Sunday, August 30, 2009

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.)

Monday, August 24, 2009

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.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

"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...

Thursday, August 20, 2009

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."

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Diving Into Embodiment


Those four weeks proved to be the penultimate pressure. Finally, I realized that I am an embodiment artist. "On the Brink: Diving Into Embodiment" flowed fairly well after that. There was less force needed, ya know? However, it wasn't until this past week when I truly understood the title.
For, it was I who was on the brink.
On the brink of emotional insecurity, or rejoicing as a free spirit.
On the brink of self-imposed isolation, or reveling in joyous community.
On the brink of not finishing graduate school, or finally graduating.
On the brink of not being a rigorous student, or being the disciplined artist I am meant to be.

And it is I who am (still) on the brink.
On the brink of financial obscurity, or success.
On the brink of personal narrative, or published prose.
On the brink of continuing to knock my head against the same door, or opening up and walking through another.
On the brink of responding from my vulnerable defenses, or being majestically open to the rawness of vulnerability.
On the brink, indeed.

Yes, we could debate whether or not it has been my self-esteem that has made my MFA journey so long. (1.5 years longer than the program is stipulated.) But, why bother? For, I have finally recognized that what I want more than anything in this life is to move around this world as I glide along a dance floor - gracefully giving and generously unafraid to offer myself up to the moment. Then, moving on to the next moment - irrespective of what may come.

To this end, I am glad that I stuck with Goddard and its Interdisciplinary Arts higher education degree program. As one of my roommates from my time spent on the Plainfield campus once shared with me, "It is the most expensive therapy that you will ever give yourself." I am so grateful to have spent the past weekend offering myself up at my graduation presentation and ceremony in Port Townsend, and to now, be home again in San Diego, where I feel thoroughly entrenched in a thriving, vibrant community.

Yes, I still have my own personal b.s. and issues to deal with, but I am more than ready to face the challenges that lay ahead. For, I now have hope on my side.
No longer do I feel trapped by my own skin and bone. Rather, i revel in this party - of being here, now. Of being able to reach out and touch others. One day, all too soon, I will be released from this body and this life, and I will once again experience pure energy. But, I won't be able to contain it. I won't be able to kiss another, or gaze at a rising sun. I won't be able to smell fresh baked apple pie, or hear a Michael Jackson dance tune that makes my legs want to move. I won't be able to taste sweet fruit fresh from the tree. Indeed, this time now is precious.

So, this is the hope that I now take with me.
A hope that what we have now is perfect - it's enough.
And a hope that I am open and expansive to what comes,
even if what comes is my own untimely demise...

Coming 'Round Full Circle, Take II


After attempting to breathe through a break in my studies, I resumed my Goddard career in the spring of '07. Back again to Vermont, I flew, even though the action made me nauseous and, while there, all I wanted was to not be there. But, I tried - to re-focus and be excited. This time, I was placed in the group of an advisor who lived in San Diego (and taught at UCSD). However, this person emphatically stated, early on, that she did not want to have a physical relationship with me. Rather, I just dropped my five packets off in a mailbox that was situated within a stucco wall that blocked the passer-by's vision from the decrepit yard that lay on the other side. This was my official third semester and it was time for me to create and embody a practicum. Although my Goddard advisors were advising that "Cara not be in charge of, or lead, any groups," I jumped into my role as facilitator. I began leading weekly meditation, movement, exercise, and dance, classes to a group of over 20+ senior citizens at a residential facility in North Park.

Ah, my friends at Cathedral Arms. Truly, it is they who saved me. My work and time spent with them was exactly what I needed. It was all I could focus on that semester. According to my advisor, however, it was not enough demonstration of an arts practice for the MFA degree. Thus, I was told that I would have to perform another semester of study prior to writing my portfolio.

In the fall of 2007, I transferred from the Plainfield campus to the new site that had just opened up on Fort Worden State Park in Port Townsend, Washington. I never envisioned that I would make this move, it just came down to convenience in the end. But this move was exactly what any doctor would have ordered. My first year in Port Townsend was awe-some. I wanted to be there - amongst the pine scented breezes of the Pacific Northwest; on a historic, military outpost that was not only for our program; and in a smaller, more intimate community (we began with around 20 students). That school year, which included the fall of '07 and the spring of '08, went along swimmingly. I was back on track.

