change something. I asked my rock solid husband to take a walk with me.  The moment I got outside the tears came.  The walk was a little aggravating for my back, but the reality of why I was upset was more painful than the physical discomfort.  I realized that when I wanted to run and punch someone, I was wanting to run and punch myself.  In that moment I believed that I had hurt my back, that it was my fault it had gone out again. Even if that was true, I see now that I don't deserve punishment. I have already punished myself enough.  I'm injured for heaven's sake!

I am already hurting so why am I trying to hurt and hate myself more?

I wanted this post to be something different. I wanted it to be sarcastic and funny.  To entertain you with my misfortune and pain.  But, unfortunately I'm still a little too raw for that, and I've decided that this is not something to joke about; it needs deeper compassion and forgiveness than that.

If you have back pain, have had back pain or ever have back pain in the future.  Please remember this:

You are not the cause, you are not the problem, you are not insufficient, you are not cursed. You are not the pain, you are not the injury, you are not this experience.  You will heal, you will recover, you will move freely and without inhibition again. You are lovable, you are worthy of being healthy and happy, you are just fine-- just the way you are.  Life's details of pain and suffering can feel so real, but your essence goes beyond all of this.  You --as you are in this very moment-- are everything you need to be.

Poems from various journals

So, I have a tendency to write little poems in random journals. Basically I will write in whatever journal is at hand. And did I mention I have more than one journal? I have at least three.  Don't ask me why.  But I do.  One my the bed, one in my backpack, one laying around the house or taken on trips or lost and then found at various times.

I decided it was time to type out the poems for one of the journals.  These are largely unedited/unrevised, but let me know if any stand out to you.

Thanks for reading!
Beth

Johnny Varble (12-1-11)
Big slick file folders
full of notes that were once important
But now he is gone
and their hieroglyphics are yet to be deciphered
Will they ever?
So, we look through sheet by sheet
saving what we can,
what is discernible,
what reminds us of him without making us cry,
His notes on how to make an excel sheet,
a brochure for last season's performances at the local theater.
It's all gotta go
as he is gone,
but without the surprise of his leaving
over the edge of the road
with his dog in the passenger's seat.
We can't hold on to these papers forever
but we can't help but feel guilt for ripping his memory apart
page by page.
We shred the once valuable stacks of information
one file cabinet at a time.
Keep or throw?
These items with his handwriting scrawled in the margins
old papers worn at the edges and yellowed with years
and accidental stains of morning coffee.

This paper on which I write is his
top sheet of notes and memories already discarded.
I couldn't let the last few pages
go to waste.
Office papers, were not the heart of Johnny.
His heart is outside
with the horses in the barn and the cattle in the fields.
This cowboy forced to fill out the forms
we now hold in our hands
our young hands unwrinkled with time and still warm
from the afternoon coffee.
We make the decisions
paper by paper
memory by memory
making sense of what he left behind
making sense of his lost time
and our days ahead.

11-28-11
Spinning not unlike the earth
Spinning not unlike
the earth off kilter on its axis.
Round with rounded edges
smoothed by years of seasonal rains.
This stone looks more like a button on my nubby, woolen sweater
my favorite, not itchy at all
The shiny buttons of which pull against the the thread bare seams and the
deep pockets, in which I warm my hands
away from this frigid night air.
My palms press deeper into the cloth
closer to the warmth of my skin
I spin.

In time, keeping time
with the seasons as my metronome
each revolution brings me in closer
until I can feel the warmth of my own breath bounce back at me
with each exhale
It reminds me of snuggling up to you from behind
so close that I can breathe in the scent of your neck
then exhale the warm moist air onto the fine hairs at the base of your scalp
tiny droplets forming on each one
Tonight there is a chill and your body heat is a sweet treat.

Along the road
dried tumbleweeds from last summer
scamper across the lanes
the wheel softly turning
I roll, along gentle curves into tomorrow's night
Looking up I swoon
the stars spinning before me
and inside my head
As they shine
I can see the mist of my breath
in an icy fog.

This night will spin and turn to day
just as it did before
and I will wait and watch my steamy breath turn cold.

There is a point
There is a point
when blue turns black
where today becomes tomorrow
and today becomes yesterday.
There is a point
when smiles turn sour
when laughs turn dark
and he begins to turn pale.
There is a point when blood stops flowing
and the heart stops pumping
and the sky yawns
and the stars fall.
There is a point
where I end and universe begins
where hopes turn to lost opportunities
and shame to cancer.


