29 Days of Dancing

dancing daily ● february 2016

[29daysofdancing-blog]

DAY 9: Baby Rock

Tonight I danced a teeny insomniac to sleep. It wasn’t my only dance of the day, but it felt the most significant. I have long believed that touch can be medicinal. At times perhaps even the highest level of comfort.

As I rocked, swayed, bounced and stepped patterns to the light beat of lullaby top 40, I felt the sweet joy of being able to physically soothe with movement. In my opinion, movement can be a primary tool in transforming states. Whether it be working through pain, burning off extra energy, calming frustration, expressing celebration or even battling sleeplessness (it doesn’t go away, kid) it has always medicinally served a purpose for me.

This was also my cutest dance partner yet. No question.

[29daysofdancing-blog]

DAY 8: Samba 

That one time I took and advance samba lesson. I scooted into class just before it began and quickly realized that I had made a terrible mistake. There were only five participants in the class, and after asking if I had danced before (every damn day for what already feels like forever this month) I was assured that I would be just fine. After a brief warm up, the instructor took a moment to highlight the most important reminder for followers (I'm listening) to remember: 

“If you ever don't know what to do, just cross your left leg back. It will all work out from there. Like this. Ok. Ready?" 

I instantly thought how amazing would life be if the fix for any complicating incident was simple footwork. Fender bender: ball change. Broken heart: relevé it right away. Misplaced keys: hip shimmy and you’re back in business.* 

I found the samba steps solid, and the instructor a fantastic lead which was the real benefit of a small class. I identifies with the rhythm of the music and the spacing of the dancers. After a few rotations through partners, I broke my concentration long enough to looked closely at a couple dancing nearby. I hadn’t noticed that these were the parents of a childhood friend. David, I just sambaed with your dad. We made the connection and they warmly invited me for a post-class cocktail.

I asked what led them to samba class on a Monday night and Paul told me they hadn’t danced since the few classes they took over 25 years earlier in preparation for their wedding. With all of their children grown, they were drawn back to the activity they has so thoroughly enjoyed. They giddily added details to the other’s story contributions and I could easily see that this had been a delightful adventure for them. Paulette (those are their names and it is amazing) told me that the secret to getting the most out of the Latin dance socials held at various local bars on Friday nights was a club nap. She recommend an hour snooze after work to help make it to the 10PM show time at the bar. Seeing how a simple left leg cross back didn’t save me once during class, I’m sticking with Paulette’s advice. It probably translates more appropriately to life anyway.

        *I do realize this is a telling look at exactly how complicated my life is. 

[29daysofdancing-blog]

DAY 7: Superbowl

Today I had an impromptu dance party prompted by a lovely friend who was concerned that I hadn’t yet danced for the day. We danced while Beyonce danced. Because that’s what you do.

From there the movement devolved (evolved? upgraded? improved?) into group acroyoga. Naturally. As my friends one by one stacked themselves on top of a solid base of prone planks, I silently thought: please let me always be surrounded by people who are magic.

[29daysofdancing-blog]

DAY 6: Party Bus

Today I spent hours on a party bus, driving in and out and around the city with forty of my sister and brother in law’s closest friends. We had two incoming babies to celebrate and in the true spirit of this friend group, we took their baby shower to the bus. And it was hilarious. Maybe not for the expectant mothers who were up way past their bedtime, but for the rest of us it was an amazing way to celebrate them. At first glance, it may not have been the most traditional celebration of impending birth (there was not a pastel butter mint in sight) but from what I have been realizing lately, celebrations are my favorite when they are heartfelt and a little offbeat. And this certainly was. It is a great friend that recognizes that their people are individuals who deserve celebrations as unique as they are. My sister and brother in law have amazing friends. 

We bounced from party stop to party stop bathed in black lights, strobes and an early 2000′s hit list that left no boy band unplayed. There was expert pole dancing (not me) blue & pink jello shots (maybe me) and even a Salt n Pepper rap-a-long (probably me). As I surveyed our moving kingdom somewhere between the state line and the east side of the city, I realized that this was a near perfect celebration of baby. We were reveling in our own youth with throwback music and the antics of rowdy co-eds, but we were still parked at a respectable hour. The last time I danced to (insert any boy band here) with my peers on a bus full of cocktails, the party maybe would have lasted all night. This party didn’t need to. Maybe as we get older, we get better at realizing that more isn’t always the most. But even so, there are some things always worth dancing about. 