Back at home, my life was mirroring this transition, as well. I found myself back within the DanceJam community, in which I had begun teaching a weekly Contact Dance class to my peers. Dance Church also became a regular part of my practice, and I began taking advantage of our weekly Tuesday night space as a means to dive deeper into my process. By the time the fall residency of '08 had rolled around, I thought I was ready. I had even brainstormed a great idea for the structure of my portfolio. Because my spine is quite literally the backbone of my work as a movement practitioner, I sought to shape my portfolio with this structure in mind. However, upon hearing this plan of mine, one of my long-standing professors, said: "That's so western." (She was referring to how I was forcing my will upon my portfolio, rather then just letting it organically evolve from deep listening and an expansive breathiness. I get this now. At the time, however....)

Then, I presented a workshop. My goal had been to have a contact dance with the body of work that I had created over the past three years. My participants were led into the wood-floored workshop space, pulled along by a blue and white string that they were grasping onto with closed eyes. In a large spiral, I had laid out excerpts of my work from my many semesters of study for them to hold, touch, feel, read, and watch. I asked them to choose something that resonated and then we had a round table discussion about the work, my work, and what it meant to me, to them, and to us. Yet, at the conversation's conclusion, one of my peers ambled up to me and said, "So, I've seen your work, Cara. But I still don't get what it is you do." "What do you do?" he sweetly inquired. I was stumped. I didn't know, and I didn't have an answer. Ouch, this hurt.

Yes, I knew that I am an interdisciplinary artist who predominantly focused on dance/movement, writing, and digital media, but what was the connecting thread? I didn't know. So, I focused on living and what a grand fall it was. However, my advisors were not impressed by the rough draft that I did not have by the third packet due date. When I finally turned in a rough draft of the portfolio, at the end of the semester, I was understandably told, "You can do better, Cara." Ai, yai, yai. Oh goddess. Again? Yup, this time I was told I had to take a four week extension and I missed the spring '09 residency. I missed a peer's graduation, as well as meeting new advisors and students. C'est la vie...

Coming 'Round Full Circle



It all began in the fall of 2005, when I was eager to begin a new journey as well as the process known as 'graduate school.' Upon arrival at the green Goddard campus on a humid July day in Plainfield, Vermont, I merrily strolled through the adjacent woods as I hopped along from the iconic Clocktower to the expansive Library. This summer week was chock full of forging new connections with a myriad of talented musicians, performers, and visual artists, from across the U.S. We were a large community (of over 100 people) of interdisciplinary artists and we came together in the dining hall, and elsewhere on our quaint school grounds, to hob knob, rub elbows, intellectualize about art, plan our studies, and meet with mentors.

As the unwavering routine of that first residency played out, I became acutely aware of the idiosyncracies and unique quirks of our MFA program. Just like anything else, improvements could be made. In example, it could not be agreed upon as to what kind of school we were. Some argued that we weren't an art school, yet we always included an art gallery in our week long gatherings. Student presentations ran the gamut - from hastily thrown together to well-thought out. Thus, a few of us questioned what we felt was a lack of subjective standards applied to all students - across the board. Nonetheless, it was the people who defined the program. Today, after four years of this process, a question still remains, however. "How do we create a diverse program that honors each individual's distinct voice?"

My first semester was productive yet I was painfully aware of how small my world, back in San Diego, was. I could count on my fingers the total amount of people who made up my weekly community members. My own self-imposed isolation had hit an extreme note. When I followed up on a peer's scathing email to the entire Goddard community, at the end of that fall season, it was not my intention to hurt or anger others. At that time, I felt that was I simply trying to present an unbiased viewpoint of my experience. I also felt that I was attempting to contextualize my peer's criticism (he had referred to Goddard as the lint at the bottom of the graduate school washing machine but he never said why he felt this).

