Archives for April 2020

Loss is a common experience.

Those who seem to have everything can experience loss in the midst of all they have. Those who have never experienced abundance, can experience loss, too. Loss doesn’t really care what stage of life you’re in – what you have or don’t have. To varying degrees (maybe now more than ever), loss is a natural part of life.

Some of us are more sensitive to the experience of loss than others. Of course, grief is a part of that experience. There is another aspect that I’ve been thinking a lot about recently – the void. You know that experience in which the thing that used to be leaves an empty space where it once was.

As a dancer, I think about space often. How does it affect us? How does our presence affect it? How do we hold it? How do we fill it? How do we move through it? How does our presence, holding, filling, and moving affect others in the space?

The experience of the void is interesting to me. It seems that the space that’s left by a particular loss has a unique shape. It’s the shape of that which has been lost. I don’t think anything else can come to fill that space in the same way.

Sometimes we accept that, and it’s beautiful. More common seems to be the search for something to fill the void – with varying degrees of health and success. My experience is that, instead of searching for a refill, there might be ways to care for the void itself.

It seems that part of the experience of loss is simply sitting in the void – either alone or with trusted friends. We take account of the empty space. Maybe it’s bigger than we expected, or smaller. We re-collect the memories (especially those we thought we had forgotten), and reorganize them. The space, as I envision it, becomes an exhibit to the past, instead of being filled with life.

As with any other kind of exhibit we get to decide what walking through it should evoke, in ourselves and in others. For the best of memories, we get to remember all the joy. For the worst of memories, maybe we just want the reminder that we survived. We get to be active in the design of our exhibit.

We also get to decide who gets a tour. As people are allowed to tour the space the stories can be retold. The memories comes back to life and can live on in others. We can share the joys of past memories, and the testimonies of survival. We get a say in who comes in.

As difficult as loss is, we have a divine opportunity to reconcile the void by designing, curating, and sharing an exhibit of what was lost. It can be found again, for the benefit of all people.

What exhibits are you designing today?

I am well experienced with melancholy. It’s a feeling of deep sadness that seems to be free floating and waiting for any moment when I’m alone, and not occupied, to take center stage. Whenever I try to explain this situation to a friend, they become concerned. My empathic friends, even more so. Especially if they haven’t experienced melancholy before. If they are the “fixer” type their reaction is as if something is wrong with me. I should not be sad, and they need to fix the situation.

Let me provide some back story. I went to my first funeral when I was 13 years old. Lon Chaney – the tap dancer, not the actor – had past away. I knew I had to attend. At least once every two years after, I would be in attendance of someone passing. As the years progressed the funerals became more frequent. The sense of continual loss was inescapable. I became proficient in the cycles of grief – specifically their non-linear nature.

These experiences went right alongside the development of deep friendships, celebrations of birthdays and achievements, and the love and care I experienced.

For whatever reason, my emotions gravitated towards the sadness more than the joy.

Through all the years, I’ve come to realize the gift of sadness. A gift, you say? Yes, the gift. I’ve had to process a lot of it. I’ve had to find language to describe all the different kinds. Not unlike the societies which expand vocabulary for areas of life that are important to that society’s survival, my own vocabulary is full of words to describe the different kinds of sadness I’ve experienced.

There is a sadness that needs compassion. Another that asks for some “get to work” action. There is a sadness that comes from missed moments, and another that comes from moments that will never be repeated. There is a sadness that comes form distance, and one that comes from feeling that closeness is fleeting. There are more, but I won’t belabor the point.

This insight allows me a sense of calm and familiarity if I’m ever allowed into someone else’s sadness. This is a sacred place. I’m not there to fix the situation. But what if I could hold some space? Be a witness to the process? Even offer some language?

What if I could say, “It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to feel all the feelings. Do you want to find words?” Maybe if we find words with one another, the sadness we all experience could be more like an acquaintance – someone who comes and goes in our lives – and less like something we have to fix or run away from?

