"Strange Bird"

Notes from the Tub

(A preface:

A dear friend - a wandering soul like me who pontificates upon life's mysteries in both the written and spoken word - has a series of writing that he has compiled under the title of "Notes from the Field." His insightful meanderings and matter of fact wisdom is inspirational food for fodder. Hence, today, while soaking in a hot tub and feeling the need to purge myself of my hang-ups and can't-let-go's, I reached for the trusty ol' pen and paper. This time, it was a store bought journal within which I have been jotting down copious notes about the slow food movement. Bored with my own seemingly purge-like, personal narrative, I drew further inspiration from the words of local farmers whom I have spent the past few weeks interviewing. Asa a result, the prose below, like a flowing song, poured forth from my luxuriating mouth and softening muscles.)

Notes from the Tub

Can't let go
sex on fire
burning, burning
burning in illusion.

Bodies tumble
in sustained ease and grace
tossing, turning
turning in e-motion.

Singular thoughts
solitary existence
when oh when
shall this facade end?


(Context:
Sex - the word itself can imply many connotations. Such as: gender, masculine and feminine, the act of sexual intercourse, relationship, be-ing, creative fire, nature, life. How you perceive it in the above says a lot about your own personal relationship with the topic. How and why I chose to use the word is irrelevant. Nonetheless, the sex remains - it is always present...

Gratitude

This morning, there is something that I must do for, I am broken open.
My spirit is spilling over.
My cup is full, to the brim.
My soul quenched.
If I do not lay bare the contents of this zest, my zeal, then I am bound to harbor such palpably felt notions all day.
Thus, in order to move on,
I must let go.
I must purge.
I must tell -
all.

I am grateful.

To be here, now.
Typing this, able of body, purposeful of spirit,
and clear of mind.

I am thankful
for it all.
For my experiences
of having been born
to two error prone human beings
who have always supported
my non-linear trajectory,
my wandering ways, &
my be-ing.

I am grateful for the wide spectrum of others that
these initial two came with -
Craig and Colleen, Cool, Carat, Chelsea, KC, Classy, Champ, Chit and Chat
and the travels, in, through, and around an eastern coast to the wild shores of the Pacific, that were required in order to maintain
a vast human network of ancestry accrued over a lifetime, decades, centuries and, yes even, milennia.

I honor
this land, upon which we all traverse.
This planet, that feeds me,
that provides nutrients, soil, shelves, and water
so that we may all live, thrive, and prosper.

I recognize our other Earthly inhabitants and neighbors.
I honor their be-ing,
their pollination, their foraging,
their burrowing, their hibernating, their simple food chain and
vulnerable eco-systems.

I wish
nothing more
than for each of us to say
"this is it"
"this is perfect -
what we have right now
is enough."

I seek for us all to feel
fulfilled of purpose,
respected for our message,
protected by our men,
nurtured by our women,
loved.

I am love.
I love.
I love you.

For I am also in deep gratitude
I am bent at the knees
I am bowing
my head is in deep reverence
it is in full contact
with the ground.

I am grateful
for you.
Whoever you are,
family, friend, fe, fi, fo, or fum,
wherever you are,
China, Canada, Pakistan,
Sudan, Samoa, Sri Lanka,
the North Pole,
or in your head.

I honor the divine
in YOU
in me
in Earth
in us all
in simply being human.

During these up and coming holy-days
as the Earth continues to spin us
away from the sun
and into the dark
into the rich fertility
of our hearts
may you know
this
peace
this
love
this you
this me
this life
this wonder
the mystery of all
that is.

Intimacy and the Long Lost Bonds of Brother and Sister Hood

I miss my brothers.

As a child, my first best friend was my neighbor David. He lived in a townhouse just adjacent from ours in a close-knit neighborhood that closed off its one main entrance and exit just so we could celebrate our own Olympic games every summer. This was in a suburb of Toronto, Canada, in the late 70s. David and I played with his Star Wars punching toys, we climbed up on a foot stool to wash our hands side by side before taking our meals together, and we enjoyed our idle days of toddlerhood together. I was well aware of the fact that he was a boy and though we would mimic the older kids' games of Doctor, there truly was no difference between the two of us aside from simple anatomy.

As a young girl, boys played as significant a role in my life as girls did. They were my friends as well as my boyfriends - both of which was a nonchalant game of chance and timing. Yet, as time wore on and as puberty began nipping at my heels, the minor differences that lay between us seemingly turned into a great divide. It wasn't long before boys had become some ostensible other - objects to be both desired and feared. Perhaps it was then when the innocence of childhood was irreparably lost and gone for good.

As I came into my developing body, relations with the opposite of sex quickly became a currency with which I could buy and sell stock. The more attention I received, the more my economical worth rose. The more shares I acquired, the more I wanted. My greed knew no bounds. And yet, I suffered. The playful, energetic, and fool hardy me took a backseat to a quiet and complacent mirage. By the time I left for college five hundred miles north, I was only too eager to rebel.

In my rebellion, I took up arms with my sisters and wholeheartedly embraced our systemic oppression together. I channeled all of my pent up rage and directed it towards my brothers of days past. I crawled deeper into my own fear of intimacy as I piled on weight as a barrier to protect myself from the unwanted and unasked for attention of these others. I chose to continue to place one half of my most favored playmates in the realm of separate, distinct, and outside of me. I suffered greatly as a result.

After graduation, travels, and life experience accrued outside of the four walls of a classroom, I realized that my emotional growth was greatly stunted and that I was no longer going to grow on my own, independent of others. I recognized that it was time for me to face one of my greatest fears - intimacy with men. The road since then has surely not been smooth or easy. As, true to form, I have chosen mirror images - men who are also deeply fearful of intimacy. It has made for an uncomfortable ride over the course of these past eight years. Yet, it has been a ride worth taking, nonetheless.

Now, I am mired within my fourth decade of life on this planet. This time around, I've realized that I no longer wish to seek for one sole other to meet all of my intimate needs. In fact, I've realized that I need to again embrace my brothers and love them as equally as I love my sisters. I need to let go of my fears of how they will both perceive my love and wish to love me. I need to simply wrap my arms around their strong shoulders, nuzzle into their warm necks, and take the love that feeds and nourishes me, just as I do with my girlfriends. Yes, folks, it is this simple.

On Manifest Destiny

Manifest: to make clear or evident, to prove beyond doubt or question.
Destiny:  something that is to happen; lot of fortune; the power or agency that determines the course of events.

Since this now past summer, I have made a concerted effort to think deeply about the actions I take in my life and how I desire for them to feed me on a deep, spiritual level. In other words, I have been thinking about my own sustainability - how can I tend to the long-term garden that is my spirit? How can I water it with the blood my heart pumps and plant it with the fertile seeds that seemingly spring forth from my mind?

What I have been observing is that these seeds, when planted from an embodied conviction of clear intention, have been giving way, thus far, to the soft green stems of new life. In other words, when nurtured, my deeds and thoughts become made physically manifest in this material world. What is it that I have been manifesting, you ask?

As is everything in life, all I have been manifesting is relationships. First and foremost, I have been nurturing a deeper relationship with myself in which Tantra has played a beneficial role. In July, I became curious to explore the narrow confines of my own self-imposed "boundaries." Since then, I have been learning through small, incremental steps how I can not only hold myself accountable for my own actions and deeds (especially when no one is around to witness me) but how I can also ask for what I want. It is not necessarily that I always receive that which I desire (I most certainly do not), it is simply that I honor myself enough to ask for a response. (Thus, I most certainly honor the "No" responses, as well.)

In looking to foster this deeper connection, I have sought out local role models whom I can surround myself with. My circle of friends now includes not only members of a number of the local San Diego Tantra communities, but also Tantra gurus, polyamory advocates, and third wave feminists whose children refer to me as "auntie."

In honoring my connection with and to myself, I seek to honor my connection with and to this planet - the only home we homo sapiens have known for a hundred thousand years. Yet again, I have sought out groups, organizations, and people who can help me to better understand my Earth/body connection. I have also been actively working on integrating my growing body of knowledge into my movement practice by incorporating native mythology (of greeting the cardinal directions, for example), with some Kundalini Yoga and Qigong principles.

Last but not least, I have been seeking to manifest more intimate relationships with others. What this intimacy looks like, remains to be seen. Nonetheless, I continue to explore, push open, break through, and puncture my own misconceptions as well as the confining preconceived notions of others. Whether or not I am "successful" is irrelevant. As I am simply learning, it is all about the diligent effort and the simple task of trying.