Suddenly (No. 1)
Suddenly
I catch a whiff of my mom's apple pie
a boom of sweet sugar, cinnamon and apple
It's almost time to enjoy, but first
I put my nose back in the book
words whizz by and I evaporate
into the story of magic lands and unlikely characters.
Encountering myself in each chapter of fantasy,
I flip page to page
until it is time and my mom calls me back home

Suddenly (No. 2)
Suddenly
The lights went out and my sister sang
her voice carried through the darkness
accompanied by the click of the grandfather clock
wound to its coil and unnoticing of the dark
I lay in the still-warm bathwater
not sure whether it is safest to stay put
or risk a slip on the tile floor
to find a light.
Her voice soars up the stairs
unharnessed, unknowingly beautiful
She sings melodies
calls out to the shadowed corners and pitch black of the living room.
My mom lights a candle
I see the flames flicker in the bathroom mirror
"Charlotte, are you OK?"
I somehow want to blow bubbles in response
instead I lift my head and call
"Yes"
But, as I resumberge my chest and chin,
I hardly know.
And, my sister still sings
still haunting me with her memory.


Suddenly (No. 3)
I put in another coin
and roll the ski ball
Perfectly timed, angled, released
Lights blink as I win
tickets pour of the machine's mouth
vomit for useless coinage and cruddy "prizes"
neon green sunglasses I will never wear
a coloring set, a squishy ball with no purpose
The bells and dings and rings and beeps
are all beeping and ringing and flashing
obnoxiously
An ADHD fantasy of rushed moments,
forgotten focus and
new beginnings without endings
The hush, then quiet
then suddenly we whisper into the dark
the world stopped around us
We stand and sit with ourselves in the dark
afraid to move
for fear we might break our bones
or our timeless sense of immortality.



Thursday Night

Hushed sounds
whispers out of chapped lips
once painted bright
It could be time to call it quits
or not
I put in another coin and
a fresh tune starts up.

Oven Timer
Gosh darn it! I want to do something
crazy!
Like to sky dive, get drunk or
actually use real profanity!!
Instead I tell my stories in rhyme and stanza
stories of adventures never had
and words never spoken.
Could I bother you to allow me this one,
very small,
momentary,
indulgence?
Fuck You!

Oh, no.
That doesn't make me feel better at all.
Excuse me. I'd better so see if
the casserole top has browned.


Notes on a Nightstand
In a book in the drawer
next to the meds
which hum tough tunes
of reality.
A cage for thoughts,
this journal's pages include the
important details
dates, but no names
sentiments and expletives
circled, underlined and in caps.
The book is sinking, sunken and drowned in thoughts.
Notes hide under the water's reflective surface
mirroring life's day that plays above.
How many journals live in drawers like this?
Notes on a nightstand
trying to explain away the need
for the little, plastic orange container
that lives there too.

Dear Lower Back,
You are so sweet to call me up so regularly.
Well done, I'm listening.
Feeling.
Oh, how you love to talk,
and talk and talk and talk
Which I appreciate,
But, I asked you here today because
I am feeling ready
to let you go.
For us to go our separate ways.
You don't need to check in on my quite so often
I feel ready to forget you.
Is that too harsh to say out loud?
I don't mean to be mean.
Its just that
I could really do
without your constant reminding.
Like a parent you hold me back and
warn me against my instincts
Don't do that! Don't go to far!
Let's be reasonable.
Can't you just let me be?
For a month or so? a week? a day?
I don't think I can handle it much more.
You shouting at me daily as I wake up and when I go to bed. 
Each time I want to do anything
you are right there to stop me.
Don't you think it's getting a little old?
Don't you have something better to do?
Because I do.
So, go ahead. and take a long
extended vacation.
and let me be for a while
unconcerned, uninhibited and unrestricted
for once.

Evening Happening at the Oak on Peppertree Lane
A long, blue-green feather on the road
Harrumph! I flutter to the bottom branch
Grip and claw into the rough bark,
pull myself up, through the maze of branches up to the canopy
where the acorns are still green
I settle in to roost for the night.