I experience the feeling of extreme isolation sometimes. I think it happens on account of my only-childness (no siblings to share with), my life’s experience (no other immigrant, Lebanese, Tap Dancer that was mentored by Gregory Hines around to compare experiences), and my travel (always moving, rarely staying still long enough to plant roots).

I know the actual isolation isn’t true, but the feeling is. I’ve learned something that helps combat the feeling. The realization that there are a handful of people in the world that I trust know me.

This poses a question: Can someone ever really know someone else?

My short answer is, yes. Although I’m sure philosophers and neuroscientists will argue the point. I will offer this.

If trusting that someone knows you, and cares about knowing you, can combat the feeling of isolation, shouldn’t we at least engage in the pursuit of knowing one another? If knowing one another is actually impossible, maybe engaging in the pursuit, with curiosity and generosity of spirit is enough to bring us together in a way that is fruitful?

I’ve experienced moments when I met someone and thought to myself, “hm, I think I know you.” This was not in the, “do you come around here often, you seem familiar,” kind of way. Rather, it was a resonance of something deeper. What if that deeper resonance of who we are is what we are actually searching for, in ourselves, and in one another?

Wouldn’t it be lovely to share in those moments of discovery, the knowing of one another, together?

Over the past few years I’ve held some “real jobs.” After more than 25 years since my first freelance paycheck, I’ve experienced gigs that kept me working for extended periods of time. These recent experiences were jobs where I had different responsibilities from that of an artist. Rather than the bringing of imagination to life, I found myself responsible for the consistency of systems and structures, working with clients and their expectations, and the delivery of a product.

I have the utmost respect for those who are wired for this kind of work. As mentioned, I’ve learned a lot about myself in the work, and wanted to share something specific that might resonate: I’m a five year old.

The 5 year-old me, which thankfully remains quite healthy (and outspoken, to the surprise of some of my friends), hates “work.” They hate the imposition of the clock, and the pressure from others to “achieve.” They haven’t figured out that they are good at what they do, and so the pressure seems overwhelming. They hate being cornered, punished, and being told that they “can’t” regardless of the reason. It’s an offense to their being.

They love playing. Not the competitive kind, but the creative kind. They don’t want winners and losers at the end of the game. They want an amazing story, or a thing that was built. They will play until they are completely spent. The joy of play comes from the love of life that they’ve experienced. They have witnessed what it means to be given space, and so are happy to share their playtime with others – but are sensitive to the way others play. They don’t like a takeover spirit.

They require the freedom to say, “I don’t want to do that,” regardless of what happens next. They will go and do the thing that needs doing even if they don’t want to, because it’s the right thing to do. They need to be heard and to process their emotions, cause they have a lot of them. They need to have their feelings acknowledged, as it’s such a big part of their being.

Most notably my 5 year-old loves people. They will light up when they see people that they know. They will wave at strangers. They will strike a smile knowing that happiness can be contagious. And they love to laugh.

It’s been an interesting journey to rediscover my 5 year-old while working in jobs that haven’t been the kindest to my childlike nature. I’m thankful to have been reminded of my 5 year-old in more recent days, and hope to see more of them in the future.

How’s your kid today?

There is a lot of not knowing happening these days. While “I don’t know” is a beautiful way to start a sentence, and affirm our current condition, what comes after is equally important. Here are some examples I’ve heard myself say:

“I don’t know, and that makes me useless.”

“I don’t know, and that’s okay.”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to do my best to find out.”

These are worthy of some commentary:

“I don’t know, and that makes me useless,” is a complete lie (degrading a human being to a thing to be used or not, useful or not), and a horrible feeling to live in.

“I don’t know, and that’s okay,” is a kinder way of accepting our circumstance.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to do my best to find out,” is a lovely way to get to searching.

The above sentiments seem to work if I’m posing questions to myself, but what if the questions come from someone else? Someone I care about? Someone I would hate to see struggle with questions? This is where I’ve landed:

“I don’t know the answer, but I’m on your side, and can walk with you, and we can search together.”

