AT THE BRIDGE

Have you ever had the experience of someone saying something which you hear, but you don’t hear?  Sure you have.  Someone says something to you, and you listen, and you understand.   And then… days later… it hits you again.  Only this time in a different or more significant way.  You hear it again, differently, in the recesses of your mind, and a greater good…a  greater truth begins to develop…  Yes? 

Well that is what happened to me recently.  I was listening to Glenn explain the timing for a certain sequence of steps.  I don’t remember what the dance was… it might have been the West Coast Swing… it doesn’t matter.  It was something about a particular dance having a 6-count basic, and then something about if a particular song had “x” number of counts, then he said something about choreographing…   I was listening, and though at this moment I don’t remember all the details, I understood then the lesson point he was making.  However the significance wouldn’t hit me until days later.

 

I should point out that Joni and I have only been dancing (taking lessons) for about 1 1/2 years.   We are very much novices.  The best way I can describe our present level of dancing is that we can fool those who know very little about dancing.  I am in absolutely no position to be offering “choreography” advise.  But it was this “idea”… the “choreography” idea… that awakened the “dance” part of my brain several days later.

 

It is very easy when taking lessons to think of dance as steps.  We have all seen those charts that show numbered sole-of-a-shoe outlines which depict the sequence and placement of the feet which should produce a particular dance step.  Slow, slow, quick, quick.  Or… slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, quick, quick, slow.   Truth be told, for dancers like me, there is so much that has to take place to make this very simple 3 / 6 counts-turned-into-placements-of-the-feet happen without falling over, or dropping your partner, or any number of other embarassments, that little thought… let me correct that… absolutely no thought is given to the bigger picture of what will become a dance.  Something that happens to music… and not just to random notes, but to a song… with a beginning, a middle, and an end. 

 

All of this came to me as I was listening to Michael Buble sing “A Foggy Day”, which has to be one of the greatest Foxtrot songs ever, as I was trying to drive down I-75 in Detroit.  In a vehicle which was not equipped with cruise-control, I was taking my right foot off the accelerator just enough to try to join my left foot as I danced one of my favorite dances, all the while trying to keep my speed up with the flow of traffic.  It was at the bridge, and I don’t mean on the highway, I mean in the song, that I thought, “this would be a perfect place for a grapevine”.  So…  I was attempting to do that on the floor mat beneath my feet.  Thank God I was alone…

 

My point here is not whether or not I was right about the placement of this particular sequence of steps, I’m sure that other way more qualified individuals would make very different recommendations as to what might be more appropriate at this particular moment in this particular song.  My point is simply that for a very brief moment I envisioned the dance as a whole.  Not even as a collection of several separate parts.  No… I was imagining the greater dance.  The union of a dance and a song.   Unique… 

 

It’s at moments like this that I just don’t understand why everyone doesn’t love to dance….

I AM A DANCER

 
I am a dancer.  However, not in the way that you think.  As a matter of fact, not in the way that anyone would think when they hear someone say, “I’m a dancer”.  Most would interpret my confession to mean that I can dance.  However, that is NOT what I said.  What I said is that I “am” a dancer.   I would insist that there is a very large ballroom of difference between “am” and “can”.   Yet, with that difference clearly established, I will admit that I am a dancer.

How does one know this?  Well, it is not easy; but neither is it difficult.  It is not easy because it takes a bit of awkward personal awareness to recognize it.  This is the type of personal awareness that most of us work to avoid.  It is the type of awareness that can be a bit disconcerting.  It can be as if we are on the outside looking in… at a stranger.  And then we are shocked to discover that the person we are looking at is ourselves.   

It is not difficult; at least not in the “I think I’ll climb Mt. Everest” sort of way.  The only difficulty we have to overcome is ourselves.  We only have to be vulnerable to our true self.  The only requirement is honesty.  It is like the person who loves to sing… in the shower.  Stop and think about that for a few moments.  Singing… IN THE SHOWER!!!

Singers sing.  That’s what they do.  Singers can’t NOT sing.  (I realize the double negative, but you understand the point.)   But singing in the shower…  That means that they are exposed twice!  They are both singing and naked… at the same time.  Take a moment and grasp the significance of this.  Now transfer this significance to dancing.

One can be a dancer and have never had a formal lesson.  It is probably a fact that most dancers have never stepped into a dance studio.  One can be dancer and not know the difference between an East Coast Swing and a Viennese Waltz.  But that lack of knowledge doesn’t matter.. Dancers dance.  That’s what they do.  Their toes tap.  Their feet move.  They sway.  Sitting at their desk at work, they feel their shoulders move… almost imperceptibly.  A co-worker sitting 6 ft. away wouldn’t even notice.  But the dancer can feel it. 