True to form, I celebrated this now past weekend's hallowed eve by dancing in the Dia de Los Muertos sunrise at a popular warehouse venue. Untrue to my typical pattern, I found myself revolving around the same man for the majority of the evening. Recognizing that he was a soul brother whose energy and movement could rival mine on the dance floor, I allowed myself to be comforted and cared for even as I pushed myself through the discomfort of challenging some of my usual behaviors (which was quite a feat for Ms. Independent). I especially enjoyed how our comfort together created a snuggle party that numerous "strangers" felt called to join. His chosen name, by the way, is/was "Manifest."

As our planet continues to spin and as we northern hemisphere dwellers turn away from the light of the sun and towards the pitch black darkness of the shortest day of the year, I encourage you to contemplate and reflect on what seeds you want to plant in the nurturing garden of your soul this year. What flowers and plants to you hope to bloom and give birth to next summer? Now is the time - plant away my dear friends, plant away.

A Third Night of Exploration..

Kali. Kali Ma.
What do you have to teach me, oh symbolic archetype?

You are the destroyer of illusion. With failing arms and scythe in hand, you smoothly sever the heads of ego. Man and his inability to rise up to his powerful potential enrages you. With tongue flayed and the whites of your eyes and teeth on display, you firmly remind the withering souls that this planet, this Earth, this realm is but a playground for the gods and goddesses.

With a growl at the back of your throat and a fiery breath emanating from the deep pit of your bowels, you are sex personified. Your pugnacious lips bite at flesh. Your all knowing eyes pierce the divine. Your voluptuous curves hint, charm, and seduce. Your gravely tongue massages the roof of your mouth. Your dis-shelved hair drapes your black head as you throw it back and laugh.

You are opaque as night because, in the deep, dark wet soil, in the bottomless pits of the oceans, and in the whirling, black holes, life and creation springs forth. You stand firmly, perched on top of your counterbalance, the supernatural light of Lord Shiva - your man, your lover, your duality.

Soon, however, the dance shall begin. And, once again, revolving man and revolving woman will take their place in the lit heavens above and resume their eternal flow, as they return to their revolving posts around that great fire in the sky.

Kali Ma: In Honor of the Season

                         O Kali, my Mother full of Bliss! Enchantress of the almighty Shiva!
                          In Thy delirious joy Thou dancest, clapping Thy hands together!
                     Thou art the Mover of all that move, and we are but Thy helpless toys.

                                                      ...Ramakrishna Paramhans

Kali came to me, not in a dream but as a physical manifestation called forth from the deep pits of my psyche.  Our first encounter was a mere few weeks ago.  I had been spending time with a client who had specifically asked for my help.  "Because I know you can take care of yourself," he had said.  He was a dark soul, burdened by the political correctness of nice-ities and the mundane.  He sought to illuminate dark shadows and light's natural counterbalance in every situation he entered into.  I knew enough to tread gently, but I tread nonetheless.  For I have no fear, especially when I am crystal clear within my own intention.


He and I came together, one last time, to paint our faces and explore, in movement, the characters and creatures that emerged from our sub-conscious.  I chose a black base paint simply because he had chosen white and I had recently read an article in CNN about "black face."  "What would life be like if I wandered through these city streets and navigated around its circuitous routes with a dark countenance?" I wondered.

During this first encounter, I was so transfixed by my new appearance that I wanted nothing more but to stare at the vivid whiteness found in my eyes.  I relished in gazing at my opened mouth and observing the stark contrast of my white teeth set against my pitch black face.  I quickly became intoxicated by this new vision.  I did not want to let it, let her, go.  Nonetheless, I had to.  With reluctance, I rubbed water and soap onto my face and I washed away the life blood and remnants of this other.

I was so inspired by this experience that I schemed to call it, to call her, forth once again.  I planned a "Moving with the Mask" workshop in which others were invited to take part in this timeless human ritual of face painting.  This past Tuesday, a group of twelve of us came together at the Performing Arts Workshop in Encinitas.  The mood in our intimate studio was light and there was a giddiness in the air.  We spent a brief time period applying brilliant colors in a myriad of ways to our own faces.  What emerged were clowns, dual super heroes, and butterflies.  Afterward, we were led through gentle warm-up exercises and then we were instructed to turn towards a mirror, as well as the mirror images of one another, and explore.  We were encouraged to discover not just the movement but the sound and vocabulary of this totem self.

As the evening progressed, and our workshop segued into our weekly barefoot boogie, non-face painted individuals wandered in.  Together, we shared the same play ground.  As I spun, twirled, and glided around, again with a black face and a light design of white paint layered on top, I expelled breathy growls, I bared my teeth, I rolled my eyes, and I stuck out my tongue.  As my initial intention had been to "explore my darkness in the dance."

Soon, a friend wandered in, danced with me, and exclaimed, "Kali!"  "Kali Ma!"  and I was re-born in that moment.  At the time, I knew very little of Kali, aside from the fact that she was an ancient Hindu goddess, celebrated as all-powerful and revered for her destructive bent.  Yet, her name stuck with me.  Who was this symbolic archetype that I was channeling?  And, what lessons could I apply from her teachings to my everyday life?  I took my hair our of a tight grip of constraint and unleashed my dancing prowess for the remainder of the evening.  The following day, I arose early to research.   

"Kali is a particularly appropriate image for conveying the idea of the world as the play of the gods. The spontaneous, effortless, dizzying creativity of the divine reflex is conveyed in her wild appearance. Insofar as Kali is identified with the phenomenal world, she presents a picture of that world that underlies its ephemeral and unpredictable nature. In her mad dancing, disheveled hair, and eerie howl there is made present the hint of a world reeling, careening out of control. The world is created and destroyed in Kali's wild dancing, and the truth of redemption lies in man's awareness that he is invited to take part in that dance, to yield to the frenzied beat of the Mother's dance of life and death."

"Kali is an ambivalent deity among the Hindu goddesses. Powerful as a destructive force against the ego self and inner demons, she also liberates souls to begin more spiritual life journeys and is recognized as a healing divine mother."

"Symbolically, Kali characterizes destruction or letting go of the past to make room for a more purposeful present and future. She stands for the concept of Mother Nature as not only a potent, destructive force but also a force that cleanses away the old to allow room for new, fertile ground."

"Kali is considered to be the most fully realized of all the Dark Goddesses, but even though Kali was originally worshipped as a warrior goddess, and her followers gave her offerings of blood and flesh, her followers still found her greatest strength to be that of a protector.

Kali is not always thought of as a Dark Goddess; rather, she is also referred to as a great and loving primordial Mother Goddess in the Hindu tantric tradition. In this aspect, as Mother Goddess, she is referred to as Kali Ma, meaning Kali Mother, and millions of Hindus revere her as such.

Kali is also associated with intense sexuality. Myths tell of the Yoni (vagina) of Kali (when she existed as Sati - wife of Lord Shiva) falling down to the Earth on the sacred hill near Gauhati in Assam (India), the same place where the Temple of Kamakhya is now located. The temple's outer walls are highly decorated with carvings showing Kali as a Triple Goddess: squatting, and exposing her Yoni (vagina); as a mother suckling Her child; and as a warrior woman drawing back Her bow. While these carvings show Kali as a sexual being, they also show her as a protective and motherly woman, full of compassion."

Discovering all of this has refanned a flame for this season.  For years now, I have harbored distaste for this commercialized American masquerade known as "Halloween."  The cheap plastic costumes manufactured abroad, the refined sugar products, the consumption and waste - all of it leaves a sour taste in my mouth and does little to inspire or encourage me to initiate my own ritual.  Fortunately, Kali has now changed this.  In honor of All Hollow's Eve and Dia de Los Muertos, San Diego's DanceJam is celebrating with a Costume Ball, Ocotober 30th, from 8pm - midnight, at Eveoke Dance Studio on Unviersity Avenue and 28th Street in North Park.  Kali will be there - won't you?  

My Victorianism

A backlit silhouette
of milky curves
and softening angles
she lends a hand

up

a powerful force
this thing called desire
its roots
root
rooting her
down down down through the earth's crust

exploring exotic terrain
the wet jungles
of possibility
he lurks lurks
lurks like a prowling cat in the grass
in the knee high, high grass

spinning, twirling, a kaleidoscope
of shape, form and light
she rises she reaches up up up
                                                     (photosynthesizing in the light)
he reaches down down down
they grab hold

a cosmic collision
fire and water
air and wood
earth and sky
body and spirit
male and female
radiating, penetrating

shifting plates
upthrusting rock
shooting out shooting out shooting
pow!

a black hole
and another universe is born.

What is Intimacy: A Survey

Is it a kiss on the lips?
Is it sex?
Is it my laying on top of Natalie - draped across her pelvis?

Is it a conversation?
Is it sharing tears?
Is it eye contact?