The anger and resentment at the following, spring residency was palpable. It was a silent storm, brewing just below the surface. There were no attempts made, by the advisors, faculty, or leaders, to create a safe space where our community could come together to address all of the emotions and to attempt a dialogue about what had transgressed. (Aside from some bizarre opening forum in which a few invited members of the community went on stage to share why discourse was not a relevant word for our 21st century community. 'Discourse,' by the way, was the word that I chose to use in my pages long email.) Instead, a malignant tumor began festering. I continued to crawl deeper into my own hole, even as I tried to look forward to my new advising group and to a new year, semester, and teacher, as well.

Upon my first meeting, with said teacher, I shared fresh insights and where my artistic work had taken me over the course of the past semester (I had begun to work with the metaphor of how a forest needs fire in order to grow). After which I was told to "Get real." I was not offered any context for why this was said or what was meant by it. (And, at the time, I did not have the courage to ask.) It was the most confounding thing. Especially when I had to sit back and watch as one of my peers bought in to the whole objectification of her person as she made numerous hot, and sexy costume changes when she performed the role of MC for the habitual, residency Cabaret night. There were also the advising group meetings during which we would walk along the scenic campus discussing ideas of 'consumption of the self' only to then return to the library, where said individual sat in a plush, leather chair and snapped self-portraits of her gorgeous face. Perhaps, this was "real" for her. (????)

Now, I was angry and now I did not have any outlets for my emotion. I began to suffocate. I crawled deeper into my relationship, desperately hoping that this would provide a way out. As for my arts practice, I had no focus and no discipline. It was impulsive, and whimsical. Upon my return home, my boyfriend and I would disappear from San Diego often - to go camping, snowboarding, wherever. We just didn't want to be "here" and, together, we fed this bad habit of each of ours. I barely followed through on this second semester and I hardly made it to the following summer residency. I was an emotional mess, but I tried again - to be positive and excited about a new start, a new semester, and a new advisor.

After sharing a written piece with my fall '06 advising group, my role model responded by saying that she didn't understand why I had chosen to share what I did. (Early on, I felt that there was a desire to box me into a "dancer" label. And, I have never been just a dancer.) Then, when I went in to visit with her, one-on-one, she invited in a man whom I did not know (the Director of Student Affairs) to tell me that she thought I needed therapy. "Well, geez, thanks. But, seeing as how I am spending close to 20 g's a year for this program, I simply cannot afford the additional expense." Good thing the Director of Student Affairs was there - he offered no hard solutions, only his flimsy business card (with a Vermont area code, no less).

After making my G3 presentation during that residency, my advisor from the semester before offered this advice: "Forget the painting of masks on palm bark," she said. "It's distracting." Suffice it to write, I withdrew from my studies that semester. And, I climbed farther into my relationship. Of course, neither of these were wise decisions. Both mine and my partner's anxiety had us literally crashing his Volkswagen into a telephone pole along a winding road in the mountains east of San Diego. I had no sense of boundaries. I allowed him to pull my hair, and be abusive in other, less obvious, ways. Yes, I was sick. Yes, I needed help. Sometimes, though, time is the best healer of all.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

“We Should All Play Dress-Up More Often”


As women, we are coerced into believing that the pinnacle of play is a white wedding day. Lulled into sweet lullabies of horse drawn carriages and sword wielding princes, we spend hours fantasizing, scheming, and planning, for that one perfect moment when we will be the belle of the ball, donning our glass slippers and running for the chapel as the clock strikes twelve. Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
Our fathers walk us down the rose-petaled aisles of this final curtain call. Soon enough, we are bearing mini-me daughters - little girls who we channel all of our pent-up need to play dress-up into. In them, we pour a desire to pretend that our reality is just one choice among many.
If I were a bride (which I’m not, but planning a wedding has got me thinking about it), I would wear a little white or black hat with white netting covering half of my face. I’d play a role. I’d be someone else - someone who, perhaps, I once knew. Or, maybe, I once was, and have long since forgotten. I’d play the fool, and I’d play the clown. I’d play the myriad of ways with which there are to move through space and time, because there is more than just one way.
So, ladies, grab your partners and head out to a local establishment. Appear to arrive alone, not together. Don an alias - your Leia and he’s Hans - and pretend you’re strangers. You bump into each other at the bar, and the façade continues. You flirt. He buys you a drink. You exchange these new names, and begin down a road of pithy, small talk. You try to get to know this new other. Who is he?
Most importantly, who are you? Who is this character that you are playing? What is her name? How does she move? How is she different from you? How is she the same?
For, playing dress-up is integral to the life of all human beings. We all need to knock ourselves out of our comfortable repetition and back into the magical realm of intuition, of listening to what comes. What does come? What does that voice whispering in your ear say? Mine just said, “Breathe.”
I play dress-up, and I think we’d all be happier in our everyday lives if we all played dress-up more often.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

