Today, while working on learning and getting comfortable with a tricky Foxtrot combination (though not beyond our skill level, we were repeatedly assured!), there were times when the steps, the motion, the fluidity just wasn't there. "I think that was me," I told my husband. "I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I think I'm off." Our instructor took my hand to lead me down the floor, and almost immediately told me (and everyone) that I was backleading; depending more on myself to get down the floor than on my partner. It's not a new problem or habit for me. In fact, it's rather familiar. Letting go a little made the combination flow better -- more fun and fluid for both of us.
I got back to the corner where we were starting our passes down the floor, and a classmate said, "It's all rather biblical." I agreed (it really, truly is) and took a quick stock of where I am, and why lately I've been feeling so 'independent' when we dance.
The truth is, how well I follow at dance class very closely corresponds to where I am in my heart and in my mind. And lately I've been working hard at mending, healing, becoming. And the road has not been smooth or easy. There's lots of skidding and jack-rabbit starts, lots of riding the brake, and wishing I could coast. I'm resisting, and although it seems to me that I'm the only one who could notice, it's glaringly obvious when I have a dance partner. This internal struggle, the fears related to it, and even the progress that I do see all combine to bind up some of the creativity that we are trying to unveil. Independence and resistance are more comfortable to me that I would like.
A couple of weeks ago, I was presented with an idea that is still radical to me: "You don't have to do this alone. You can, but it will take longer and will be harder. It's up to you." This was my therapist, encouraging me to seek out and trust further the people in my life that can help me to apply what I'm learning. Not only the skills, but the truth of who I am, in the eyes of others, and in the eyes of God. Almost immediately I shared the idea with a friend, and mulled it over. I don't have to do it alone. I can, but I don't have to. Realizing he was also talking about allowing God to work in my life didn't take long. Within hours of asking Him in, asking for continued guidance, support, help, little things began to happen that showed me who I could begin to lean on, to share with, the become with. Unexpected visits, encounters, messages each showed me the generous nature of God's love in my healing.
And yet I still resist some. A fearful, tearful meltdown on my kitchen floor. An emotional morning at work. A question of where I am on my journey. All related to resistance. "Just trust Him," I was told one night this week. I want to. I don't like to backlead. It takes the fun out of it, really, and removes a bit of the beauty and quite a bit of the magic. This week, when I did let go and trust, relaxing into the love of my Father, I was so truly blessed beyond my hopes and prayers. One would think that would be incentive enough to make leaning into that Love a habit, but fear and nerves prevail. Again. And I find myself dependent on me more than I intend.
The good thing is, I can feel that the dependence is ever so slightly less. I'm beginning, slowly, to see and feel a difference. In the meantime, I seem to wear my level of surrender in my dancing shoes, giving a barometer of my progress to my partner. Fortunately, he, too, is patient and kind.
Showing posts with label dancing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dancing. Show all posts
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Sunday, August 3, 2014
reverie
As I watched the bride dance with her father, and the groom with his mother, I was transported. In my heart, I felt my own father's arms around me, while in my imagination I saw my sons dancing with me.
My own wedding was nearly half my life ago. At times I cannot remember not being married to the man with whom I've shared so much. Other times I wonder how it could be so short a time. So much has happened; so much has changed. Never again will I dance in my father's arms. It strikes me at odd times, but tonight the feeling of melancholy was tempered by the imagination.
In a blink, a breath, and two heartbeats, any of our sons could be getting married. At least it will seem like that short a time, if and when.
It was a beautiful combination of feelings to have at a beautiful wedding reception. Blessings and love to the bride and groom!
Thursday, April 4, 2013
journeys begin
Shoes are my least favorite article of attire. Socks, I like, shoes, though, I wear because I have to. As soon as I walk in the door, off they go. When I learned (many years ago!) that leaving shoes at the door helps in keeping the house just a tad cleaner, I rejoiced! And immediately started training my family to leave their shoes by the door. True, they sometimes get in the way of our everyday life (we have neither a "mudroom" nor entrance hall--or even a closet!), but my happy feet enjoy freedom from the time I get home until I have to leave the confines of our humble abode. Summer is awesome, because other than work and Church, I'm all about flip-flops or naked pigs. (In the colder months, I also get to indulge my penchant for sliding on the wood floors! Never grow up!)