Is it a willingness to meet in the middle?
Is it an agreement?
Is intimacy what we do only with our lover?  Parents?  Family?  And close friends? 
Is intimacy possible in a larger community?

Is intimacy taking things personally? 
Is it what we do to each other - how we dive below one another’s surfaces?
Is intimacy discovered in both the exertion of our own personal boundaries as well as the pushing open wider of these same perceived limitations?
Is intimacy choosing to inquire, “What’s wrong, and how can I assist you?”

Is intimacy found in the sharing of the body/your body/my body?
Is intimacy a worthwhile pursuit when, sooner or later, someone always/usually gets hurt?
Is intimacy necessary?

Are you afraid of intimacy?  Am I?

Do you crave intimacy?  Do you need it in your life? 
If so, how much of it do you need?
Can you imagine being intimate with a perfect stranger?  If so, how?
Can you be intimate with someone that you are not sexually energized by?
Do you seek intimacy out?  How?

Is intimacy staying on topic?
Is intimacy discovered in only the day-today?  Can it be found in an improvised, fleeting moment?
Is intimacy touch?  Is it contact? 

Will it hurt me if I am intimate with lots of people?
Will it hurt me if I am not?

Is intimacy sharing what is on your mind, and in your heart?
Is intimacy standing up for what you believe in?

Is intimacy a location?  Is it a place that we can all somehow arrive to? 
If so, can we arrive there together or do we have to take our own paths and journeys along the way?

Is intimacy a smell?  Does it make me want to come, or does it repel me off and away to a further distance?

Is intimacy a visual aesthetic?  Do I subconsciously choose whom I can be intimate with based upon the age and pigment of another’s skin, a lilting tongue, the amount of flesh that hangs from the body, or this other’s physical abilities & makeup?
Can I be intimate with someone who does not believe what I do, who does not think as I do, and who does not want what I want? 

Can I afford not to be?

Is intimacy a currency?  Is it something that can be exchanged for power, resources, time, or energy?

Is intimacy a wink?  Is it a flash of a smile, or a wave to the hand?
Is intimacy real?  Or, can it be argued that we cannot know intimacy with anyone but ourselves?

Are you intimate with yourself?  Am I?  If so, how?

Is intimacy a feeling?  Is it sensed, intuited and embodied?
Can intimacy be sustained for a long period of time?  Does it wax and wane? 
Is it possible to experience intimacy in short bursts?

Is intimacy the breath?  Is it life?

Is intimacy being and feeling vulnerable?
If so, how and when do you experience vulnerability? 
And, when do you refuse to allow yourself to be vulnerable?

Are you vulnerable?  Am I?

Just what is intimacy?

Of Boundaries and Agreements

Last week, I found myself rendered inert by my own pain and sadness. 
I couldn't dance.  I lacked the motivation to write, to exercise, to make myself feel better.  All I craved was junk food, a good book and a comfortable bed.  My body, mind, and spirit desired, needed, sleep, healing, & rejuvenating slumber.

Yes, I had been triggered.  I had willingly allowed another to project pyschological abuse onto me.  It was heavy and it hurt.  I berated myself, "how could I have stayed in such a situation for so long?" and I wondered, "what is wrong with me that I keep going back for more?"  As the days passed, my energy, my life force, my chi became more and more blocked and stuck.  My intestinal processes refused to budge and I began to emit foul smelling, noxious gases from my rectum.  Still, I slept.

Because I have been staying back at my parent's home, in the house I grew up in on Ridge Road, all I had to do was look around me, here, to realize that my actions over the course of this past week merely emulated those of my most primary example - my parents.  I also recognized that for years now (hell, as it been almost a decade?), I have been unable to truly move forward with my life, to sincerely grab hold of my dreams and make them my reality, due to this self-imposed and physically manifested abusiveness.  (As is the nature of life, we attract to ourselves our mirror images - even as a standard cliche mistakenly purports that "opposites attract.")

Fortunately, I am finally at a place in my life where my community is expansive, supportive, and deep.  Although my vibrational frequency was extremely low last week, I kept my commitments to: meet with a friend and have a nature photography shoot; to work with this same friend in the studio, on his posture and alignment; to meet with another dear friend for a sunset beach walk, conversation, and dinner; and to attend a fundraiser for La Milpa Organica at the Belly Up Tavern (I forced myself to attend and I'm glad I did for the live music and my dancing feet lifted my spirits a bit).  In the process, I also shared with some other community members how I was feeling.  The advice I received in return was to try and find the sadness in the dance and to remember compassion - for myself.

Ultimately, what this experience drove home for me was that now is the time for me to work on and to truly own my boundaries and agreements.  What I mean by this is that I need to clearly define for myself what is okay, in terms of my own behavior as well as how others treat me, so that I can then effectively communicate, in the direct moment, when my boundaries have been crossed and when this is absolutely not okay.  "I did not like that touch."  Furthermore, I need to continue practicing defining and communicating my boundaries so that I have crystallized the protective measures of walking away, for good, when the need arises.  I need to harness the discipline of doing this early on in every relationship, in any kind of relationship, so that I am no longer confused by the imperfections of "love."

Yes, I have walked away, for good, this time around.  No calls, no visits, no friendship, no way.

Conversely, I am simultaneously working on my agreements.  In other words, I am developing the clarity in knowing what I want.  Then, I am applying this understanding in my day-to-day communication.  For example, I am learning to ask for what I desire, in every moment - water, a cleaner knife, a kiss, a raise, to be recognized, to be humbled.  The flip side of this discipline is that I may not always receive what I want.  Through my practice, I am learning to not just accept rejection but to be grateful for it.  I am beginning to appreciate and honor the "No's" because they too provide a learning lesson while possibly opening other doors.  (What about that other, old adage: "When one door closes, another opens?")

I have found two, great role models here in San Diego whose life's work begins with these two premises.  Kamala Devi and her partner, Michael McClure, have been married for seven years. Together, they are raising a young child.  They are also national advocates for polyamory, and they are well known figures within the Tantra community.  Yes, everybody, what I am writing is that Tantra is teaching me basic life skills that, for some reason, are not taught in our contemporary model of education.  (And, why is this?) 

As the dancefloor has illuminated, the metaphor of movement can be applied to all arenas of my multi-faceted life.  Thus, whether or not I choose to use these developing skills, of exerting my boundaries and inquiring of my agreements, in polyamory is irrelevant.  What matters is that I wield and utilize them to craft and create for myself the life story that I have always dreamed.  At almost 33 years of age, no one, not my parent's, my past boyfriends, and nothing, including my previous experiences, is responsible for the choices and decisions I make now, today.   Today, I take full responsibility for me and my behavior, for self-actualizing and becoming the woman I dream of and the human being that I already am!     

The End of Camelot

"What binds us together across our differences in religion or politics or economic theory is that when each one of us is cut, our blood flows red.  Mine does and yours does too.  Those who would try to appropriate God or family or country for their own narrow ends, who believe that religious faith is the property of one particular ideology, forget the width of God's embrace, the healing power of a family's arms, and the generosity of this country's vision.  God, family, and nation belong to us all.
And they belong to us because of all that we share as human beings - the wonder that we experience when we look at the night sky; the gratitude that we know when we feel the heat of the sun; the sense of humor in the face of the unbearable and the persistence of suffering.  And one more thing: the capacity to reach across our differences to offer a hand of healing....
I wish that life were simpler.  I wish that loved ones didn't have to die young.  I wish that tragedy never haunted a single soul.  But to wish all this is to ask for an end to our humanity.  God, family, and country sustains us all.
Legend has it that in the ancient world, a poetry contest was held each year.  The third-place winner received a rose made out of silver.  The second-place winner received a rose made out of gold.  But the first place winner received a real rose, a beautiful living rose that soon wilted, dried up, and died.  I ask you, is there a single one among us who would not choose the living rose?"
--from Edward M. Kennedy's "True Compass"

Regardless of what you may think or feel about the very public lives of the Kennedy family, some of its very private members bestowed these United States of America with some of our greatest legacies - the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the Special Olympics, the Peace Corps, and the push to get the first person on the moon.  As politicians and philanthropists, the Kennedy family was, and still is, renown for launching successful campaigns against organized crime and school segregation, while working tirelessly on behalf of America's dispossesed and its powerless.

Born into a life of luxurious comfort and high class, the nine Kennedy siblings were raised on the ideal that looking out for one's neighbors was not just good public policy, it was a human necessity.  Consistently reminded to not flaunt their wealth, the Kennedy kids were continually brought back down to planet Earth whenever the patriarch of their family, Joseph, felt that one of his four boys or five girls was getting a little too big for his or her britches.  Although rich and relatively famous, the Kennedy family, who were a tight knit group of Irish Americans, also had first-hand experience with the ugly face of persecution and intolerance.  As an Irish Catholic, Jack Kennedy never quite fit in at Harvard.  His ascendancy as the 35th President of the United States broke through one glass ceiling - as he was the first Roman Catholic ever elected.