5 Instant Tips To Be Happier Now

Yes, I admit it. CNN is one of the news sources that I look to, for the latest, breaking news, online. Thus it is how I came across the fine establishment's posting, of almost the same name, yesterday. Yet, for some reason or other, I could not relate to the author's suggestions. Suffice it to type, I thought I would write 5 tips (instead of 10, because less is best), and then provide what CNN, & Gretchen Rubin, posted in their article [in brackets.]

As you may have noticed, I have not posted to this here blog in months. The short of it is that I have been living through a period of tumultuous transistion, and this most recent phase was not initially comfortable. In fact, it was quite the opposite - uncomfortable and awkward. Thankfully, I have since broken on through to the other side. What's more is that this breaking through has been years in the coming.

My story comes complete with a full mental break down that included a large dose of anxiety followed by a hollow depression. It also includes moments in time when I was, literally, stalking the man I was dating. I'm not proud, I'm just telling it like it was. There is much more that I could tell but I will refrain from overloading your senses with my story. I simply mention these things to let you know that this new place in which I have now arrived feels so damn good. It is a site from where I now move through the world with a confidence that I had been sorely missing for most of my adult years. And, it is a location that I have actively sought to create by implementing the 5 tips that I will impart below into my daily life.

So, in other words, I am resolutely credentialed and professionally licensed to impart such advice as to "5 Instant Tips for You to Be Happier Now." Now, on to the list:


1.) Sit Down. Breathe. Actively Un-Do.
Relax Into the Quietude, and the Silence. Find Stillness.


I'm serious, people. We live in a technocratic society and an information culture that encourages passivity and distraction, overworking and over thinking. We are not encouraged or inspired to sit down, to actively breathe, relax, and take honest stock of where we are in space, and time.

"Where are you? How do you feel?"

Do it, now. As you sit here, reading the words on this screen. Breathe in, through your nose, a deep inhalation. In in in in in in in in in in. Now, breathe out. A deep exhalation, out through your nose. Out out out out out out out out out out.
Now, do it again. And, again. Keep doing it. C'mon, two more minutes.

See? You already feel better, lighter, & happier, now.

Do this again, tonight, before you go to sleep. Sure, you can do it in bed. Then, tomorrow, discipline yourself to get up 10, 15, 30 minutes early, before the spouse and the children come a calling and before the morning coffee needs to be brewed. Begin slow, and easy. Look at the clock, say "It is _am, and I am going to sit here, on this comfortable chair, with my spine erect and my feet in full contact with the floor below me, and I am going to breathe for the next 10 minutes." Listen to the sound of the molecules and gases as they accumulate and pass in through your nostrils, down the back of your throat, filling up and expanding your lungs, ribcage, and even your belly. With your breath, your goal is to aim for a longer and longer inhalation and exhalation. Just like your mission is to gradually extend the amount of time that you dedicate, daily, to this practice.

By honing and honoring this place of silence within you, which is the dark soil of nutrients from where everything in your life springs forth, you will become acutely attuned to what it is that feeds you, and you will be more readily able to move on to tip #2.

[Don't start with profundities.] (What are profundities, anyway? And, who begins a top 10 list about happiness with a "Don't?")