I try, with varying degrees of success, to keep my shoes out of the way, if not organized. However, my sneakers make up a pile of their own between the radiator and the cupboard. I have the pair I wear for running, and I few pairs I wore out running that I keep around for various reasons: rainy walks, long standing up days, just in case the running shoes blow out unexpectedly. My work and dress shoes I try to keep in the closet in our bedroom, but there are usually a pair or two stashed around the room; removed in haste, of course.
About three times over the past week or so, I've reached for a pair of shoes and come up with two different shoes. That much didn't surprise me as much as the fact that every time, it has been two right shoes. Normally when I put my running shoes on, it's in the early morning dark, so I look for the subtle variations that are visible by the streetlight shining through the window, and sometimes end up with a mixed pair at first. Two right running shoes happened twice. (All the more strange because after our run, the pair of shoes is together at the top of the pile.) The third time, I reached down to grab my shoes on the way out of our bedroom before work, got downstairs, and discovered I had two black shoes, both the right side of a pair. And they look nothing alike!
After the second time, I suspected there might be a reason, but after the third time, I began to wonder just what the message could be! This morning, I began to realize that I had an inkling. As I've certainly mentioned before, I'm not one for subtle signs (directed at me!), and have often prayed that messages thunk my over the head. The meditations in my little morning book this week, the prayer I decided to read from an app on my phone, even some little something from our retreat orientation last night have all had a theme that I didn't pick up on until lunchtime, reading the last little bit of Soeur Therese of Lisieux's story.
When I was a kid, dancing, my teacher found it odd that I was left-footed when I am right-handed. Turns to the left, kicks, lunges, all were more instinctual to the left. The right caught up, eventually. (Interestingly, my left hand did not cooperate with choreography quite as well, presenting some challenges!) I had all but forgotten. Standing backstage during a facility tour two nights ago, I suddenly had a feeling that something should be clicking. I missed the performing, or rather, the anticipation of performing, that I had done so many times. For a fleeting moment, I thought the message was to "put my best foot forward."
Still, it took me a while to realize that was only part of the lesson. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place; the meditations and prayers were about doing one's best--at work, at play. Getting dressed this morning, the quote on my mirror caught my eye: "Your work is to discover your world, and then with all your heart give yourself to it."* I marvelled that a similar sentiment was brought out last night, with regard to the Sacred Heart.
Then Soeur Therese.....What clicked really had little to do with anything in the book. Reading today, I made the connection between "right" and "just" and my shoes. Put my best foot forward; not my right foot, but my Right foot. A little reading about Grace and Mercy. A comment on the journey of faith. A journey that starts with a single step, but strives to continue with right steps. It all came together, just before I read this: "...I see clearly that you are mistaking the road, and that you will never arrive at the end of your journey. You want to climb the mountain, whereas God wishes you to descend it. He is awaiting you in the fruitful valley of humility." (The story of a soul)
To top it all off, I listened to a CD while waiting for track practice to end, and heard Fulton Sheen say that far too many people say they wish to lift up their cross and follow Jesus then say their cross is too difficult, too heavy, certainly not what God would intend. I've been there. I've been to the darkest and dreariest parts of my soul. By the Grace of God, and with the help of many along the way, I take one step at a time. I falter, I wander off the path, I still sometimes feel lost, but I try again each time.
*quote is attributed to Buddha
I try, with varying degrees of success, to keep my shoes out of the way, if not organized. However, my sneakers make up a pile of their own between the radiator and the cupboard. I have the pair I wear for running, and I few pairs I wore out running that I keep around for various reasons: rainy walks, long standing up days, just in case the running shoes blow out unexpectedly. My work and dress shoes I try to keep in the closet in our bedroom, but there are usually a pair or two stashed around the room; removed in haste, of course.