Dancers experience rhythm in a thousand ways every day.  Dancers hear music everywhere. Truth be told, dancers don't even need music.  It helps, but it is not required.  A dancer could be surrounded with complete silence and yet still hear dance in their head.  Most dancers, I suppose, love music.  But... they don't just love it.  Dancers move.  Dancers dance.  One can love music, but not be a dancer.  Dancers cannot sit still.  Dancers cannot stand still.

If a dancer is lucky enough to have even an ounce of Latin blood in their veins, their hips will move… don’t ask me how they do it.  In ways that it takes the rest of us years of concentrated effort and practice, Latin dancers just dance it.  Sometimes… the world is not fair.

However… and this is the point I would like to make: I feel that it is my obligation to warn all dancers…  Dancers everywhere LISTEN TO ME…. Know that the moment you take your first dance lesson… the moment you give your hard earned money to an Instructor… LISTEN TO ME… I’m begging you…  I must forewarn you.  You will have crossed a threshold and there is no going back.  You will not only have embraced your inner dancer, you will have made the decision to expose yourself to the public.  You will have stepped out of the shower.  And though (hopefully) you show up at the studio with your clothes on, you will nonetheless feel very naked.  But it will no longer matter…

You will be hooked.  Dance will be your drug of choice… and you will not be able to live without satisfying your addiction.  “Hi.  My name is K.C. (you can feel free to insert your name here), and I am a dancer.”  Your “I am” will be the first step to becoming an “I can”, and your need to dance will never be less than what it is at this moment ever again.

The truth is that “what we are” is “what we are” when we think no one else is watching.  The greatest personal victories come when we are able and willing to be “what we are” in public.  

The first step will be in a dance studio. This is the place where it will be easiest.  You will try and fail over and over again… and no one will think you the lesser for it.  The dance studio is where dancers go to quench their thirst.  

But.. there is nothing quite like when you take your first “slow, slow, quick, quick” on a public dance floor in front of non-dancers, or perhaps shower-dancers.  And I’m not talking about a dance party at your local studio.  Oh, no…  I’m talking about a small patch of hardwood found in a public venue.  If the only public place you dance is your local dance studio, then you are a still a pretender.  However, if you have ever danced in a true public sense, you understand... you know the freedom.   But even more than that…

On a recent cruise, Joni and I were approached by total strangers as we strolled the cobblestone streets of some nameless-you’ve-seen-one-you’ve-seen-them-all Caribbean port city, and they said stuff like, “You are the two that I saw dancing last night on the ship.  You were great… We really enjoyed watching you.”   I’m here to tell you… that kind of unsolicited affirmation will be your highest reward; perhaps more so than the “well done” from your instructor, although that means a lot as well.  The personal courage to be “who you are” in front of others, joined with the knowledge that “who you are” brought joy to someone else…  Friend, there is nothing else in all of life quite like the feeling that will bring.

THE FOXTROT

There are reasons to like the Foxtrot; I suppose several.  The graceful movements.  The ease with which one can learn some very basic footwork for the dance.  I would think novice dancers should very much enjoy the Foxtrot.  The historic popularity of the Foxtrot here in America would be yet another reason to appreciate it.  All of these, and many more, are reasons to like this great dance.

However, I have come to understand that I do not just like the Foxtrot; I love it.  The reason?  The answer is, quite simply, the music.  I have a very diverse musical palate.   I find myself gravitating from one style to another in a “whatever mood I happen to be in” sort of way.   My appreciation of various styles wax and wane.  I can like the Southern Rock style of ZZ Top one week, and the dramatic scope of Sergei Rachmaninoff’s “Rhrapsody on a Theme of Paganini” the next.  Southern Gospel music moves me in a way that can be very deeply spiritual, but, I know of no other music that gets inside of me in the same way that Foxtrot music does.   I listen to other styles, but what I do with Foxtrot music cannot best be described as listening.

It is not the rhythm?  There are other rhythms that are more intoxicating than the Foxtrot.   Salsa comes to mind.  Maybe even Tango rhythms.  It is not the lyrics, although Foxtrot songs arguably features some great lines.