Contrary to what the media would have you believe, the Kennedy family was not simply beloved for its iconic fashion statements, attractive genes, and deep pockets.  We loved the Kennedys because, for almost a century, this very American, royal family fought hard to: protect the rights of the average, American worker; provide a better education to all American school children; and seek health care coverage for every single citizen in this nation.  The Kennedy's were true patriots who believed in this country's initial, founding principles of democracy - in honoring the minority and its voice; in looking out for its blue collared employees; in providing a hand up to those in need; and in remembering that the greatest sacrifice we can make is ourselves for one another.

As Camelot comes to a close with the passing of Senator Ted Kennedy, I wonder:
"Who, in this era to come, will rise up and speak for the disenfranchised, for the poor, for the trees, for this planet, and for us?"  For, we are now entering an epoch in which it is no longer our civil rights that are at stake.  It is now our humanity that is in grave danger.
"Will you?"

Sustainability - What the $#%% Is It?

A couple of friends noted my "cynical" comments and critical take on San Diego's Earth Day celebration at Balboa Park.  I figured, since I am so willing to get up here on this pulpit and yell with my flat screened bullhorn, I should at least take a moment to contextualize my argument.

I readily acknowledge that I do not lead the most sustainable lifestyle.  I drive way more than I necessarily need to.  I have yet to create a garden in my backyard - a place in which I can grow my own fruits and vegetables as well as recycle any leftover, organic matter by turning it into compost. And, I consume more than my fair share of the Earth's resources, especially in comparison to most other human beings, and creatures, walking this planet.

Nonetheless, I find it difficult to stomach consumption all dressed up in the emperor's new clothes and given 21st century labels, such as "sustainable," "organic," and "green."

For those of you not familiar with San Diego, the region lives up to its southern California hype in terms of its automotive addiction.  For decades, the downtown city center was predominantly a place where suits and ties commuted into every day for the weekly grind.  The Gaslamp, with its gyrating discos and expensive eateries, was certainly a hip nightspot for the fashion forward.  However, it just wasn't fashionable or cool to live amidst the transients, Mexican-American implants, and methamphetamine houses.  At least, not until our beloved baseball team had a brand, spanking new $241 million dollar stadium built down near the shipyards on the Embarcadero.  Ever since, the homeless have increasingly been targeted, the meth houses have been boarded up, and the sprawl of East Village has been dwindling.

Because the founding fathers of our small city never had the long-term vision to plan a seaside community of high rises that could accommodate thousands of people of varying means, San Diego has been a bubble of grossly inflated real estate prices.  It was only a few short years ago when half-a-million dollars was the median range for a house in our community.  Since 2004, when the Padres were bequeathed their new home, 1,000-foot-high mechanical arms have been a consistent part of this city's skyline.  Someone is making a killing, but it isn't us.   (Did you know that San Diego has been teetering on bankruptcy for years now?  Our city is so broke that we can't even afford to pay the pension benefits of retired and soon-to-be-retired city employees.)

Suffice it to write, the planning that went into the city's public transportation system was equally poor and short-sighted.  Within the city proper, trolleys run south, from Old Town to the border with Mexico, and east to SDSU (this connection was just finished recently) as well as to Santee (an eastern lying suburb where a women's detention facility is located).  For commuting in between these southern communities, there is one train that runs from Oceanside, which is forty miles to the north, into downtown - at hours solely conducive to the traditional 9-5'ers schedule.  Gratefully, the Sprinter was recently added to this train line - as it moves from Oceanside, across the northern tip of the county, and east into Escondido.  Rounding out the city's transportation is a large fleet of "green" buses that take anywhere from 1-3 hours to complete their routes. 

When I first moved to downtown San Diego six years ago, I was at the tail end of a "car-free" lifestyle.  Thus, I relied on both public transportation and my bicycle to get me around the city streets.  Bicycling around San Diego is an absolute privilege, one I sincerely wish upon all able bodies.  Our now bustling metropolis is surrounded by a host of quaint neighborhoods.  From the views of Tijuana in Golden Hill to the graffiti art of Chicano Park in Barrio Logan; from the friendly bars and delectable eateries in South Park to the grand Park Boulevard and University Avenue in North Park; from the gay pride of both University Heights and Hillcrest to the alternative coffee, video, and music shops of Kensington and Normal Heights; and from a diverse palate of exotic cuisine in City Heights to the slick pompadours of Little Italy - a bike is truly all one needs to see and experience San Diego at its finest.  The parks, restaurants, cafes, bars, views, and casitas are rich with history, meaning, people, and culture.

Unfortunately, because there is no trolley running along University Avenue - a stretch of road that essentially begins in uptown and continues east, for miles, into La Mesa - most people drive their cars into and around our city.  Each year, a handful of events, from Gay Pride to Earth Day and from the new Indie Music Festival to the beloved Adams Avenue Music Fest, draw hundreds of thousands of people into these surrounding neighborhoods.  For the most past, a large portion of these people are using vehicles to get to their destinations.  When it comes to sustainability, it appears that we are missing the moot point.  I would declare this to be the case with the handful of annual cleanup events, as well.  When we all pile into vehicles to travel to an agreed upon destination on an agreed upon date - how sustainable are we really?  Then, to top it off, events such as Earth Day still end up creating an incalculable amount of waste and consumption.  Is this really what the organic, green revolution is all about?

My goal, however, is not to rain on anyone's parade with a sour grapes attitude.  Rather, my aim is to point out our very human contradictions and to provide some solutions.  The "Kick Gas" Festival is coming to San Diego's Qualcomm stadium this October 24th.  The trolley has a stop right outside the stadium, so come on down and learn how you can take the small steps in your everyday life to eliminate our nation's dependence on oil.

Roots, San Diego's Sustainable Food Project, is a meeting place for sustainable minds.  Our coalition includes a sub-group called Victory Gardens, in which we come into your backyards, neighborhoods, and schools, build a garden, and teach you how to grow your own food.  Victory Gardens relies on donations and grants, so if you do not have any money to give they are still willing to work something out.  Roots also has tight-knit relationship with La Milpa Organica, a community farm in Escondido.  La Milpa is currently launching its CSA program, so gather eight of your friends and order your fruits and vegetables directly from a local farm.  La Milpa also hosts a monthly community potluck on its lovely grounds in which good people gather to enjoy live music, fresh baked pizza, a movie at dusk, and more.  Ultimately, the point is that sustainability requires a local, grassroots effort here in the comfort of our own homes and neighborhoods.  Let us champion a return to the days when we broke bread with our neighbors and when we came together in the spirit of a safe place for our children and a healthy environment for us all.

Last, but certainly not least, what we can do now is to move through the world with the mindset that every day is an opportunity to clean up, get involved, and make a difference.  Going to the beach tonight after work?  Pick up fifteen pieces of trash along your stroll.  Driving to your weekly meeting, event, or gathering?  Let people know where you're coming from and that you are open to carpooling.   Are you a habitual coffee or tea drinker?  Invest in a reusable mug and keep it on your person in times of need.  The possibilities are endless.  The important thing to remember is that, like anything else, sustainability requires small steps taken on a daily basis.  Now is the time.

A Commercial Break: Core Connect Parenting

A month ago, I wrote a post about community and, more specifically, I relayed an experience I shared with three others while exploring time and space at our weekly gathering place in Encinitas.  On this day, I was looking to connect but I was feeling unable to do so in the way that I most usually do - with high energy and grandiose movement.  Instead, I turned to my quiet breath and still reverie, and I discovered an equal celebration of spontaneous life and the improvisational moment.

On that morning, Christy Ahna Zahava caught my attention from my peripheral view.  She was sitting in repose, listening to the moments at hand.  I joined her on a magical journey that began before this one day and that has continued since.  Today, on this morning, I wanted to honor Christy and her work.

Christy has been studying "Connection Parenting," the work of Pam Leo, and now offers classes, both in-person and in-teleconference, regarding Grief Recovery, Healing Loss, and Parenting Through Love Instead Of Fear.  Her web page, www.coreconnectparenting.com, is informative and her person is inspiring.  Although I am not yet a parent myself, one thing that I recognize now is that I could never raise my child with another person alone.  As it is, the power of community is vital to my emotional health and well-being.  I can only imagine how much more important it will become as my most intimate of tribes contintues to grow. 