About three times over the past week or so, I've reached for a pair of shoes and come up with two different shoes. That much didn't surprise me as much as the fact that every time, it has been two right shoes. Normally when I put my running shoes on, it's in the early morning dark, so I look for the subtle variations that are visible by the streetlight shining through the window, and sometimes end up with a mixed pair at first. Two right running shoes happened twice. (All the more strange because after our run, the pair of shoes is together at the top of the pile.) The third time, I reached down to grab my shoes on the way out of our bedroom before work, got downstairs, and discovered I had two black shoes, both the right side of a pair. And they look nothing alike!
After the second time, I suspected there might be a reason, but after the third time, I began to wonder just what the message could be! This morning, I began to realize that I had an inkling. As I've certainly mentioned before, I'm not one for subtle signs (directed at me!), and have often prayed that messages thunk my over the head. The meditations in my little morning book this week, the prayer I decided to read from an app on my phone, even some little something from our retreat orientation last night have all had a theme that I didn't pick up on until lunchtime, reading the last little bit of Soeur Therese of Lisieux's story.
When I was a kid, dancing, my teacher found it odd that I was left-footed when I am right-handed. Turns to the left, kicks, lunges, all were more instinctual to the left. The right caught up, eventually. (Interestingly, my left hand did not cooperate with choreography quite as well, presenting some challenges!) I had all but forgotten. Standing backstage during a facility tour two nights ago, I suddenly had a feeling that something should be clicking. I missed the performing, or rather, the anticipation of performing, that I had done so many times. For a fleeting moment, I thought the message was to "put my best foot forward."
Still, it took me a while to realize that was only part of the lesson. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place; the meditations and prayers were about doing one's best--at work, at play. Getting dressed this morning, the quote on my mirror caught my eye: "Your work is to discover your world, and then with all your heart give yourself to it."* I marvelled that a similar sentiment was brought out last night, with regard to the Sacred Heart.
Then Soeur Therese.....What clicked really had little to do with anything in the book. Reading today, I made the connection between "right" and "just" and my shoes. Put my best foot forward; not my right foot, but my Right foot. A little reading about Grace and Mercy. A comment on the journey of faith. A journey that starts with a single step, but strives to continue with right steps. It all came together, just before I read this: "...I see clearly that you are mistaking the road, and that you will never arrive at the end of your journey. You want to climb the mountain, whereas God wishes you to descend it. He is awaiting you in the fruitful valley of humility." (The story of a soul)
To top it all off, I listened to a CD while waiting for track practice to end, and heard Fulton Sheen say that far too many people say they wish to lift up their cross and follow Jesus then say their cross is too difficult, too heavy, certainly not what God would intend. I've been there. I've been to the darkest and dreariest parts of my soul. By the Grace of God, and with the help of many along the way, I take one step at a time. I falter, I wander off the path, I still sometimes feel lost, but I try again each time.
*quote is attributed to Buddha
Thursday, January 12, 2012
our infamous day
Twenty-one years ago today, I awoke in a bed that was not my own, eagerly and nervously anticipating the day, the week, the lifetime ahead. Looking out the window, I discovered that the snowflakes that had begun to fall the night before had continued, and now blanketed the ground. I had lived in Rhode Island for four winters, and could have counted the number of snowfalls that stuck on the fingers of one hand, plus one more that had occurred that same winter--on the night of Guy's bachelor party. Here I was on the morning of my wedding wondering if this snow was related to the crazy storm in Maine a year earlier when we had become engaged. My next thought, and the question my future sister-in-law asked, had to do with whether the native Rhode Islanders would attend the wedding.
A rhetorical question, really; I knew my family, who had travelled in from upstate New York, Vermont, Minnesota (and Kentucky, but he had lived in Ohio for quite a while!) would think nothing of driving in the slop, and most of Guy's family lived close enough to avoid I-95, which ended up to be pretty clear.
My bridesmaids arrived, and we went to have nails and make-up done, Lisa did my hair, they got me dressed, the photographer arrived. There's a commercial on TV now in which a little boy breathlessly tells a bride as she finishes preparations for her wedding that she is "so beautiful!" and runs away. That could have been my nephew, Dan, our ring bearer--right after he showed off his "Tail-yon leadder shoos." Guy's niece, Danielle, could not have been sweeter in her velveteen dress and hat, telling me she couldn't wait for the moment I would become her Tante Stephanie.
