Archives for April 2020

I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately. It’s a thing. I think about how being seen and known, feeling safe and free, being trusted and trusting, all add up to something healthy. At least that’s the way the math works in my mind. And then a thought about the balance of relationships comes into my mind. “There should be a give and take,” I’ve heard people say.

There has come to be a small voice in my mind that gets very angry at that phrase. When I first began to feel unsettled about this phrase I gave myself a minute. I thought about the meaning of the words. What’s the problem with give and take?

My small voice was okay with the pursuit of balance, healthy caring coming from both parties that are relating to each other. It was even okay with the giving part of this particular solution, but not the taking.

What’s the problem with taking?

Let’s imagine ourselves for a moment in the act of giving. Feel the wonderful outpouring of the gifts of time, space, provision, and whatever else we like to give to others. Don’t worry about how the giving is received just yet. Just sit with the act of giving, the generosity of spirit, the feeling of having more than enough and sharing the abundance.

Now let’s imagine ourselves in the act of taking. We reach for something and grab it. We might not even know if it’s ours or not. Taking is the same action that could lead to theft. Consider, too, the quid pro quo in relationships. We find ourselves having given, and now look for the opportunity to take (maybe even holding back our giving until we feel we’ve taken enough to balance our own equation). That doesn’t feel right.

In our culture today there is a lot of language around claiming space, taking time, etc. People will say that you have to take what’s yours because no one is going to give it to you. I’ve found that idea to be correct in the market culture, but detrimental to relationships. The market is transactional. Give (payment) and take (reward), or take (reward) then give (payment). Relationships aren’t – or at least they shouldn’t be. In the healthiest relationships there is a giving and given. We give and we are given unto. There is no payback needed for what we’ve received when there is Love. It was given, not taken. Love doesn’t account for all its given. The giving is a gift. It is not the reward for a particular payment we’ve made. There is no debt.

Rather, the practice of giving and the recognition of the multitude of gifts received (counting all the small ones helps), leads to a generosity of spirit through abundance. It’s born of being literally full and having no more place for any gifts. Then we have to give.

My jaw has been hurting. My days are filled with staring at a computer screen of talking heads, and thinking about what life is going to look like in the days, weeks, and months to come. It’s a black hole.

Like many, there are family, work, and personal responsibilities that all intertwine. There aren’t any easy answers, and so my jaw hurts.

Tap dancers are known to hold tension in their bodies, especially while learning. We have nicknames for the multitude of unconscious contortions we find ourselves in. Hands form the shape of claws or guns, while arms lock in the form of T-Rex- or stiff-arms. It’s comical.

The trick for the tap dancer is to give that part of their body something to do. If the hand or arm has a another job, it has to move, and can’t hold the tension. Naturally the tension tries to find another place to sit. Then we’re playing Whack-a-mole, until our entire body is engaged and the tension has to release.

Maybe in these times, one thing we can to do is keep moving. Not in the manic-must-produce-my-entire-content-library-and-clean-my-house-today way, but in a paced and steady and perceptive way. Then as the tension builds, as it undoubtedly will, we can adjust our movements (we can whack the mole) before it becomes debilitating.

There are a kind of people I’ve encountered who intuitively know how to create space. You know the kind. They don’t have a habit of filling anything but rather make room and invite everyone in the room to fill a bit with themselves.

So here’s the question I’m working with today: What does it look like to create space in a world that is physically distancing?

New tools, new methods, new ideas – they are all here. I like looking back, though, as much as looking forward. So, I’m holding this question: What are the things about gathering together that we have to remember (to literally re-collect), even as we move forward?

I think I’ll write a list.

A few days ago I wrote about how much I enjoy writing lists. I’ve been pondering the other side of that coin. That is the ability to hold many thoughts, options, perspectives, and possible outcomes at the same time.

As a dancer I have an artistic practice that is rooted in embodiment. Embodiment is defined as a tangible or visible form of an idea, quality, or feeling. In this case, the tangible or visible form is my own body. The practice of embodying an idea, quality, or feeling stands outside of linear time.

Bodies exist. They are. We are. Ever changing, and constant in their being. Whether our awareness of our physical existence is acute or not is another thing entirely. The truth of the matter is that our bodies are an expression of all of our ideas, feelings, and qualities, all at the same time. They’re all in there.

Mikhail Baryshnikov has been quoted as saying, “When a body moves, it’s the most revealing thing. Dance for me a minute, and I’ll tell you who you are.” The practice of dance is to translate all our own ideas, feelings, or qualities into movements that evoke the same in someone else. Dancers practice this. We keep all our stuff within close proximity. We’re acutely aware of our stuff. That gives us easy access to them whenever we move – especially when we improvise.