I for one, cherish this night of revelry and the stories it tells. Someday I will reverently describe to my niece or nephew how their auntie, uncle and I made personalized celebratory baseball shirts (because we are a team, baby), slurped the sides of plastic cups filled with cherry jello (because the jello won’t come out otherwise, baby) and watched grown men suck beer out of baby bottles (this was awkward, baby) all in recognition that we knew they were arriving soon. What better way to pass the waiting time, baby? We love you. 

[29daysofdancing-blog]

DAY 5

Tonight found me at a bar (club?) I haven’t visited in well over a decade. I’m not certain if it was technically even open to the public when I first sipped an allegedly special Eastern European whiskey with the new owner and our mutual friends. The drink hit my mouth like a shocking concentration of rye bread. I hadn’t thought about that moment in years, until I walked in the door for a “Tropical X Electronic Dance Party” (perfect) billed as Sound Up!. The advertisement touted the best in Global Bass, Afro Beat, Cumbia, House, Tropical Bass, Dance Hall and Afro House. As one of the two girlfriends who lovingly joined me said earlier in the day: you had me at Cumbia. 

 In all of this daily dance exercise I am recognizing that while I don’t think I have expectations going in to any given experience, I frequently leave an event thinking- that wasn’t at all what I expected. This was no exception. While the drumming/dj fusion was impressive, I was most closely concentrated on the movement of the people. Their range, in demographics as well as expression of their parts, frequently left me barely dancing and mostly observing. There were beats spanning multiple traditions, and an equally wide variety of attendees and interpretations of the live drumming. 

There was one woman I couldn’t stop watching. She was clearly in attendance with friends, but effortlessly floated from small group to partner to solitary points on the floor with such comfort and ease that it left me mesmerized. The unique qualities of each individual’s movement compared to hers was interesting as well. Everyone told a different story with their Friday night jams. I felt almost anthropological. I was the Jane Goodall of the Electronic Dance Party*.

For the first time in a casual dance setting I attempted to mimic the movements of those around me as well as engaging in my own familiar patterns. After hip hop, it seemed like an appropriate challenge. And it felt amazing. And uncomfortable. And pretend. And ultimately left me sure that varying the movements I’m most comfortable with is something I should chase a little in life. I’m trying not to process it much past that. Why ruin such an unpredicted evening? 

*I imagine my 'research’ was much less subtle and way more creepy than I thought.

[29daysofdancing-blog]

DAY 4

Tonight’s dancing had me unexpectedly thinking about nostalgia. My great uncle Andy (*no actual relation) plays his concertina most Thursday nights at the local American Legion. Never having met a concertina/accordion that didn’t leave my toes tapping, I scooped up my Teta (*actual great Auntie) and headed for the Legion. We rang the doorbell to enter, waiting for the bartender buzz us in. I was instantly charmed by the fat jar of pickled turkey gizzards squatting on the counter next to the cash register. Following the rhythm of an accompanying drum set, we found Uncle Andy sitting on his instrument case squeezing out classic rambling polkas and even the occasional waltz.

Watching a few comitted couples spin around the makeshift dance floor, I was very quickly transported to my grandparents’ backyard. Growing up, there wasn’t a big family celebration that didn’t warrant music. I vividly remember the patch of grass worn down to the dirt by the tapping foot of the accordion player as he kept time with the band at the barbecue after my great grandfather’s funeral. I don’t think his sister stopped dancing for a minute that day. It’s how she commemorated her brother’s long and exceptional life. It was how we all honored him that day.

I remember years later my grandparents taking a spin of their own on the nearby deck, this time celebrating their anniversary. My grandfather was beginning to show early signs of Alzheimer’s and with my grandmother tucked into his arms, cheeks pressed close, his eyes closed… it seemed as if they had danced together forever. And they had. Like the couples I watched at the Legion, they were from a generation that danced. It was social, it was romantic, it was occasionally raucous and it was familiar. It was an expression of their joys, sorrows and celebrations.

I took a spin or two of my own around the floor and while a good Polka inherently feels like a party on wheels to me, I danced last night with a bit of quiet remembrance, respect for the tradition and the people in my life who have taught me how we celebrate. I realized dancing for me can almost be like recognizing a familiar scent: it bookmarks time.