So quickly, it was time to think about getting to the limo--through the snow. We had no choice once the suggestion was made: my bridesmaids put my lace boots in plastic bags and tied them up. With my feet inside them. Yes, indeed, I walked from the house to the limo and from the limo to the church sporting plastic shopping bags. And I was absolutely thrilled!! Fortunately, someone captured a photo, otherwise there will come a day when no one believes that!
As we waited behind the curtained glass wall of the cry room for the ceremony to begin, and the strains of "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof began, I peeked through the curtain to see our mothers being seated. The line "When did he grow to be so tall?" came just as Guy escorted his mother to her seat, I was overcome, and nearly began to sob. Dad was there, putting his arms around me and murmuring to me to calm me. I'll never forget that moment, those words. The way he smiled when I told him I was ready.
While I loved the ceremony, and the fact that it joined us as man and wife, I'm so very grateful for the numerous pictures taken by our photographer and our families and friends. Honestly, I don't remember much of the ceremony, other than silently directing Michael in when to sit and stand, while Guy did the same for Lynne, and wishing I could just chat with Guy while everything was going on.
I do remember Guy making his "lizard face" for a video camera while we waited for the reception; needing at least two bridesmaids to assist me in getting my dress out of the way so I could go to the bathroom; Rich and Guy causing a bit of a ruckus in the hallways in an effort to speed along our dinner; Andy laughing; all of us trying to hide in an alcove, as though anyone could have missed that huge white dress!
What a reception! From our introductions to our exit, we had a most wonderful time at the party! Whistles and hoots accompanied each introduction--including those of our parents, and I don't think I have ever smiled and laughed so continuously in my life before or since. All these years later, we still occasionally hear comments about our sorbet course, and Mom's dress. My family has always been quite "involved" in the glass tinkling tradition of getting the bride and groom to kiss. We complied, of course, dropping everything to exchange a kiss, or playfully searching the 3-5 feet between us--until, of course, dinner was served. That's when we got our wedding party involved. Mike and Lynne stood in readily, as they are married to each other. At one point, however, I remember motioning to Liz and Rich--Matron of Honor and Best Man--to take over, and I'm pretty sure there were times when each of us just kissed whoever was closest.
And the dancing! Our waltz that we learned under the careful instruction of Guy's cousin; sharing the dance floor with only my new husband for half the song, and then having our closest, dearest friends join us: our wedding party. Then a dance with our parents--me and Dad, Guy and his mom--that became a sing-along: Edelweiss. The polka I danced with Andy, who said he had no idea how; I back led him around the floor, saying "hopstepstepstep" the entire time. The dollar dance, where Liz and Rich required not only a dollar from each person in line, but also a kiss. The way we actually snuck out at the end, so we would not have to say goodbye or see the party break up. And neither of us had had more than a flute of champagne and a glass of wine.
It's hard to believe so many years have passed. I can still taste the cake--The cake!! A marvelous gift of the most succulent heart-shaped chocolate-chocolate mousse cake made by one of my college roommates!!--and I can still feel the warmth of that winter celebration. We were 21 when we married, so at some point in the next few months, we will hit that moment when we have been married longer than we were not. It's an odd thought, especially since there are times when I have to remind myself that Guy was not there when some singular childhood event happened, or that he may not have met this friend I've known all my life. It seems to me that he's always been there, and that we only just had to find each other. Neither of us is easy to live with, and at times we've each wondered at the wisdom of our love for each other, but I could not imagine a life without him in it.
All these things I think about every year on this day. The memories, feelings, emotions are not reserved for this day alone, but they come together in a rush each year on January 12th, the day that changed everything. The day that two became one, yet maintained their individual light, going against the grain. I love you, Guy, and am so happy to be your wife.
A rhetorical question, really; I knew my family, who had travelled in from upstate New York, Vermont, Minnesota (and Kentucky, but he had lived in Ohio for quite a while!) would think nothing of driving in the slop, and most of Guy's family lived close enough to avoid I-95, which ended up to be pretty clear.