Love doesn’t mandate a solution. Love mandates a relationship. It’s okay to not have the answer, and to walk with friends and neighbors. Maybe it’s just our job to celebrate when they find the answer themselves? Or maybe we’re to supposed to discover the answers together, bit by bit? Maybe our communal lack of knowledge will bring us closer together as we learn to trust each other’s vision in addition to our own?

Honestly, I don’t know, but I’d like to search with you.

Three words. Three very powerful words. They affirm our limited field of view. They remind us of our inability to have 100% assurance in all things at all times.

My father is a rock. He is the cornerstone of our family (although he would probably say that his faith and my mother are). Part of my father’s “rockiness” was his ability to always have a sense of what to do. He had answers.

Knowledge tends to hold a lot of weight in our culture. We have to know. Those who know, should be in positions of power. Without diminishing the value of knowledge, I’d like to offer another way.

As I grew up, and continued to look to my father as the model of what it meant to be a man, I was taken on a journey.

While occupying positions of responsibility, I was afforded many opportunities to share my process (which included a lot of not knowing). I was able to be publicly unsure. It was risky and vulnerable. It messed with a lot of people. Thankfully, I was able to bring people along for the journey of the discovery of ideas – from void, to inception, to crafting, and through failed attempts and shared successes.

The journey continues.

The more I grow, the less I know, and the folks who can handle my not knowing are the ones who seem to hang around.

To be continued…

This season has been one of an unusual kind of growth for me. I’ve been trying to find language for what this is that I’ve been experiencing. I figure if I can find ways to describe it, it’s less discomforting.

A while ago, I had the opportunity to hear Paul Young (author of “The Shack”) speak. Whatever one might think of the book, and subsequent movie, he mentioned something during his talk that resonated with me. He talked about The Spiral.

We all have our things – the hang-ups, challenges, past traumas, stumbling blocks, and frustrations. Our “things” are what we seemed to have accumulated along our journey. Maybe we didn’t pick them up, but somehow they managed to attach themselves to us. They seem to be the things we are tasked with working through in order to experience Life with a capital “L.”

My experience in dealing with my things has felt like a boomerang. I deal with them, feeling like I’ve found closure, completeness, reconciliation, etc., only to have them come back at some point (sometimes years later). A kinder interpretation, but still unfulfilling was that I was on an infinite cycle of just dealing with the same things over and over and over again. It wasn’t until I heard about the spiral that my thinking shifted.

Instead of thinking of my things as snapping back, as a boomerang, or even that I was on a never-ending loop of dealing with my things, the spiral was different. Yes, dealing with my things as felt cyclical. I go around and I see the same things. In this way the circular shape of a spiral mimics the feeling of a circle (a never ending loop). But each time I go around, my things look a little different. They aren’t the same. I’m not the same. In this way the spiral is different. Every time I go around, all of it – where I am with my things, how I see them, what they mean – is different.

Sometimes my things hit harder, sometimes not at all. Either way, I now understand that my things aren’t static. They can move, release, float away (or even fight back). The changeability of my relationship with them is a beautiful thing.

I will never diminish the horrible feeling of by being hit by a returning boomerang I wasn’t expecting, or that depressing feeling of being on a never-ending circle. Those are their own kinds of things. I only offer the imagery of the spiral as it has helped me accept the recurrence of my things while understanding that the journey offers the possible of newness.

There is a gift to being party to many communities (TED, music, dance, church, arts non-profit organizations) across geographies (Barcelona, New York City, Vancouver, London). Your community is vast and diverse.

The downside is during a time like the global COVID-19 there is a lot that happens that affects you. In the past weeks we have lost so many people. Giants of the music world among them include Wallace Roney, McCoy Tyner, Ellis Marsalis, and Bucky Pizzarelli. With every passing, a flood of memories. The tap dance community got hit too. Al Heyward.