[29daysofdancing-blog]

DAY 3

Oh. This is different. For me.  I realized this almost instantly at my hip hop class with the Zenon Dance School. Zenon is housed at the beautiful Cowles Center and it’s worth taking a class or two just to peek at the impressive architecture of the historic studios alone. But back to my hip hopping. After no introductions and a brief warm up (which could only be described as pop & lock yoga) we got right to it. Straight into choreography. After only two counts of eight, I made a point of apologizing to the dancers nearest to me. Not for my moves, but for my giggles. I could not stop laughing. There wasn’t a combination I executed without an inexplicable cackle escaping. The breakneck pace, the hard bass of the music and the energy of the other dancers was intoxicating enough to infuse the experience with a state of near hysterical hilarity for me. This has to be what the inside of a champagne bottle feels like.

In between inappropriate outbursts, I mentally noted the stylistic intricacies of the genre at hand. Walking in, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I have vague memories of a cardio hip hop situation at the rec center in college and I love a packed dance floor as much as the next guy. So maybe I assumed it would be a class on elevating clubbing skills? Or the etiquette of dance battles? Would I end up with a crew? While I did gain some new friends (so many extroverts), to me this particular class was a fast-paced study on shape unlike anything I had experienced. No theory, no words, simply learning by watching. Repeat it back, and move on. 

I was quickly fascinated by how very three dimensional the style was. Breaks and stops; filling and then just as quickly evacuating a space in favor of a new plane. I was a thrilled preschooler every time my body triangle/square/rhombus looked even remotely similar to the one instructor Arturo Miles (pictured) was making with his. Aside from the class in college (I mean, did I Zumba?) hip hop is a far cry from the techniques I have practiced in the past. If there had been even one moment to pause and assess, I’m certain I would have been able to feel my brain stretching with new kinetic possibility. My body on the other hand? For exactly 60 minutes I was a flail of arms and legs and probably won’t walk for a week. It’s fine. It gives me time to come up with a proper name for my crew. 

[29daysofdancing-blog]

DAY 2

Tonight nature was in charge. The snow accumulated, the wind whipped, and seemingly everything in the world was cancelled. Feeling the urge to snuggle myself up indoors, I stubbornly (dramatically) decided to take my dance party to the streets instead. If Winter was going to rearrange my plans, the least she could do was dance with me. 

I pulled on my boots (hat, mitts, scarf, parka) plugged in my earbuds and waded through shin deep drifts until I found an acceptable place to move. I stationed myself under a streetlight and as I watched the flakes blow horizontal, I knew: dancing outside in a blizzard is ridiculous. This was not the movement I had planned for the day. I, a grown-ass grown-up was bundled like a child for recess. But maybe the more time we spend in the world, the more recess we need. A break in the action. Permission to play. 

I may have started hesitantly, but tonight I danced my face off. All hips and heart and steps and the iciest of winds. Winter and I had an impromptu street corner rave and it was exhilarating. A little silly, sure. But I don’t mind silly when it ushers in big joy. And tonight my joy is huge.

     *If I don't make it past Day 2, please know that it is because the exceptionally responsible neighborhood watch reported the suspicious lady writhing under the streetlight. Probably I’ve been arrested. Send bail.

[29daysofdancing-blog]

DAY 1

I’m stepping down the alley to tango. From my experience thus far, the most integral component of tango is balance. And this is alarming to me. Not only feeling off center, but purposefully releasing balance to a partner is difficult. It means putting yourself in someone else’s hands in a medium real way. Leaning in and relying on another’s stability to ensure my steps fall true is a challenge. Because I like to lead. And physical trust is universally complicated. Maybe that release of control is a bit naturally difficult for all people?

Regardless, it makes improving tango similar to honing communication. Rather than words, the direction stems from the subtlest shift in weight. Advances initiated by pressure in the palms. Pauses signaled with the slightest pull of the frame. It’s thrilling and quiet and intimate. Even with a stranger. And I’ve noticed it gently nudging my understanding of communication in general. Words & weight.

This month for me in no small part is an opportunity to learn. And let go. Movement has been a reliable and excellent teacher to me since forever, but I have no expectations for this month. No measurements or anticipated results, just dancing.