For all you parents out here in virtural land, if you need someone to talk to, to provide constructive feedback, and even if you are looking to expand your circle of support, I highly recommend you look in Christy's direction.  She is an amazingly patient mother, a gifted communicator, and just an all around motivational human being. 

 

Recognizing the Shadow Self

A few posts back, I ruminated upon force.  I spent a week, or two, eschewing the word - contemplating its role in my life; actively discussing the topic with others; and then, finally, coming to a catharsis in which I recognized that there can be "good" in force.  However, what I neglected to mention in that posting was the shadow side of force - abuse.

I had to experience some of its affects, such as a loved one grabbing my arm in a forceful manner and then proceeding to emotionally berate me (I understood that this person's behavior was not personal, he was simply responding from a place of deep hurt and fear) before I made a long, overdue emotional break.  What was most poignant about these moments is how I, through my own processes of introspection, meditative thinking, and curious questioning, was learning to honor myself.  "I do not deserve that touch, nor do I deserve this behavior," was a deafening call that I had finally learned to both listen to and heed.  (Yes, at 32 years of age, I am just coming into my own.  Shall I be ashamed of this, or shall I revel in it?  Considering the fact that I now have over half a lifetime left to make different choices, I think I will choose the latter - thank you very much.)

However, this posting is not about abuse.  Rather, I wanted to write of the shadow self, especially in regards to how it relates to physical and sexual attraction.  If you have not already made the connection, I was referring to my now ex-partner in the above.  I do not share this because I want to convey any ill will towards the man.  Quite to the contrary, he is a beautiful, amazing being whom I love and care about deeply.  We simply were drawn together during a period in each of our lives when we were feeding the whims of our shadow selves on a daily basis.  After all, no one can "abuse" us unless we are actively abusing our selves first.   (Just as no one can set us "free," if we do not create our own liberation first.)

With that said, I have been a single woman again, after four years of a monogamous coupling, since July.  I have not spent this time looking outside of myself - for any thing.  My intentions, for the most part, have been focused inward - on a pursuit to teach myself how to fill ME up with all that I need so that I no longer project any longings in an outwardly direction or suffer through any ideas that what I seek is with/out.  What I have been doing is observing my whole self in motion, and noticing where my energy is drawn, to who, and why.   

Just this past weekend, two instances revealed themselves to me in which I noticed that I was once again, strongly and with animal force, attracted to a shadow self.  In the first case, I had been harboring painful feelings of attraction for another, for years now.  Yet, there has always been a schism in how this person and I interact.  On the dance floor, our engagement is flowing, intuitive, juicy, and generous.  However, in the day to day, our interactions are awkward, disjointed, and there appears to be a serious void when our bodies touch. 

Ironically, only a few months back, I noticed how split my own self seemed to be.  There was the me who moved around a dance floor with grace, ease, and lacking fear, and there was the me who moved around the "real world" deeply afraid of judgment, denial, and rejection.  I have been resolved, ever since, to mend this divide - to actively engage in as many moments of life from a place rooted less in fear and my vulnerable defenses and more from an open and expansive vulnerability that is softer, gentler, more yielding.

In this person, I also recognized my mirror image.  More specifically, I saw my fears of my own sexuality and sexual attraction reflected back.  What I mean by this is simple: for entirely too long now, I have been afraid to speak my desires, to give voice to that which I want.  Yet, I deserve (just as you do) to give myself the chance to receive.  Even if the receiving is a, "No, thank you.  I am not interested and I do not feel the same."  At the very least, this kind of feedback allows me to let go of my attachment and to move on with my feeling body. 
Next. 
If I do not verbalize my thoughts, however, then I am passing up on an opportunity for growth.  When I do not give voice to my authentic desires, then I am stunting my own well-being.   
No mas, por favor...

The second instance was more intensely charged for this other was a stranger with whom I spent a mere few hours in shared company.  In his eyes, I recognized my shadow self - my dark side that includes forcefulness, aggression, rigidity, and apathy.  I raised my piercing browns and met his, time after time and ignorant comment after ignorant comment.  There was no backing down.  There was only these two animals, meeting - with horns raised, hooves clashing, and nostrils panting.  It was pure, raw attraction.  It was potent.  And, it, he, invaded my dreams that night.  The force was truly that palpable.  It was...scary.

Scary because I could have very easily (fortunately circumstances did not, nor would not, allow for such a thing to happen) acted upon the desire.  The following day, however, after the two glasses of red wine had worn off, I once again came to understand that my own fear is still subconsciously affecting my carnal yearnings.  For, in each of these cases, I had been attracted to elements of me.  However, engaging with these sides of me on a more intimate level would do little to foster my own intrapersonal growth.  More than likely, what they would have provided is for me to continue running circles around myself, and hitting my head against the same old, closed door. 
No thanks. 
I'll pass.



         

   

 

Leftovers

(The following is from a letter, typed this morning.  I felt it conveyed a message that is pertinent to this arena.)



Remnants from last night that I must convey, express, and let go of:

What I heard you saying in regards to the, to MY, San Diego Dance Community
(a community, by the way, that is older than the both of us),
is that you feel unsafe and that you perceive a lack of depth as well as raw vulnerability within it.
Yes, you are entitled to your feelings and to being in your place of becoming
(wherever that is) while in our shared area. It is NEVER my intention to imply otherwise or
to "force" anyone else to feel, express, and experience, the way I do while in this arena.

However, I feel the need to speak up for this beloved community of ours - for this lifeblood of mine
that sustains and nourishes my emotional well-being on a weekly basis. I chose to speak up for
this sacred space last night by pointing out what I feel is a selfish lack of compromise, even though I knew
that by doing so I was potentially creating disharmony and sowing seeds of discontent.
In the moment, this did not feel good or comfortable - whatsoever. Nonetheless, I chose to defend something
I believe in - because, otherwise, my silence would have been a complicit act of enabling (enabling you to continue to sit in your place of judgment, criticism, and projection).

This morning, I am compelled to point out a number of glaring contradictions in your words and deeds.
There have been a number of occasions in which I have approached you, and you have completely blown me off. You have refused to even try to engage with me. Therefore, my body intuitively responds and chooses to give you a wide arc of personal space so that you can process through your own healing. Your non-verbal language has conveyed to me to stay back, and stand clear. Why, then, would I place my hands on you, and attempt to give you anything in terms of physical/emotional healing, when this is the clear message you are sending? Then, on the day when I was lying in the back changing room, suffering from my own physical pain, and when I could have used your healing hands, you chose to walk by me -
heading directly into the bathroom where you changed into a bathing suit top and looked at your mirror reflection - TWICE!

You judge my peers, my friends, my beloved community members, for their "lack of raw vulnerability," yet you do not understand that choosing to show up, week after week, to be present, and to allow others to bear witness to the process, is, in and of itself, raw vulnerability.

You judge me for my "little girl'ness" yet I am every inch a self-actualized and deep woman (even if I have serious room for improvement). I spoke up last night, and my words produced in you a desire to bite back - which you did - to protect your withering defenses. You even slapped my arm - twice. When I called you on it, you again responded from your vulnerable defenses. "I did not hit you," you retorted. I did not appreciate your touch, I did not deserve your touch in that way, or in that context. Still, you did not apologize for your actions.
Then, when you were reduced to tears because you were finally realizing that all of this is self-created
blocks that your mind uses to separate you from me, from us, you became tearfully emotional and I offered my hand, to your knee, softly, gently, to soothe, and to remind that I am here, and that I support you.

But then, I left angry! Angry that I was left feeling unsafe in your home, and at your hand. Angry to be judged when all of your judgments are mere reflections of that which you have yet to accept in yourself. And angry that, again, it felt selfish - that I, along with others, am merely invited in to your home, week after week, to bear witness to YOUR process. Going in to someone else's home and sharing feelings, deep seeded emotions, is yet another act of raw vulnerability. I can not help but to notice that you do not invite others to host the potluck at their homes. Who is really suffering from a lack of vulnerability here? Just because I do not cry, and well up physically with sadness, does not mean I am superficial, always playful, and somehow lacking depth. Quite to the contrary.

Last but not least, the innocence of play is direly needed in today's world. Playfulness, curiosity, and the generosity that is a result of these, is an integral part of my practice and will continue to be so.
Perhaps, you can learn to harness some of these life skills for yourself.

Lessons Learned From the Pulpit, Take I

More than likely, you, my dear reader, found me, my writing, and this blog, through my Facebook profile.  (Praise be, I doth do declare!)  As some of you may have noticed, I wield a dramatic flair for utilizing my status updates as a means to extoll my hard-earned philosophic meanderings as well as my nascent political hankerings.  The damn thing is like an American Idol microphone in my hands, as I belt out the bluesy news of the day or my unrequitted longing for a just future.

