Resisting Being Blown Away

On a day when the wind is perfect, the sail just needs to open and the world is full of beauty. Today is such a day. - Rumi

Every Fall since I can remember, I have felt a sense of rebirth. I am sure it has something to do with the fact that, traditionally, this is the time of year when school starts. As a kid, the beginning of the school year is the chance to be born again. New teachers, new classmates, new clothes... changes are opportunities to recreate oneself, or at least to reassess. Now that I am older (and still in school, I might add), the autumn wind kicking up sends my brain and body into a whirl. Each leaf that gets sucked off of its branch and into the wind flies through the air like my thoughts - out of control and carried along by forces seemingly stronger than they are. And amidst all of this imbalance, I still feel the necessity to recreate myself because it is just that time of year. Whew.

So how is a girl to handle all of this?

Last week I had an especially chaotic day. I packed my lunch, for the first time all semester I might add, which consisted of a half empty plastic container of triple squash soup. As I packed it up at home before dashing off to school, I tied a green rubber band around the container, sure that would keep the contents safe inside until I arrived at school. I went about my morning travel according to plan and was even early enough to stop for a cup of tea. As I blindly reached in my backpack to pay for the tea, my hand was greeted by a cold mush. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, in the twenty-five minutes between home and the Whole Foods tea counter, my soup leaked all over the inside of my bag. With a deep breath, I accepted the morning's challenge, paid for my tea, and left the counter to search for napkins. As I did, a kind woman said, "Miss, there are things falling out of your bag. Your wallet is on the floor." Indeed, half the items in my bag were starting to trail behind me due to the now broken zipper up the side of my backpack. Now, not only did I have a backpack filled with squash soup, but I no longer had a functional bag to carry my books, binders, laptop, cords, and all the accoutrement teachers and grad students have to carry around on a day-to-day basis. This was only a prelude to the day that followed: faulty school internet connection, whiny (squirmy, loud, uncontrollable) high school freshmen, a lost earring, unreliable tech resources guy/botched lesson. The autumn winds were kicking my ass.

As I got to my last period of teaching and was beginning to see the four hours of my own grad classes on the horizon, I almost lost the ability to form a sentence. I was standing in front of my third group of freshmen trying to explain a complicated activity, talking over their side conversations and wiggly butts, and I lost my train of thought. In the middle of giving instructions, I could not get my mind back from the black hole it was spiraling into. Instead of fighting the absence of sense, I just sat down.

I sat down where I was on the edge of the stage. A few moments later, my body calmed and my mind graciously crawled back into place. The physical act of lowering my center, as my head was nearly swept up into the breeze, caused me to ground myself for a moment. Just sitting down provided a reprieve from the chaos, giving me balance when the world was feeling off-kilter.

Just like this act of sitting down, little grounding elements of my day can provide the opposition to the chaotic (exciting, thrilling, amazing) changing winds. My morning rituals, a phone call to my mom, a cup of tea, walking the same streets to school... When changes abound, I can keep my balance by recognizing the parts of my life that keep me on the ground, even if they are simple, physical acts like sitting down. By not allowing myself to be completely carried away, I have more choice about what I open my sails to when the wind whips up and threatens to whisk me away.

Leave all your envy behind

I'm back on the bandwagon: I'm dedicating myself to letting go of jealousy.

Last night I saw the fabulous Florence + The Machine at Terminal 5 in NYC. I spent the summer listening to her belt in my ear as I traipsed through Europe. I used to get a charge from her everyday while running on the treadmill - there's nothing like hearing...

"Run fast for your mother, fast for your father

Run for your children and your sisters and your brothers

Leave all your love and your loving behind you

Can't carry it with you if you want to survive"

...to make you want to RUN. (As a side note, last night she asked us all to jump up and down in unison at that point in the song. It's been a long time since I've been a part of such communal joy as I felt in that moment). As I watched her wood-nymph-body, long and slender, waif-like with a mess of fiery red hair twirl around the stage, my first thought was, "I want to be that. I will never be able to BE that." 

She was beautiful and genuine, enthralled with the present moment and an image of self-assurance in her talents and artistry. Instead of rejoicing in all of this, I instead felt badly for myself for the simple fact that my legs would never be that long and lean, I would never be able to wear the shimmery onesie in front of a thousand people like she could, and my voice would never allow me to belt out notes like that. I was mourning the attributes I would never have, the Florence I could never be.

As I looked around and saw the faces around me, I noticed that everyone around me was swaying, smiling, holding the hands of their lovers, singing along. There was a young man in front of me, probably 18 years old and oblivious to his youth, jumping up and down at the recognition of each new song played. Everyone (except the lame people who like to push and shove their way closer to the stage) was having a great time! That's when I realized: It's not always about you!

By allowing myself this jealous feeling, I was robbing myself of the pleasure of the moment. I remembered back to a couple years ago when I was participating in Choreolab with Monica Bill Barnes. She asked us to bring in a list of people who inspired us. At the time I think James Thierree and Miguel Gutierrez were on my list. I admired their work and thought that if I could figure out how to do what they did, I could be a successful theatre/dance-maker. Monica shared her list with us and said something I, unfortunately, often forget: "I will never be like some of these people. It's OK for me to love their work and admire them, even be inspired by them. That doesn't mean I have to be them. They do their thing and I do my thing. I can find joy in what they do because I can't do it." 

This thought blew my mind at the time. It is so simple, the fact that it is possible to find joy in someone else's beauty and talent without feeling the need to have it myself. Florence was the perfect example, and when I saw the happiness she imbued to the sweaty crowd around me and I remembered Monica's words, I was able to release the jealousy and love her because I can never be her and she can never be me.