Eee-ahhl!
Footsteps fall below
Two of them, one stoops to pick up the feather.
How odd, don't they know?
That's no longer good. Shimmering green, gold and blue.
Those feathers were only in good fashion for last spring
Clearly they won't do any good now.
Once a part of a corona
Peacock pride
meant only for one reason
but that is all done
they are now abandoned
Deemed useless.
As it goes with we who are luckless in love
I now have to wait for next spring
To try and find her again
To show off my four foot tail of brand new feathers.

Eee-ahhl! Eee-ahhl!
Don't mistake my warning for a serenade!
They jump and laugh in response
clinging together now holding hands.
It seems this couple must mate in fall.

Being Blue
Stunned Blue in silent thoughts that
have no end
a shade of near gray that washes over my ears, cheeks and chest
blood drained from my cheeks
empty of their glow
Like a match that can not be unstruck
the blue burns out all the kindling it can lays hands on
My worries catch fire with ease and burn
in unforgiving pyres
Being blue is not a mood, nor emotion
nor a feeling
Blue is a way of existing
as mornings wash into afternoons wash into evenings
onto darker nights
Blue is a shadow waiting patiently behind me
a faux friend with a false promise to keep me company
Blue sits on my brow,
making it hard to keep my eyes open,
even when I want them to.
Blue hangs from hooks on my cheeks pulling down,
pulling, pulling down
Blue calls me to close my eyes
close out the world
sit in the blue darkness.
Heavy lids bind this bright afternoon to Blue's gravity
Today's particular shade is steel blue
tomorrow's is not yet announced.

I'm resistant
I am resistant
and the resistance clings to me like an oily residue that won't wash off
knees refuse to bend
Hips stick
full of loud pops
clicks and crackles
But I have to sit
the work is in the staying,
sitting in the thick of it
enduring the winds that threaten to topple my folded origami legs.

I'm resistant
despite myself and my desires.
I'm looped with the lasso of untamed fears
to stay despite it all
despite your leaving, again
after how many years of coming and going?
I stay, cross legged and resolute
despite my want to run
so many "aways" to go to.
Vacancy signs in neon pink and blue
tempt me with their playful blinks
like batting eyelashes.
The backs of my knees and creases of my armpits get sweaty.
The familiar heat rush of anxiety
washing through me in waves.
I feel sweat beading at my temples but
my eyes remain half closed in inner reverie
turned nightmare.
I sit.
Hands folded into each other
against all odds
against the odds that you'll come back
or
be gone forever.

Stress or Depression or Both

I am feeling (to say the least) overwhelmed. Since returning from the National Dance Educator's Organization Conference last week, I feel like I can't catch up.  This is the time in the semester when all the "good" ideas are coming to a head, and it is time to pay up. 

But even that isn't entirely true. I don't have THAT much to do. I certainly could achieve most of what I have to get done, but the truth is I am feeling spent.  I was so careful during the first part of the semester to take care of my time and energy, but this still happened.  I still ran out of gas.

I am griping. I guess I am in the mood to gripe.  I am bitter because I have so many ideas going around in my head. Creative ideas that are full of potential. Dance ideas. Teaching ideas. Writing ideas. But I don't want to do the work. I don't want to take the time and energy to actually put my pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.  Even this is feeling awkward. Mostly because I feel like I have some very cool experiences from the NDEO conference which are great blog material, but instead I am caught in this cloudy mess of fatigue, apathy and dejection. 

The stress (which apparently snuck up on me without me knowing it) is taking its toll.  I am feeling depressed.  And, that is the crux of all of this.  I have great things to do, great insights to share, ideas to follow, but I am anchored to the typical symptoms: fatigue, sorrow, obsessive thoughts, anxiety dreams, the desire to just sit for hours on end, preferably with a stream of movies going on end to end to end. 

In the scheme of things, the symptoms are not terrible and will hopefully go away soon. But it is a reminder that even when things are good, stress takes it toll, and for me stress results in depression.  I think it is a chemical thing because there is really nothing wrong. I just feel bad.  Sub-par. 

Good times and a stable life, and I can still get caught in the cloud.  It happens less and less.  But it is a reality for me. Chronic depression doesn't just disappear when things are good and you have a good week, or two or three.  It is a constant practice. 

Side Note:  It doesn't help that my office printer is broken.  It is throwing of my groove and making everything harder.

Perhaps tomorrow the cloud will lift like coastal fog that finally burns off after you have given up on a sunny day.  But at this point I am still hoping for sunny skies.