2.) Do What You Love!!!!!!!!!

Although this sounds simple, it is actually quite difficult. Finding out what it is you love to do - which, more than likely, isn't just one thing, it is a whole laundry list - requires time, space, and dedicated energy. For me, it meant that I had to duck out of the social scene altogether (which wasn't feeding me on a deeper level) and spend time alone - on Friday and Saturday nights, no less.

When I granted myself permission to do my own thing, I paid attention to how I filled this time up - long, moonlit walks; doodling, drawing, and making art; singing; star gazing; you get the picture. I would also actively write, think, and wonder about my feelings, actions, and choices, and then I would document my experiences (usually through writing, though photography, or painting, work too).

Discovering what it is that feeds your soul and refills your spirit is an investment. Think of it as investing in your education, or even your house. Yes, you are worth every penny. Ultimately, this is the best model that we can provide for our children and for the generations that are to follow in our footsteps. Sometimes, in order to find out what it is we love to do we need to do step #3.

[Do let the sun go down on anger.] (This is sage advice. I will come back to it in tip #5.)


3.) Turn off the television, the radio, and even the computer. Cover up the mirrors. And ignore the billboards, magazines, and newspapers.

When I recall the time in my life when I was most at home in my own body, I remember living in close relationship to the land, eating meals outside everyday, living simply and simply living, and not being assaulted by media or my own image, daily. The comparisons that can plague my life - of how I am somehow not attractive because I do not look like the images of femininity that western media sells, for example - seemed to fade, and shift. A reverential sense for my own beauty began to grow as I witnessed myself: overcoming adversity (of not being accepted by my peers, in example), and rising to a challenge (of learning a new skill, such as Canadian canoeing). What I physically looked like began to take a back seat to how I responded to and moved through the world.

[Fake it till you feel it.] (???????!!!!! Feel it. Feel it. Feel it. Life sucks, sometimes. It can be hard and painful. Cry your eyes out, and laugh your heart out. It is all we can do to survive.)

4.) Get your hands dirty.

Metaphorically, get involved. It may be with a local non-profit that shares a love of meditation with school-aged children. Or, perhaps it is in calling the cops on the domestic violence situation that has been on-going, for months now, in the apartment above you. Whatever it is, push yourself through your fears (of feeling awkward, new, unknowing, and uncomfortable) and into the realm of the unknown - you never know what you will discover.

Literally, take ownership of the land that you live upon even if you do not "own" it. Rake leaves, churn soil, prune trees, pull weeds - dig down deep into the Earth's rich crust. Maybe, you will even be inspired to plant your own garden and grow your own vegetables, herbs, and other edibles that you can prepare in the comfort of your own kitchen.

[Realize that anything worth doing is worth doing badly.] (A garden is worth doing, even if your green thumb ends up being more black and the best you can do is to produce a local weed in great abundance - as is usually my case.)

5.) Lastly, let go of "the story."

By this I mean, all of the "he said, she said," as well as all of the hurts and mistakes that can grow up around our long-term relationships. Let go of what happened yesteryear. Let go of the fact that you were an unloved, and rejected child, and that your parents didn't give you all that you deserved. Let go of the societal expectations and pressures. For me, I have been working on letting go of my story of being woman and being objectified. (Please note that I wrote "working on" because all we can do in this life is to keep trying!!!)

Let go of your desire to be "successful." Let go of the need to prove yourself.
Let go, and breathe.
Come back to tip #1.
This is all you need to hold onto - this breath, this moment,
this small, uninterrupted you.

[Don't treat the blues with a "treat."] (Treat everything with a treat and make your treat your breath!)



Yes, it is this simple. Of course, you still need to work to pay the bills, and take care of the minute details that fulfill all of the responsibilities that you have created in your life. These 5 simple tips require little and can be done, incrementally, throughout your day to day. In the long run, however, these tips will greatly benefit your overall sense of well being and health wealth (the purest wealth there is). Your family and friends will begin to notice a shift. They will be so grateful that you finally invested in you. And, you will discover the abundance that only the unique you has to give...

Just Do It.
Now.