Last week, my physical being was assaulted by the sickening jargon of Bill O'Reilly as his hate-speak poured from the television in another room and into my vulnerable body.  I closed the door in an attempt to protect my withering self.  Nonetheless, I was dismayed and disappointed to note that the divisive fear of yesteryear was once again upon us, the American public.  The following day, I tuned in to my Facebook Homepage to discover that my like-mided peers had been posting links of photographs of uneducated U.S. citizens holding up badly misspelled placards that simply perpetuated the propaganda of the day.  (Something about Healthcare and Socialism.)

I was excited to report upon an ironic synchronicity that I discovered in a Tarot book.  As an artist, a large part of what I do is pay attention to story - the stories that have been told for milennia (such as astronomy, religion, & etc) and those that continue to be told today (of both woman and Earth as object, for example).  A boyfriend from my middle school days responded to my posting with an erratic missive.  It was as though those third-person postings that my peers had been virtually plugging into leaped into my real world, with full force.  How should I respond?  How could I respond?  Initially, my defenses flared and I wanted to bite back with poisonous venom.  Instead, however, I breathed in, and chose my words carefully (for they are, after all, a tool and they can be a weapon).

A few days after this encounter, I noticed that it was this same man's birthday.  I chose to wish him another happy trip around the sun.  He responded by writing that he had never thought of life in this way before.  "Keep wonderin', my man.  Keep wonderin'," was all I could encourage.

Here is to more honest American discourse.  May we passionately debate our beliefs while respectfully agreeing to disagree.  May we not fling mud, sticks or stones - especially when the privilege of education has only been granted to some.  May we quit with the guns, bombs, and wars and choose to meet in the middle - with an open heart, a soft hand, and a warm touch.

On Force

Why do I feel the need to rise to certain occasions and attempt to meet force with force?
Why can't I just allow the words and deeds of others to simply wash over me?
Why do I feel it is my job, my duty, to respond?

A few weekends ago, I became impatient and frustrated with my (now ex-) boy/friend.
Always living a few steps ahead of the now, he was excitedly entertaining thoughts of an impending future in which he will be living amongst Shaolin monks.  "This experience will be my Master's degree," he said.  "And, after I create my own Self Creation Studio, that will be my PhD."
"Why can't you just be here, now?" I forcefully cajoled.
My annoyance was palpable and it affected our ability to enjoy walking our shared dogs together at the beach.  Afterward, as I drove the distance back up north and away from the recently had experience, I started to feel pangs of guilt.
What was wrong with me?  Why couldn't I just let him be who he was, and for the moments to pass as they did?  Why did I feel the need to exert my will??

I called my sister to confide, but she wasn't available.  I managed what in the past would have become a full-blown panic attack as I continued along my merry way to Dance Church and beyond.  Life continued, as it always does.

Nonetheless, the topic stayed with me.  For, prior to this experience, I had a strange, and strained, encounter with my mother.  She was upset with me over some of the things that I had written in my graduate thesis.  "Some of those things just aren't true, Cara," she angrily proded.  She was referring to the time period when we lived in Canada, which is where I was born.  I had written of one of my earliest experiences of dancing to pop music and how both the rythym and the lyrics had carried me off on a life raft and away from the rage that could shake our home to its foundation.

My mother, knowing no different, simply emulated what she had witnessed in her father's parenting style.  She used fear to control her three children.  She was a domineering force, with a heavy hand.  She also suffered, as most of us do, from repressed anger and emotion.  It exploded out of her, in irregular bouts, knocking down her innocent young and then picking them up and dusting them off in shame.  "I wasn't angry until we moved here (to San Diego)," she wanted to believe.  "Well, that can be your story," I responded, "but it isn't mine or my siblings'."  She began to shake violently and, at one point, rose to her feet and walked over to where I was seated at the kitchen table, and behind my computer screen.  She jutted her round belly into my side, while looking down at me menacingly.  To disspell my own discomfort, I raised my shoulders to my ears, rolled my head around my neck, and made silly faces - channeling my little girl of old.  She bent down, with a serious grimace, and peered into my face.  I reached up, pursing my lips into a kissing position.  The moment quickly passed, and she moved on to tend to the laundry.  I, however, was left slightly unnerved.

Since then, she has shared with me that she was "only kidding" and that she thought I understood this.  "I thought we understood each other," she whined.
I don't know what I understand, to be quite honest.
Nonetheless, life moves on...

At Dance Jam, that Friday, a local dancer, who is one of the founders of my favorite post-modern dance collective (Lower Left), entered our space.  I had seen her just a month and a half before, but I had not witnessed her at our Barefoot Boogie weekly event ever (I think).  I was grateful for her presence.  She began with deep stretching - warming up the joints of her hips, knees, and ankles.  With fluidity, she bent into these soft places.  I wandered up to her, and greeted her with a soft hug.  She spoke of the tumult of her life, of late.  I mentioned my investigation of force.  With that word, she begin excitedly punching at the air and flinging her arms and legs into space.  She used this momentum to carry her around our shared arena, and I observed her moving in and out of full and flowing interactions with others for the remainder of the evening. 

Prior to her departure, she shared with me how she and her 8-year old son had been spending time together watching "Star Wars."  After the film, she openly discusses with her young and impressionable off-spring some of the themes from the futuristic sci-fi cult classic.  She then thanked me for shifting her intention in that space while I greedily accepted her offering of
"May the Force Be With You."

Indeed.

The more I contemplated the word, the more I realized that I was the one who was associating negativity with it.  Yet, the images that kept coming to mind were of Tiannamen Square and the man who sacrificed his body because he chose to stand up against an oppressive and initimadating force.  A similar and more recent story came out of Palenstine in which an American woman also used her body to take a stand against Israel's enforced settlements.  Surely, these two did not die in vain.  Surely, there is a ryhme and a reason to standing up for something one believes in, and for not backing down - even if the loss of life is imminent. 

Save the Breasts (and the Belly, and the Bootie)

It was a title off of the CNN homepage that caught my eye. A video about a topless celebration in Florida - not as titillating as I had hoped. Rather, what I had expected to discover was an expose about how Victoria's ultimate secret is that her shape-shifting bras, with their under wire of lift, are actually hazardous to women's mammary glands. Yes, people, you read me right. Those things that we are sold, and taught to believe are sexy, can actually kill us.

Instinctively, I have always listened to my body. I remember being barely 14-years-old and a freshman in high school. I had just passed the 100-pound marker and, yet, the children's size jeans that I had spent years residing in had increasingly grown too tight. One day, while wearing a pair of hip hugging and belly controlling pants, I was overcome by excruciating stomach pains. Although others offered the advice that it was 'just gas,' I knew that not only could I no longer wear these jeans but that I could not stomach to wear any item of clothing that restricted and restrained my waist. In college, my dance teachers would argue that I allow for my belly to hang out too far. "C'est la vie" was (and still is) my response, for my internal organs have got to breathe!

In high school, I also bought into the sexy allure of Victoria's Secret and her angels. However, it did not take long for my breasts to rebel. If you have ever worn under wire (which is literally a metal wire that is sewn into the bottom hem of a bra), then you have experienced the upthrusting lift that this ingredient adds to your bust line. More than likely, you have also experienced aching and sore breasts once you have removed said garment. After a few times of experiencing this, I said "to hell with it." In college, while visiting a dear friend's mother, I noticed a large amount of moles that had accumulated around her breasts. It was skin cancer, though benign at the time, and the doctor specifically told her that it was from the metal in her bras. Do I really need to point out current U.S. statistics which state that 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with cancer of the breast in their lifetime in order for us everyday commoners to connect the dots?

In a recent Vision magazine article with Patricia Bragg, the daughter of Paul C. Bragg - a man who is regarded as the father of the holistic health movement - Patricia was asked what some of the keys to longevity and health wealth were. Patricia, who looks to be a sprite 70-something year old but who is, in actuality, closer to 90, responded by saying "Burn Your Bras." Okay, she did not literally say this, but she may as well have for she iterated a lot of what I had intuited, and she also said that the constriction of bras, around the ribcage, was also damaging to women's health.

Over ten years ago, I began solely relying on sports bras to provide the support I needed for my active body. Although I was, at times, painfully aware that my sexual-economy had been reduced in the eyes of many because of this choice, I choose it anyway. These days, however, I've been enjoying going without any support, whatsoever. Mainly, I like to do it upon waking in the morning and when I go for ambling walks. My breasts seem to like it too, for my body has always had a mind of its own.