In Over My Head. Again.

I agree to things before I realize exactly what that means.  I throw caution to the wind an say yes regardless if I am either:

a) am capable
or
b) have the time

It is my modus operandi really.  It seems to be what makes me tick (and go crazy all at the same time).  So, while I am prepping for 3 presentations I will be giving at the next NDEO conference (National Dance Educators Organization), producing a dance concert, choreographing 3 pieces on my students, planning a special halloween tap dance performance for my Tap I class, and finishing a 52 minute dance piece for my company. . . .

(inhale)

I have also agreed to go on a poetry tour.

Let me remind you that I am not really a poet. Sure I call myself a poetess. But that is more of a dream identity that an actual one.  I write poetry because I know nothing about it, how to do it, history of it nor whether I am making a complete ass of myself. Basically, I do it because I can write really bad poems and have no real-life repercussions.  It is just fun.

Well. Until now.

Now, I am obligated.  I am actually going to have to write something that I will then memorize and perform in front of unsuspecting audiences in the Bay Area next May.  I hope they aren't paying. But I am getting ahead of myself.

What plague me currently is a project we poets are organizing to raise funds for the trip.  A Poet/Pinup Calendar.   Yes, you read right! We poets from the ages of roughly 20 to about 70 will be dressing up for your pleasure (and belly laughter) in a brand-spanking-new 2012 calendar.  Oh, yeah.

Alas, our theme is fantastic: S/heroes and Villians.

I have decided to be a Garden S/hero. Mostly because I like dressing in gingham and like getting dirty.  None of this troubles me. I can put on fake eyelashes and hold a bunch of carrots, no problem. The hitch comes in that I have to write a garden poem to go along with my Garden Hero character.  And, I have yet to even try. 

So, I hereby dedicate myself to writing at least one garden poem a day and posting it here for your reading pleasure (and daily laughter medicine -- because it may be funny or more likely so bad you will have to laugh out of pity).  I promise they will be terrible, perhaps ridiculous, funny if I'm lucky, irrational and only maybe good. Read because it will make you feel good about yourself and your own art. Let me be your sacrificial lamb to the creative gods. I don't mind, really.

The poem needs to be done by Halloween.  So, I had better get crackin'.

Garden Poem #1

Bugs
Again
They seem to be of a different variety
Not quite the usual white aphids or black beetles
Brown spiders of Black widows
I like the tarantulas I see every once in a while.
Crawling.
Fuzzy. Kind of Cute.
No, these bugs are blue.
Unlike any bug I've ever seen.
Creeping in
Nesting under leaves in invisible webs of confusion
The garden soil gives them all the nutrients they need
Fertile, dark, moist and healthy
They feed on whatever crosses their paths
But I never see them swallow
They grow and multiply whether I ignore them
or expose their bellies to the sun.
It doesn't make sense
Sensing time pass
They are blue
But blue sometimes feel closer to black
Patterns obscured by morning moods and recently upturned soil
Deep blue.
Blue of a time that does not fit in today
Shiny exoskeleton, armored from my pesticides of care
This bug,
Bugging me
On days
Making days I don't want
Days that make my Hydrangeas wilt and my zucchini leaves turn yellow
I take my spade and fight them off
Falling through the finger of my rake
Not to be captured
Not to be tamed
I feed my plants with extra Nitrogen
but even the lavender grows crisp and brittle from their bites
Blue bug
Deep blue and shiny
Hiding in shadows
Mocking me on my sunny sidewalk.
I throw down the shovel
I dedicate tomorrow to stamping you out.
But today
is blue.

(Didn't expect it to take that turn. Did I mention I just write poems without editing them? Well, I do. I just let them flow. So, this is what you got for now.  But. . . at least the poem is done for the day.)

The Fascination with Madness

As previously mentioned in this blog, I have lived a life shadowed by the stormy cloud of depression. Starting with childhood I was always sensitive. Moving through middle school I spent most nights in tears. But it didn't really manifest until high school and then more pointedly in college. Now, it lingers only at times and is more of a nuisance than anything. I see it. I feel it. I try to get through it as painlessly as possible. And, I come out on the other side with no big revelation or deeper understanding than before. It is more like someone finally turned off the fluorescent lights and you realize then that their high pitched buzz had been grating on your this whole time. Coming out of depression feel like a relief.