In this way, embodiment might be a way to move through times of immense change. Especially those in which nothing happens in the “correct” order. We can hold our things close. Use all of them. Bring them through our movement. Move with all our stuff. See what’s useful along the way.

Just a thought.

It only takes a moment for our world to change. For most, this may have sounded cliché two months ago. Alas, clichés are born of truth.

I’m thinking about how we all respond to these drastic changes?

Have we prepared ourselves for such things? Is there even a way to do so?

There is an entire body of work devoted to Risk – recognizing it, working within its boundaries, and shielding oneself (and one’s loved ones and organizations) from it. I’m currently introducing myself to Nassim Taleb’s Fooled by Randomness. There is a lot there.

In addition to the academic, I’m interested in how people who believe in the super natural navigate these times differently than those who don’t. I’m curious about the spectrum of responses and what informs each one. The stories interest me, but that’s no surprise.

I guess the thing that has helped me through moments of drastic change is the chance for new stories to emerge. There are so many major plot twists in what had been thoughtfully planned lives that are emerging only now. The amount of birth amongst the immeasurable death is equally staggering.

We are often exposed to the core of who we are in these shifts (differently than during consistently challenging circumstances).

While dealing with the real and present risk, I wonder what taking some extra time to watch for the new stories and listen to what has been exposed in us would do?

There is an old saying that God answers prayers in three ways: Yes, No, and not yet. As one can imagine, when asking straight forward requests, my 5 year old inner child responds in expected ways to these answers. Excitement, disappointment, and confusion, respectively. Not Yet is an interesting answer.

Immediately questions that cast doubt on my initial request come to mind:

Did I ask something wrong?

Have I done something wrong?

Am I not ready for some reason?

Do I need to change something?

I poke to see if I can get more information:

What if I ask for the same thing in a different way?

What if I ask for more or less?

What if I change in some way?

Regardless, I often get silence.

Not yet, is just that. Not yet. My solace comes from imagining a parent who loves their child saying, “not yet.” Or rather Gregory Hines in the middle of one of his solos, as the audience begins to applaud, yelling out, “Not yet!! Not yet!!” He would follow up with, “Soon…”

Delayed gratification. Wait for it.

These answers, when considered to come from the root of Love change my perception. Not Yet doesn’t come with a sting of blame, but rather with encouragement to continue on the path I’m on.

I wonder how many of us have had moments in these past weeks of Not Yet?

If the answer is Not Yet, then keep going. Keep moving in the direction you’re pointed. Keep asking questions. Keep caring about the path. Keep wondering. Keep doing the work. You’re doing fine. Just keep going.

New things begin with a seed. A thought, an inspiration, something enters into us and we’re off. Our imaginations grab hold and our hands go to work. Our hearts are committed.

Whether or not we are ready to receive the seed is a thing. What’s our soil like? Is it fertile, or rocky? Is there enough space in our garden for the seed to be planted?

How the seed enters is also a thing. Is it just scattered on the ground, hoping to find good ground? Is it carefully placed, dirt cleared for it, and covered over again?

Whether or not a seed is cared for is definitely a thing. Is it left to its own devices, and the randomness of nature? Is it given what it needs to grow and protected from destructive elements?

The fragility of the seed and new things echoes throughout life. Maybe that’s because there are parts of life that are always new. We are always discovering, and being surprised (or caught off guard). Our bodies are always changing, so we are literally always changing. Each day is new. We all develop tools and mechanisms to cope with this utter lack of constancy.

I wonder if, instead of coping, we could learn what is means to care of life in the midst of the change? Could we approach life in the same way we care for a new thing that is budding from its seed? What if each day, each breathe of life was a gift to be cared for, lived through, and showered with love?

Every moment is a possibility of something new.

Sit with that statement for a second.

Every moment can completely alter the opportunities of the next, and the one after that. The cascading possibilities are astounding.

Now take a moment to hold this opposing, yet equally true, idea. Both our bodies and our minds have a way of moving towards the familiar (whether healthy or unhealthy). Their tendency toward repetition – the same thoughts, the same movements – may make the unveiling of something new seem like an impossible task – or an impending shock to the system.

And yet, it is possible. In every moment, we can begin to observe and then interrupt our predispositions, pursue a vision past what we might otherwise expect to see, and be active agents of whatever imagination has been given to us.

What newness would you pursue?