That name might not be familiar. There will be many unfamiliar names that mean the world to someone. I wrote a post about my recollections of Al here (it’s also reprinted below). You know, Jimmy Slyde stopped answering his phone at one point in his life because the majority of the phone calls he was getting were only to let him know that another friend had passed away. I get that.

For now, I’ll still answer my phone. For now, I’m remembering to care deeply for those I’m connected to, while we share this time and place. For now, I’ll be remembering the ones that aren’t with us anymore.

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Tap Dance – Al Heyward

(Originally posted on April 2nd at andrewnemr.com)

I’m writing this here so that whomever writes the book of tap dance history during this period will have a resource other than the immense number of facebook posts to go through. As is my habit, I will gloss over the commercial and deal more specifically with the first hit to the tap dance community that “RONA” (as my ER doctor friend likes to call it) has dealt us.

From an observer and practitioner’s vantage point, it has been wonderful to see tap dancers rally. Dancers have gone to every platform possible to teach free online classes. Entire dance schools have transitioned to online learning. The first global tap jam was held by the London Tap Jam, and the DC Tap Fest became the first ever exclusively online tap dance festival. There will surely be more. Folks are communicating like never before and that can be a good thing.

Now for the harder news. Two days ago it was announced that Al Heyward passed away. The announcement was short. I heard it through a facebook message. Complications from COVID-19.

This is the first thought I had: Who in the tap dance world today knows who Al Heyward is?

I’m going to do a horrible job of summarizing Al’s impact on the tap dance community from memory here (please search for more information as it becomes available). Summarizing Al’s life is not my goal. My aim is to offer a glimpse as to the impact he had on me as a young dancer coming up in the scene in NYC in the 1990s.

Al was tall. A towering figure, especially for me. I was a short preteen when I first met him. Al had a soft voice. You know the kind. It was so soft it made me would make you wonder what “angry” would sound like coming from him, or if “angry” existed at all for such a person. It did, don’t worry. Al was fully human, and I’m getting ahead of myself.

Al Heyward was one of the quintessential fans of tap dance. He enjoyed being around the art form (and the people) so much, that he dedicated a solid portion of his life to making sure that the craft was celebrated. He did this through his work on the New York Committee to Celebrate National Tap Dance Day and the production of the annual Tap Extravaganza®.

The Tap Extravaganza® exudes different feelings for different people. For me, it was one of the best full community gatherings. Imagine, as I remember it, anywhere from 700 to 1200 tap dance enthusiasts (practitioners, celebrities, fans, family, and friends) of all ages gathering to celebrate a select few. Recognized leaders and up-and-comers would honor their elders – those selected that year to receive the Flo-Bert Award.

I make note of the award, as it was named after two performing artists who may be lesser known in the tap dance community but no less important to our history. Check out Florence Mills and Bert Williams when you have a chance.

Back to Al. My experiences with him were always wrapped in a graciousness that dispelled the responsibilities he carried. He co-chaired the committee to select the honorees, produced the annual awards show (and sometimes two shows a year), all while working a full-time day job. That is an accomplishment to be acknowledged. He seemed to keep his sanity and soft touch in the midst of most it, too. As someone who got a break performing at the Tap Extravaganza® (1998, in honor of Bunny Briggs), and produced and directed the show (2011, on behalf of the Tap Legacy™ Foundation) I tip my hat to you, Al.

I wouldn’t consider Al a show business cat. I would consider him a people business cat. When he asked my how I was doing, he wanted a real answer. When he asked me what I was up to, he was genuinely curious. When I fell out of touch with dancers from my own generation I could count on Al to share important community news with me. He cared about the connections. He cared about the community.

My first image of Al will always be in his tuxedo, dressed and ready to host the annual Tap Extravaganza® (he wore it even if he wasn’t hosting out of respect for the honorees), but that isn’t quite right. More important are the memories I have of his kindness, thoughtful opinions, and support of the people in our community.

I’ll miss you.