No… I think that, for me, the thing that Foxtrot music has that no other dance features is a fluidity.  It is an effortless fluidity of motion that I feel… really.  Swirling around inside of me all the time is a Foxtrot just waiting for an opportunity… looking for a patch of hardwood.  I can already hear those who are much more experienced than am I saying, “The Waltz! What about the Waltz?”  I’ve already, in a previous post, addressed my thoughts about the Waltz.  It is true that opinions are like armpits; everyone has a couple… and some of them stink.  But… in my opinion, the Waltz cannot compete with the superiority of the Foxtrot.

I have never experienced what it is to be blind, so I can’t know for certain, but I would think that a blind man could dance the Foxtrot even if he found other dances difficult or even impossible.  And I don’t mean that he may simply dance the dance, but rather, love dancing it.  You don’t have to see, you just have to be able to move… to flow.

The Foxtrot is a sway… a glide… it is as if I am an airplane that is flying effortlessly from one cloud to the next, yet I have never left the ground.  However… I don’t fly alone.  I don’t dance alone.  It is not a lone ballerina’s adagio.  The Foxtrot is a couple’s dance.  It is not one, but two airplanes locked in an aerial embrace.  Matching turn for turn, power for power, hesitation for hesitation.  Those that are afraid to fly should not dance the Foxtrot.

I find it easier to lead the Foxtrot than the rest.  I don’t find myself having to “think” about it as much.  Other dances are like a game of chess; I’m always planning several moves ahead… strategizing.  I don’t feel like that with the Foxtrot.   The decision making required for leading seems much less stressful.  I’m not mentally dancing so far ahead.

Finally, I don’t even realize that I’m breathing until I’m finished and only then am I aware that I am out of breath.  While I’m dancing the Foxtrot, the dance itself is my air.  I cannot help but smile when I dance the Foxtrot.  It is not exactly happiness that I feel… it is not joy… it is… freedom.  It is no restraints.  

There are many reasons to enjoy the Foxtrot, but for me, the connection that the intrinsic musicality of a good Foxtrot song makes with some natural, inherent place within me is my greatest reason of all.

SOMETHING DANCE-UAL

What a refreshing way to take a break… work on something else.  

 

We made a decision many months ago to concentrate our dance efforts upon only two dances; the Tango and the Rumba.   I had many reasons for that decision, and I believe it has proven to have been a good one.  We have made, IMHO, a lot of progress.  We are still not where I would like to be - full bronze -  but we are certainly not where we were.

 

Recently, as we were nearing the end of our scheduled lesson time, our heads and our bodies were pretty much exhausted.   The lesson had been very productive.  Much had been achieved.  However…  Why is there always a “however”?

 

If I may, I would like to try to explain what happens as I am advancing my dance skills / knowledge.  It seems as if there is a wall that stands firm between my head and my body.  That wall keeps warring factions separated.  The two enemies are my brain and my body, and trust me, they are at war with each other.  Cuban Motion is a common battlefield for these two enemies.

 

Glen gives a piece of instruction or advice, I listen.  My mind comprehends.  And then… my body tries to respond.  Tries.  I didn’t say my body executes the movement as instructed.  Oh, no.  I “try”.   Only “try”.   

 

Why won’t my feet do what is expected?  Oh, crap… now my posture is bad.  So I fix my posture and then my feet are wrong.  Don’t forget, heel lead!  That “wall” is keeping me from truly dancing.  Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.  Unless I am leading a Rock to Corte / Double Corte, and then it is quick, quick, slow….   It seems like I can dance in my brain, or I can dance in my feet.  But… I can’t do both.  This is exactly where I was and I suspect Glenn knew it.

 

“We’ve got a few minutes, what else would you like to work on?”  

 

Seriously?  It was going to be “work” just to get my shoes changed and walk out the studio door.  

 

“How about some Hustle?” 

 

A completely different dance… really?

 

That suggestion, though at time I didn’t know it, was perfect.  As we began to dance the Hustle, the connection between head and feet was almost instantly made.  Wait… that’s not correct.  It was not as if some long distance connection was made.  No… it was as if the wall had been torn down and my head and feet were now one.  It was now in my heart.  Oh… I don’t mean that “Jesus lives in my heart” place.  It wasn’t spiritual.  It was dance-ual.  I know; that’s not a word.  But it should be.  

 

Dance-ual is the condition a person experiences when the body and the mind are joined together and become the unified heart.  The music is no longer external.  It isn’t moving from someplace outside the body into the mind, which then instructs the feet.  Instead, the rhythm becomes internal, it becomes natural… intuitive… as if we are doing something that we were born to do.  