I have been fortunately enough never to have had a "break with reality" or a dangerous manic period that is so common with even slight chemical imbalances. I have seen others around me suffer from those and in some ways it makes me embarrassed that all I suffer from is the occasional blues.

But, I write only of this as an introduction to something on which I have become acutely aware in the past couple years. People are fascinated with madness and for some reason people gravitate toward madness, and I wonder why exactly that is. I see it all the time in the dance world. Dancers subjugating themselves to abusive choreographers in hopes of proving themselves worthy, as if there was something noble or romantic about this path to artistry or recognition.

The movie Black Swan gives the perfect example. I hadn't seen the film when it first came out in theaters. Of course my students gasped when they heard this, amazed that I hadn't seen it even once when they had seen it four times already. Now, having seen it, I want to go back to them and say "But she is crazy!" It makes my skin crawl that only through a horrible psychotic episode can the main character access the "depth and passion" of the black swan's character and give herself completely to the role. This movie isn't about dance; it is about a young girl who is ill and is addicted to dance. She uses dance like a drug to push herself over the edge. But rather than be seen as someone who is sick (and potentially dead at the end of the ballet), she is hailed as a heroine who finally broke through her chains and became the artist she always wanted to be.

Stop! I can't believe that an artist must be crazy to be good. And yet, looking at past artists, it seems time and time again that those who go down in the history books are those who were cursed to suffer and cause others to suffer in turn because of mental instability.

Of course "Madness" is just a label with no finite edges. The human experience is so diverse and varied that normal is relative and suffering is subjective. No one can concretely identify where reality begins and ends anyway. But, those who suffer the extremes of the human condition and ride the fine line between sanity and madness have a way of drawing us in. Perhaps because we all bump up against the line every once in a while and knowing someone else has been there gives us solace or hope that we can navigate our way through it. Or conversely, we see those around us in a manic state and we mistakenly think: "I too want such incredible joy and passion for life" but in fact that state is only temporary and behind the luster of the moment hides the dark shadow waiting its turn.

Most of my students are between the ages of 18-22. And they want it all. They seek out the pain with fervor and in turn flaunt their joys for the world to see. They celebrate the emotional roller coaster that is becoming an adult with each Facebook status update and mobile upload. And we, the sentient beings we are, must respond and thus continue this fascination with extreme emotionality.

I am not devaluing the challenges and joys of life. Those exist as they do, and we must ride those waves as they come and go. But, to seek the extremes that are home to those who are ill is not where I believe we need to go. Nor should we be told (through media, the advertisements on FB nor history books) that only through becoming crazy will we be able to attain a deeper understanding of who we are or the art the we create.

I want to believe. I have to believe that being normal and mundane is quite enough. There are enough miracles and sufferings to learn and grow from. The challenge I face from my history of depression is that I can't always tell what is real joy and real sadness or what is my "adrenaline high" and the " inexplicable blues". I don't want to think that my creativity comes from my chemical or electrical anatomy. So, I write this because I am concerned. I am concerned for the health of artists and the world as we continue to celebrate madness as a key to something beyond. It seems we are all capable of going crazy if we really wanted to. But, staying grounded in the here and now of the world seems like a much greater success.

A work of art.

Darkness Descends

There is a physical sensation of depression. For me it is a pointed drop in energy, extreme lethargy that is not just sleepiness. It is a droning state in which time becomes plastic and all I feel is the desire to curl up in the bed, on the couch, on the floor, anywhere. When sleep comes, it is a blessing because it is an escape from the discomfort of being awake and conscious, but upon waking it can be even harder to face he waking state. Distractions like TV can help pass time, but do not change my state of being. Two hours later I feel the same, but the clock has changed positions.

Monday was this for me. Intellectually I knew I should do something to break the state, get a reprieve from the situation. But in the moment, nothing else exists. Only the draw to lay down, only the desire for time to dissolve, only the wish that I felt better. It is ironic that in these moments when I most need to do something, move, act, change, my hands are the completely tied by the situation and all signs I see point to sitting, staying, and dropping down further into the abyss. It is a seduction I can't resist.

My state included no tears, often it doesn't. Tears are another blessing in a way, because they transform at least the moment into a catharsis. Instead there is just silence in the soul and the more I listen the more silent it is. Being home alone doesn't help, or perhaps it is a grace from the grating presence of others who aren't affected. It is hard to discern when you are in the fog.

