As a college sophomore, my dance professor was consistently calling upon me to “drop my chin.” “Drop your chin, Cara.” “Cara, drop your chin!” I had accrued this unbecoming habit during four years of performing for audiences on football fields and on basketball courts. We were taught to look up and at the judges, people who sat in the announcer’s booths red-penning our every move, drop, and formation.
As a modern dance major, it took me an entire year to embody the understanding that the crown of my head was not above my eyebrows and forehead, as I had so erroneously believed. Rather, it was found towards the back of my head, where the tallest peak sits (above, and just behind the ears).
By taking a finger and placing it on this point, I imagine that I am growing upwards and extending beyond this apex, my finger, and even the ceiling. With simple imagery, I continue this infinite, imaginary line as it moves through the earth’s atmosphere, and out into space.
Even now, as I sit here on a plush leather seat, tucked in front of a wooden desk where the computer I am typing upon is perched, I mentally image this simple exercise, and my chin drops, closer to my chest. My uppermost spine becomes fully extended, with greater length found in between the first seven cervical vertebrae. I nod my head, from right to left and back again, sending silent signals to a fantasy audience. I shake my head, up and down, down and up. Without using words, I have conveyed meaning. I have accepted proposals, and denied accusations. I have agreed to term limits, while vigorously upholding prior mandates. I have laid the foundation for the free world. And I have yet to move from my chair.