 

Some would suggest that it is just “muscle memory”.  But I would suggest that it is much, much more… much more primal than just muscle memory.  It is as if you were able to return to a place stripped of doubt and worry… a place where confidence and joy lives… It is returning to Mom’s kitchen… to her meat loaf.  It is swimming in that farm pond, the summer you learned to swim, where you first felt the joy and the freedom of lazily backstroking yourself from one side to the other beneath the summer sun.   It is returning to that first dance with a lover.

 

Last night it happened for a second time.  With just minutes remaining and both of us mentally and physically exhausted…  “How about some East Coast Swing?”  

 

“Is Glenn nuts?”  I didn’t say it out loud, but I was thinkin’ it.   At least last week I could say that Joni and I both like the Hustle.  But, East Coast Swing…  Triple Time Swing!!!!   No way!!!  Neither of us really like this dance.  Oh, it’s fun to watch, but not to dance.  Is he crazy???  We had tried many times before.  Let’s face it, there is a bunch of music to which East Coast Swing is a natural fit.  To not be able to Swing is almost the same as not being able to dance.  So, we really need to be able to East Coast Swing.  But… for the two of us, we had not yet gotten the “swing” of the Swing.  It always felt to me like I was Fred Flintstone at the bowling alley when I tried to Triple Step.  My triples seemed more like octiples (again a new word, but you get the idea – there’s waaay too much going on down there!).

 

Again… even though it felt in some ways like our very first dance lesson, all of that concentrated work on two other dances was now magically paying off.  Anyone observing would not have been able to see it, but the “wall” was being torn down.  Heart, head, and body were coming together.  Somehow, and I don’t know how, it seemed easier than I had remembered.  Somehow, all that Tango and Rumba concentration was being converted into something else.  Music was happening. Something dance-ual was happening.

 

Stay tuned…

ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY BEATS PER MINUTE

One hundred and twenty beats per minute; that’s what I saw on the heart monitor as I rode the elliptical machine at the fitness center.  I was about 10 minutes into my workout and glanced down to the information / control panel to check my stats.  My heart rate was 120 beats per minute.  For my age and weight that was perfect.  I was in the zone… a little fast for fat burn, a little slow for cardio.  In another 10 minutes I would be drenched in sweat.  In another 20 I would be gliding along almost effortlessly as the endorphins would begin to kick in.

One hundred and twenty beats per minute is a good place to be.  I feel alive.  I feel strong.  I feel somehow connected to a very deep corporeal place.  Some people mistakenly identify this feeling as spiritual.  However, I would suggest that to do so diminishes the strength of what this feeling really is. This hundred and twenty beats connects us with the rhythm of the earth… with the air… breathing… moving… sweating… a cadence of passion…  the pulse of life…   This tempo is not worship, it is a dance.  One hundred and twenty beats is the heartbeat of the Tango.

It was not at a dance studio that I became aware of this.  It was not as a moved my feet… my body… myself… holding my wife in frame on a dance floor.   No… it was at a fitness center.  It was there that this notion occurred to me.  The Tango rhythm is the rhythm of fitness.  Fitness is the rhythm of health.  Health is the rhythm of the body.  The body is the rhythm of passion.  Passion is the rhythm of love.  Love is the rhythm of Tango. 

As a result of a decision to concentrate all of our efforts on only the Rumba and the Tango, my observations about a hundred and twenty beats did not materialize within the isolation of a single dance.  With that in mind, it becomes appropriate for me to compare 120 beats with 100 beats.

I suppose there are some more knowledgeable than me about the meter of various dances, and they might argue the specifics of beats per minute for any given dance.  It is my understanding that typically the Rumba and the Tango are danced at approximately 100 and 120 beats per minute respectively. However, for the moment, I would like to think of this in a more non-numeric sort of way.

One hundred beats per minute is two people connected.  It might be a touch from a lover.  It might be a kiss.  It may be nothing more than a thought… that causes our body to react.  

However, the two people do not have to be lovers.  It could be yourself and a stranger walking behind you on a lonely sidewalk at night.   You hear footsteps and you wonder if the stranger is a threat.  Your body begins to send out those primal hormones, and your pulse quickens.  You are getting ready for a flight or fight response.

This is the rhythm of the Rumba.  One hundred beats per minute.  It is getting ready… it is anticipation.   It is being suspended… tantalized…   Dictated by the unwavering laws of mathematics that regulate the music, the dance of the Rumba, the tantalizing, tormenting, tease of the Rumba constrains us.  It gets us close, but then pulls us back.   We want to go faster, but can't.   I personally think this is one of the Rumba’s greatest attractions.