My bridesmaids arrived, and we went to have nails and make-up done, Lisa did my hair, they got me dressed, the photographer arrived. There's a commercial on TV now in which a little boy breathlessly tells a bride as she finishes preparations for her wedding that she is "so beautiful!" and runs away. That could have been my nephew, Dan, our ring bearer--right after he showed off his "Tail-yon leadder shoos." Guy's niece, Danielle, could not have been sweeter in her velveteen dress and hat, telling me she couldn't wait for the moment I would become her Tante Stephanie.
So quickly, it was time to think about getting to the limo--through the snow. We had no choice once the suggestion was made: my bridesmaids put my lace boots in plastic bags and tied them up. With my feet inside them. Yes, indeed, I walked from the house to the limo and from the limo to the church sporting plastic shopping bags. And I was absolutely thrilled!! Fortunately, someone captured a photo, otherwise there will come a day when no one believes that!
As we waited behind the curtained glass wall of the cry room for the ceremony to begin, and the strains of "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof began, I peeked through the curtain to see our mothers being seated. The line "When did he grow to be so tall?" came just as Guy escorted his mother to her seat, I was overcome, and nearly began to sob. Dad was there, putting his arms around me and murmuring to me to calm me. I'll never forget that moment, those words. The way he smiled when I told him I was ready.
While I loved the ceremony, and the fact that it joined us as man and wife, I'm so very grateful for the numerous pictures taken by our photographer and our families and friends. Honestly, I don't remember much of the ceremony, other than silently directing Michael in when to sit and stand, while Guy did the same for Lynne, and wishing I could just chat with Guy while everything was going on.
I do remember Guy making his "lizard face" for a video camera while we waited for the reception; needing at least two bridesmaids to assist me in getting my dress out of the way so I could go to the bathroom; Rich and Guy causing a bit of a ruckus in the hallways in an effort to speed along our dinner; Andy laughing; all of us trying to hide in an alcove, as though anyone could have missed that huge white dress!
What a reception! From our introductions to our exit, we had a most wonderful time at the party! Whistles and hoots accompanied each introduction--including those of our parents, and I don't think I have ever smiled and laughed so continuously in my life before or since. All these years later, we still occasionally hear comments about our sorbet course, and Mom's dress. My family has always been quite "involved" in the glass tinkling tradition of getting the bride and groom to kiss. We complied, of course, dropping everything to exchange a kiss, or playfully searching the 3-5 feet between us--until, of course, dinner was served. That's when we got our wedding party involved. Mike and Lynne stood in readily, as they are married to each other. At one point, however, I remember motioning to Liz and Rich--Matron of Honor and Best Man--to take over, and I'm pretty sure there were times when each of us just kissed whoever was closest.
And the dancing! Our waltz that we learned under the careful instruction of Guy's cousin; sharing the dance floor with only my new husband for half the song, and then having our closest, dearest friends join us: our wedding party. Then a dance with our parents--me and Dad, Guy and his mom--that became a sing-along: Edelweiss. The polka I danced with Andy, who said he had no idea how; I back led him around the floor, saying "hopstepstepstep" the entire time. The dollar dance, where Liz and Rich required not only a dollar from each person in line, but also a kiss. The way we actually snuck out at the end, so we would not have to say goodbye or see the party break up. And neither of us had had more than a flute of champagne and a glass of wine.
It's hard to believe so many years have passed. I can still taste the cake--The cake!! A marvelous gift of the most succulent heart-shaped chocolate-chocolate mousse cake made by one of my college roommates!!--and I can still feel the warmth of that winter celebration. We were 21 when we married, so at some point in the next few months, we will hit that moment when we have been married longer than we were not. It's an odd thought, especially since there are times when I have to remind myself that Guy was not there when some singular childhood event happened, or that he may not have met this friend I've known all my life. It seems to me that he's always been there, and that we only just had to find each other. Neither of us is easy to live with, and at times we've each wondered at the wisdom of our love for each other, but I could not imagine a life without him in it.
All these things I think about every year on this day. The memories, feelings, emotions are not reserved for this day alone, but they come together in a rush each year on January 12th, the day that changed everything. The day that two became one, yet maintained their individual light, going against the grain. I love you, Guy, and am so happy to be your wife.
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