My almost 70-year-old mother is of the generation that likes to be up on Hollywood gossip. Her two-story home is full of trashy tabloids, from Star to People and, even, Vanity Fair. (Although, we could debate how crappy VF is. Annie Liebovitz is one if its famed photographers, after all. Hey, did anybody hear that Annie is verging on bankruptcy??) Recently, I came across a color cover and an over five page spread that screamed, "Cellulite! Who's Got It and Who's Beaten It!" Inside, there were microscopic, before and after shots of celebrity women's asses and thighs. Some of these women were barely even out of their teens! What pained me is that this is a region in my own body that I struggle with accepting. After all, I am sitting here, typing this, and, as a writer, I have done a lot of sitting in my lifetime. Sitting is not conducive for strong, shapely thighs and buttocks, however. What it is conducive for is realizing that the third wave of feminism is here - it is now!

People, there is a reason why pop culture and mainstream media feels the need to respond with cleverly devised missives that attempt to keep women in the stifling box of being seen but not heard. Our job now is to realize that these voices aren't our own and that we can make everyday choices that feel good and lead to long term health wealth. Your youth and beauty will fade, that is a given. Wouldn't you rather be alive and healthy to revel in what comes next? In regards to our thighs and legs, Patricia Bragg also recommends NOT crossing your legs while sitting - ever. There is a major artery that passes behind each one of our knees. It would serve you to not constrict this passageway.

Now, don't even get me started on deodorant.

(If it is an antiperspirant, RUN - run in the other direction. Personally, I don't even do deodorant anymore. There is something about clogging up the skin's pores (as the skin, our epidermis, IS the largest organ in our bodies) that doesn't sit right with me. I lived through a period of absolute stank (as well as not shaving my pits) in my mid-twenties. One of my peers thought I smelled like pine (bless you, Andrew!), but most others simply thought that I was just pure funk. Today, I rely on a crystal stick and I try to stay away from cotton (it absorbs moisture and stays wet). Just some helpful hints from little old me to you.)

On Community

It was an internal quiet that I had yet to truly experience in this space - a communal arena in which we gather to celebrate one another and this thing called 'life.' Yesterday morning, I tried to release a high pitch fervor of bounding energy and unbridled enthusiasm but it just wasn't forthcoming. Where ecstasy usually resides, sat a deep and pervasive quiet. Unaccustomed to this new site, I wondered, "How do I connect with others, which is my impetus for arriving into our weekly dance space, in this way and from this location - this site of dark fermentation and nutritious soil/soul/sole?"

Words and images found on a Tarot card resonated: the 5 of cups catching the charred remains of burned, illusory rainbows and the ashes of disappointment. I sat near our makeshift altar with my trusty companion, a black, cloth-lined binder, in my lap. I arranged myself, and drifted towards meditation. Before I fell into my own pulsating rhythm, my eyes fell upon another - Christy. She was sitting across the room, with her back against a corner wall, breathing in, eyes closed. I stood up, and sauntered gently over to her side. I slid my back up against the same white wall. I arranged my legs, crossed, underneath me, placed my right hand on her knee, and joined her. In silence. In breath.

Soon, I felt the presence of another. I did not open my eyes. I only sensed, heard, felt and intuited. Following my same footsteps from only minutes before, he sidled up, his long torso erect and extending upwards. He placed his right hand on my left knee. We three now sat there, breathing in, eyes closed, exhaling on sound, releasing. Her left hand on my right knee. My right hand on her left knee. My left hand on his right knee.

Next, I became acutely aware that our trio had expanded. Another being had placed himself, sitting on the wood floor, legs crossed underneath him, directly across from me. I did not open my eyes. I sensed, felt, and intuited, our growing union. Together, the four of us, Christy, myself, Samuel, and William, breathed in. Together, we intoned - our voices, hymns, and lullabies, drifted up in sweet grace. Our songs, released from a deep dark, emerged. Twirling on air currents and dancing in delight. Spinning, dipping, gliding, motioning.

Then, we laughed. Deep, guttural guffaws. Light and airy tee-hee-hees, and forced, maniacal jest. The emotion, the swelling, the vulnerability poured forth. It was uncontrollable. It was raw. It was here, it was now. And, it was over. "Time to dance!" Christy chirped. And we stood, to usher in the end of another Dance Church session.

In retrospect, what I savored most about this experience was how I intuitively knew who was joining our union without having to see. Without opening my eyes, I knew.
A primal intimacy was shared, enjoyed, experienced, and then released.

"Lessons Learned"

Last Sunday morning, I awoke early for mango mimosas shared in the company of Sara, Ann, Greg, and Alice. We spoke of Goddard, art, theory, and more, as the sun rose over the Inlet and as the organic fluid emptied itself of one container, into another. From there, we all parted ways. I ambled over to the Madrona Mind and Body Institute, an old refurbished gymnasium that serves as one of the heartbeats for the Port Townsend community. At 10am, this vibrant group of Pacific Northwesterners celebrates with a dance church that they call "SoulMotion." On the hardwood, lacquer floors, I reveled in the opportunity to warm up my aching body (it had been a whirlwind trip, and I had yet to really take the time to stretch). I attempted to connect with the three dozen, or so, other bodies that were in the space - with my eyes, my body, my senses, and my spirit. I tried to work through my own tension, stress, anxiety, and blocks. I moved with the sun's warm rays as they filtered in from eastern facing windows. I observed 'pain' sitting around the region of my solar plexus (in the center of my chest and near my heart.) I recognized that time spent absorbing some of my parent's (and my own) disrespect affected me and brought some discomfort. I breathed in, and sang in
to the deep,
dark,
inner recesses
of
the
smallest
little
me.
And, I felt so much better.

By 11am, I was distracted by thoughts of my impending graduation ceremony (I had 30 minutes until the day I had spent the past four years building towards finally culminated). It was time,
to depart,
to move,
to leave,
to locomote,
to open another door and walk through it.

Here is where the lesson learned comes into play. On Saturday, after my presentation, I felt strange, odd, funny, and I could not understand my feelings. Maybe, I felt like a bride - so much anticipation for something that is over in a mere matter of minutes? Or, was it something else? I began to realize that I felt hollow, empty, needy. I wanted, I craved, I NEEDED, feedback, approval, advice, a pat on the back from the powers that be - from my advisors, and from these authority figures whose external voices will most certainly light and guide my way.

On Sunday morning, I expressed some of this to Deb. Deb then turned to Ellen and said, "Cara needs some feedback, Ellen." Ellen responded with the exact same words that she had offered up to me the day before, immediately on the heels of my presentation. "That was so generous, Cara," she had said. "Thank you," I responded. "You have just given me the absolutely best feedback because generosity IS a major part of my practice." Somehow, I had forgotten this little exchange.

In recent contemplation of these events, I recalled one of my first interactions with San Diego's hottest Swing dancer, Meeshi. After he inquired about my planetary alignment, he shared with me how my chart indicates that I struggle with the voice of authority, and that I need to learn to listen to my own voice. "Ha!" my defenses flared as I responded with a sweep of my hand. "I am actually just the opposite - rebellious," I defiantly claimed.

Yet, here was proof that I was still seeking outside myself, that I was still waiting for someone else to tell me that "your work is amazing, and worth sharing. Yes, you achieved your goal of engaging in a contact dance with the work that you had created, as though it truly were another living, breathing, being. You have talent, and your voice is needed in this world."

Indeed, this is what I have learned.
That I can choose to believe
that I have succeeded
that I can dig down
deep
breathe, feel, sense, and look inside
and KNOW
FEEL
this
all of this
because it all is
(true)























(and, it all isn't)

Practice, Take II...

The Practice is...

Presenting Myself

to as many moments as I possibly can.

Turning and facing

listening and breathing

feeling and sensing.

The practice is...

ongoing, and daily.

The practice is easy to





forget.

Yet, the practice is simple.
It is nothing more
than the breath
a breath
this moment
now.
This is the practice.
See -
it's easy.

Practice...

After my graduating presentation, I attempted to share the surrounding terrain of Fort Worden, including the Pt. Wilson Lighthouse and its nearest Battery, to my parents, but their aging knees made for an uncomfortable stroll. We soon headed back to the hotel, where I dropped them off at the inn near the tides, changed my clothes, and returned to the scenic state park that I had just left. It was time to pay my dues, and my respect, to the land - this land that had fed and nourished me on numerous occasions.

Before turning up towards Artillery Hill, Laurie and I crossed paths. We shared a word or two, and a quick conversation, before I began traversing the sloping hill, walking below towering pines and breathing in the dense foliage of fern leaves and fermenting soil. I strolled above century-old batteries, their thick walls of ashen cement built into verdant green cliffs sitting directly above the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There, on a western facing overlook, I breathed in - the views, the scents, the sounds, the moment - and I began to rock and sway with the energy, as well as with the landscape and the horizon. Soon, I took a break, attempting to capture these moments on two separate cameras, but neither worked.