One hundred and twenty beats per minute is a completely different rhythm.  It is no longer a tease, but a pursuit.  The fight or flight reaction has moved from ready to release.  It has gone from thinking about it to doing it.  Whether it is running away from that stranger behind you on a dark sidewalk at night, or turning to attack and eliminate the threat; action has commenced.  Raw, primal, animalistic survival has taken over. 

It is here that the most basic of human responses become reality.  There is, in fact, very little difference between what drives us to defend ourselves when threatened, and that which motivates us to engage our lover.  One hundred and twenty beats is no longer teasing foreplay, it is love’s journey begun.  It is love’s battlefield,  where two people are engaged in a struggle.  It is give and take; take and give.  It is breath and sweat.  It is not quitting.  It is endorphins.  It is pleasure... and if I'm doing it right, when my pulse matches the music, one hundred and twenty beats is Tango… and as they say, “It takes two to Tango.”
 

LEARNING TO KISS - Jigsaw Puzzles Part II

The second thing I’ve learned is that I do better when I am frustrated with one puzzle, one dance, not five.  Imagine putting 4 or 5 jigsaw puzzles on the table at one time, and then trying to figure out which pieces belong to which puzzle.  

For example: I’ve learned that the “cross body lead” is a common pattern in several dances, and there may come a time when I understand how this pattern fits within the context of a larger “group” of dances.  However… right now, if I’m learning the Rumba, I do not want to be thinking about the universe of Ballroom dances.  I want to learn the cross body lead within a single dance; the Rumba.  

How shall I put this…?   It is somewhat like when a man meets a woman.  He better have learned “how” to kiss, if he wants to “know” the woman.  And then, only after he really “knows” the woman, should he then be introduced to the rest of her family.  I don't want to be like a stupid teenager that fumbles a kiss.  I want to get past that.  I want to "want" it.  I want the nervousness.  I want the anticipation.  I want to feel it.  I want the confidence that a man feels when he finds someone who is worth his best, and he is certain he can deliver.  I want to learn the patterns so that I can know the dance... really know it... feel it...   Then after I know the dance, I can meet the relatives.

JIGSAW PUZZLES

I grew up putting together jigsaw puzzles.  In the days when there were only 3 channels on the TV, jigsaw puzzles were an inexpensive and enjoyable family activity.  I remember those huge puzzles with 1500 pieces or more.  For many years, I would search for the most unusual or difficult puzzles to give my parents as Christmas gifts.  Those were the days of a long time ago… a simpler time.  Little did I realize, however, that I would find myself in these middle years of my life once again doing jigsaw puzzles.

That’s how I felt at my last my dance lesson.  I was working a puzzle.  Fitting the pieces of a Tango together. Arms as wide as possible.  Chest high and out.  Gaze at 10 o’clock.  Knees bent.   And on, and on… and on.  Piece by intricate piece.  Heel lead.  Timing… Music…  ARRRGH!!!  Lead!!!  Lead early!!!!

The thing that makes this so very different, and I suppose it is what makes it such a challenge, is that while I’m putting the pieces together in one place, an invisible foe is taking them apart in another.  I suppose I could blame the instructor.  I could blame the studio.  I could blame the only other couple on the dance floor.  I suppose I could blame George Bush.  But… I know that there is no one to blame but the dance demons that fight against anyone one who has ever laced up a pair of suede soled ballroom shoes. 

Just about the time I get my arms in the correct position, my feet are wrong.  Just when I think I’ve got my spine in the correct place, my hips are incorrect.  And my knees… they are never where they should be.

Glenn asks if music would help.  My simple response is, “No.”  But what I am thinking is: A resurrected Carlos Di Sarli playing Bahia Blanco over in the corner of the studio probably wouldn’t help.  The Tango demons were tearing up my puzzle.  Each time I put a couple of pieces together, other pieces fell apart.  Was the puzzle beginning to look like a Tango?  Perhaps… only briefly.  Or did it look like a pile of pieces that didn’t even begin to represent the picture on the front of the box?  More likely.

But this one thing I have learned.  The prizes are always awarded to those who never give up… to those who don’t quit.  Working alone; then with a partner.  Listening.  Learning.  Watching. Failing, and then trying it again.  Fitting the pieces together.  Never quitting.  Reaching that point of frustration, then saturation.  Having someone who can tell when I have had enough, and when I can take more… this is essential.  Having a coach that can guide me through this process is a gift.

I have to constantly remind myself, puzzles are only completed by those with patience and perseverance.  I have to remember that what I see today is not the complete picture.