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.

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.