From there, I meandered over to Memory's Vault, a poetry garden built into the forest side. Rectangular, cement pillars forever entomb the etched engravings of poets, present and past. The sculptures pay homage to ancient Japanese folklore, with an emperor's throne facing an impenetrable portal. Over to the threshold, comprised of three, angular stone blocks, I found myself. It was here where I recited an embodied poem, "I am the wind whispering in your ear, and I am the cold chill shaking its finger in you face...I am the sonnet of a time now past, I can be the word and I can be the page...I am the everything with all that I am, and I am the nothing wit all that I am not."

Again, I moved with the words, with the way the sounds escaped from my lips, with the dance of my song as it moved through the air, the trees, and the land. A private presentation for the the birds, the insects, the Earth, the connection, the relation, the relating, the relationship.

I HAVE ARRIVED.
I HAD ARRIVED.
I AM HERE.
I AM NOW.
I AM PRESENT.
I AM EVERLASTING.



I took my bow, and made my leave. Back down the hill, from above and behind the beach campsites I emerged. Dusk was drawing near. My pattering footfalls led me over to the beach, where I strolled along the Admiralty Inlet. My thoughts also wandered, to any where but here. To the moments just had, to future engagements, to some where else. So, I would

stop


turn

and

face

the water.

I'd breathe in and note
the

silence

the stillness.

I would present

myself
to the moment at hand
to life as it is now.

Then, I'd turn and keep going. For darkness had fallen, and I made my way back...

Excerpts, Continued

In those moments, of breathy expansiveness and of airy improvisation, I remember:
Pulling myself across the paper, across the floor, while gazing up and directly into Deb's eyes; looking up at Monique, who had entered a cue early and witnessing the recognition of this fact as it illuminated her eyes; while speaking the "I am the sun" line, Deb and I both motioning to each other with outstretched arms; gliding over to the piano and gently directing, with a finger to my lips, for Greg to bring the decibel level of the piano down; forgetting a few words of my poem, such as the whole "I am a performer, taking center stage," paragraph, and the "I am the philosophy major.." line; rolling over my shoulder, a number of times, and performing some arm-pressing, handstand like movements; and looking directly into almost every one of my audience member's eyes (hmmm... the juiciest, best part).

At my poem's conclusion, I backed my way off of stage and around behind the audience. Monique stepped forward and read her excerpt. She became choked up over the lines, "the story is the heart of the matter. My story, your story, Cara's story - ourstory." She then invited the audience over to the program-making station. I requested not to have a program for my graduation ceremony, which was to be held on the following day. Instead, Monique invited the audience to make their own program using the excerpts, of images, exercises, and prose, from my portfolio that I had strategically placed around the room, along with ribbon, scissors, glue, and writing utensils. The visual artists were already off, and on the job, creating phenomenal pieces of art. Richard made a bow tie using the black and white copy of the "Eve" sequence, which he then wore to my graduation the next day.

Whitney then stepped forward and invited the audience over to the portfolio station where she spoke of the metaphorical structure of this body of work. Jessica then pulled a CD from my portfolio and spoke of my community dance practice and of my heartfelt philosophy: "That there is no one right way to dance." (Or, to live.) She then invited everyone back to the dance floor where everyone was welcome to dance to the diverse mix CD that she had created for the occasion.

Back on the vinyl floor, Petra had rolled herself over and lowered herself onto the smooth surface. Her and I then engaged in a contact dance, demonstrating to those watching what contact can look like between two people. Bonnie, Laiwan, and myself shared a nice moment together, of a twirl here and a spin there. Jess grooved like the wild woman she is. People talked, and hung out. I got people up and dancing. Alaina had her camera on hand, and when she tired I picked it up and danced around the space with it, snapping photos along the way. Laiwan joined Deb, Greg, and David, in beating out pulsating rhythms to the dance tunes. It was splendid and perfect. Then, Laiwan's workshop began, people left the building, and the music petered out. And life continues.. just as it always does.

"Excerpts on Process, Practice, Portfolio, & Performance"

In order to receive that lil' slip of white paper (aka an MFA degree), I had to make, at least, a half hour presentation to my peers, advisors, and Goddard community. Over the past four years, I have attended more graduation presentations than I can count on both hands. I've seen dances, I've attended galleries, I've watched films and Powerpoint narratives, and I've heard concerts as well as soon-to-be graduates read directly from their portfolios. One of my favorite graduating student presentations, however, was Tiffany Lee Brown's.

TIff had her 'audience' dress up in red and then she asked a few of her peers to take the group on a meandering tour of the landscape surrounding Fort Worden. Ann and Kristine created found-art sculptures, while Nancy was in the process of doing so, along the way. Jess was the audible guide, while Emily served as the visual cue that kept the group moving forward. I was to be found, inverted in a shoulder stand, at the ocean's edge and on a cement jetty where I united the horizon with the foreground. As we walked along the sun-lit shore, the visiting sunbathers gazed at us and wondered what this large group in red was up to. Children followed behind our little parade, and were heard saying, "What are they doing?" and "I want to go, too." We continued following the ambling coastline, until we reached the Battery just adjacent to the Pt. Wilson lighthouse.

Winding our way through the multi-leveled, stone bunker, we created a soundscape of drifting lullabies and haunting echoes within one of the darkened chambers. Emily and I danced, with each other, with the hard stone below our feet, and with the warm rays of the sun. Ellen stirred an invisible cauldron, after which Tiff emerged from a hidden compartment to take her place within the welcoming womb at the center of our gathered crowd. Her presentation was called 'Seeds.' As a woman who has never given birth (nor was ever expecting to), Tiff was exploring this cultural taboo while also metaphorically associating it with the devastation of Easter Island and its native inhabitants. She was also investigating creation and the birth of creative work. Prior to her presentation, she had requested that our community make something representative of these 'Seeds.' She planned on traveling to Easter Island the following year, and taking these Seeds with her. That was a year ago. Tiff has been taking her ideas on the road with her - traveling around, from the east coast to the west, presenting, talking, making, and creating. She has yet to make it to Easter Island, however. You can check Tiff's work out at magdalen.com

Finally, one full year later, it was my turn to take the spotlight. I had requested extra time so that a DanceJam could follow on the heels of my presentation, and I also enlisted the help of a number of my peers. At 3pm, last Saturday, the Goddard community was ushered into the USO building (an old performance hall that has a wooden stage at the back and a vinyl floor placed squarely in the middle of the old carpeting). Greg was on the piano, diligently creating moody melodies while Deb was improvising with her voice. Plucking up excerpts from my portfolio, she hummed tunes to words that I had penned in the past. "On the brink," she sang. "On the brink." She also had a wide array of music makers (shakers, recorders, & more, some of which were borrowed from my Dance Church community in San Diego) to add to the overall ambiance. At the center, back of the vinyl flooring, and just below the towering stage, sat two chairs draped in black fabric. A microphone towered over them. Deb and Greg were positioned just to stage right of these, while the audience sat around on each side of this makeshift stage.

After the audience was well positioned, and the space had been sufficiently warmed up by the musical talents of Deb and Greg, David emerged from the audience holding a thick stack of white papers. He stepped onto the fabric-draped chairs and began to read from the manuscript in his hand. After thanking the audience for their presence, he began. "Human story is the fabric of our existence," his steady voice called out. He read the first page and a half of the introduction from my portfolio. "Make the best life story for yourself that you possibly can." He repeated it again, and again. At his conclusion, he tossed the script up into the air with a flourish and the white papers scattered, and fluttered, down down down. He stepped off of the chairs and began to walk a dramatic half-circle around to the back of the chairs. Meanwhile, Monique had entered, from the audience as well, and she bent down to the ground and picked up a sole piece of yellow paper. David tilted the chairs backward, towards himself and the stage, and I rolled out and onto my strewn portfolio. I entered into a contact dance with the body of work that I had spent the past four years crafting. I slid, spin, and glided across the papers, across the floor.

David and Monique stood watching, off to the left, while Greg accompanied my movement on the piano, and Deb improvised right along with me, her voice twirling with my body, as she stood watching from the right corner. Then, I began to speak a text, my text, an untitled poem that captures what I feel is an essence of embodiment.
"I am the grass on a cool, autumn, day," my voice called out. "I am the sun, radiating warmth and heat."...
"I can be me on any given whim, and I can be you without having to be told to."...
"I am the moment, I am the kiss, I am the "yes" falling from your lips, I am the perfect reflection."