I bring all this up, because creating a dance about depression has been an interesting journey in part because I have not felt truly depressed for a while and it is hard to remember the sensations. It is somewhat like being drunk. You can remember you were drunk, but you don't remember exactly what it felt like or what happened. It is masked in the haze of being drunk. But, just as it is hard to work while drunk (some artists might disagree) it is likewise near impossible to work while depressed. Not because you don't want to, but because you are handicapped by the state itself. You are striving to just exist let alone create a dance masterpiece.

Therefore, this writing is my attempt to get down on paper some of the realities of depression as I have just come out of the state, but before I forget it completely. This piece is in many ways the most challenging undertaking I have made. Not just because it is personal, but because it is attempting to concretize something that exists in me as a hazy, fuzzy recollection. Because as real as it is at the time, when gone it is hard to believe it ever existed.

Afternoon State
I curl on the couch
impressions on the cushion fit into the nooks and crannies of my soul
Clock hands pass in time as shadows silently shift positions
I eat, I lie down, I pee, I lie down, I check email, I lie down
I lie down into myself deeper and deeper
disappearing into swirling thoughts that are forgotten as soon as they arrive
Lying with a heaviness that promises sleep
The couch holds me patiently, unmoved by my state
The soul however goes silent when I ask it questions
Undone, I try to wait it out.

an anticipatory stress story

Summer: the time when the heat and sun allow you to melt all stress away. For the teacher and student summer is the time when you recharge the battery, get to the list of home and garden improvements, and watch all of last year's box office hits on DVD.

I gave myself permission to really relax over this past week. Prior to that I of course was a busy bee with performances and all that it entails. So, I allowed myself sometime to NOT be productive. Instead I attended Yoga classes, slept anytime I felt like it, stayed up late, watched movies, gardened, read and found a new Zen meditation center. Life was looking good. Even my chronic jaw pain had nearly disappeared. For two whole days I didn't check my email. In fact, I didn't go online at all. I was free.

Then guilt set in and I knew my inbox was gathering messages. So, I decided to check my personal email, which inevitably lead me to work related issues and then a waterfall of nerves and anxiety pummeled me. In denial I said I would get to bed and deal with it tomorrow after I lead the meditation. My body and mind had other plans.

I was up at 5:00am (after going to bed at 1:00am) this time with the relentless knocking of pressure keeping me awake. This pressure, even during my vacation, felt very very real. It seeped through me and I came to understand that this feeling is the feeling I associate with the rest of my school year, over 3/4 of my annual life. I felt immediately like I was underwater. That my to-do list was as long as it ever was before and there was no way I could get to everything. I tried to go back to sleep, but decided getting up was far less painful than actually getting up and onto the computer.

I did some of the work, and of course it begot more work and reminded me of more things I needed to get to before the summer was over and "the real school year began." Before I knew it I was tearing myself away from the computer screen in order to make it to my own meditation session at the Yoga Nook.

I was in a crummy mood. My spirit felt crunchy and my skin felt heavy as I drove to the studio. I felt myself dropping into the familiar place I know as depression and as usual once there I didn't know or want to get out. My intellectual self told me I should "Let it go!" But, my body and spirit do not know how to listen to my intellect. That is the addiction element to depression. Like a drug, once you are high, you never think to come down even if you know it is unhealthy. It is an illogical drive, it taps into some deep part of the brain and takes hold. And, here I was being held by this invisible set of hands.

By some miracle, I had the room to myself for the meditation-- I felt relief that I didn't have to lead anyone toward peace and calm in my current state. I sat down. Lit the candle, rang the bell. Eyelids fell to nearly closed. I surrendered.

Within moments I felt relief. I felt the urge to apologize to myself for giving into the stress, I said it again and again to myself "I am sorry. I am sorry." Then I felt "It's ok." Never before, had I found meditation to transform me like that, to make me feel safe and loved for who I am as I am. For the rest of the 45 minute period I watched my thoughts dance around from topic to topic, free from the grasp of stress or depression. I don't mind that thoughts bounce around during my meditation, because they move like butterflies beautiful and light, never staying so long I wish they would go. I don't expect all of my meditations to be as this one was. But, I am grateful for this experience.

Now, I am only half shadowed by the darkness that woke me up this morning, proving that a great moment is only that, a moment. But, I now have new cause to look at how I work and how I relate to work. There is something to be discovered there.