The Dance of Three

Years ago I had an experience that continues to this day to provide me with a framework for, if not understanding, at least knowing what my task is in my life.

It is called the “Dance of Three” – in an intensive environment (8 days of dreamwork, movement and art) three women would partner for a triad of dancing, mirroring and witnessing.

A Chopin Nocturne would play and one woman would dance, eyes closed, in whatever way her body was moved by the music. The Mirror would hold the Dancer in her vision and mirror (in essence and quality, if not exactitude) the movements. And The Witness would hold both in a loving and protective gaze, being a bit of a buffer between other Triads and knowing where the group was within the room at all times – holding the Dancer and the Mirror in consciousness and yet also holding the reality outside the Dance in consciousness too.

The Dancer had (in very simplistic terms) the experience of free movement, self-expression, being seen and not judged. The Dancer’s subtle body would feel the presence of the Mirror and sometimes interact, but most times not, and also the Dancer felt held (safe) within the gaze of the Witness.

The Mirror had (again very simplistically) the experience of giving, unreservedly of time and attention, with intention. To see and mirror back to the Dancer whatever she expressed. No judgment, no agenda. Just echo, voice, body, movement. Companionship. Presence.
The Witness is the integrating experience, where one bridges the unconscious expression of Self and is also always aware of “exactly where one is in the room.” No trance allowed. Full attention is necessary, no mind-wandering, but loving non-judgmental attention to the space and to the Dancer and Mirror.

Rotating through these three positions gives a person the chance to experience each of these modes of interaction…and over time, doing it enough, one begins to see that one must do this for oneself. Maturity, in all the best senses of the word, is the ability to Dance (express oneself), Mirror (see and interact with others) and Witness (hold a consciousness and attention) as one moves through life.

As I interact with my children I see them mostly as the Dancers …and well they should be. In their lives they are. And it is not their responsibility to Mirror or Witness mine. Not in the sense of Witness I’m using here – kind of like “contain” but that is part of my responsibility as their mother. Even though they’re nearly grown. I do not necessarily Mirror them any longer, although I did when they were young. But I do hold a Witness.

My friends, much the same. In fact, right now, I’m feeling a kind of overwhelming sense of Witness. I have friends in my life, dear dear friends who have children with cancer, mothers with cancer, one has her own battle with brain hemorrhage, one has a mother who had a severe stroke, one has a mother with quickly accelerating Alzheimers. My sister, without a job for 2 years, was foreclosed on, and so was another friend who was recently transferred.

I have two very dear friends who were let go from their jobs last week. One has a family of three small children.

And finally, I found out that my first boyfriend has lost his job, his family and is living out of his car.

And I’m just listing the top ten.

There is a balance that the experience of the Dance of Three is meant to show me how to embody. I must not get stuck in any of the positions – to Dance all the time is to be overly self-involved and self-expressive to the point of not really interacting with others at all. Withdrawal and isolation. This can also be narcissistic and overbearing if taken to the extreme. To Mirror all the time is to become fixated on another and have no sense of self. No ability to move and dance and express in my own way. To get stuck in the Mirror is to be what is popularly called co-dependence.

And to get stuck in the Witness is to spread too thin, to be unable to effectively witness anyone. To be pulled in too many places at once, and to have no sense of support and balance – or rejuvenation – from which to give the conscious attention. I know that one of the archetypal images that I have to watch out for identification is Great Mother – as if I can, and should, mother “the world.” I am feeling this pull as well.

My life is so good, so filled with everything, that when I Witness the devastation of my friends and family right now I feel somehow that I must provide them with…. something. Not money. Not a job. Not even food or sustenance. I don’t know what exactly. I think at first “presence” – just being there for them. But that too is getting so omnipresent that I find myself almost cowering in my house, almost afraid to answer the phone – what next?

I don’t have an answer. I know that just writing this out has brought a shift – I can feel it begin. Now I will need to take this into my meditation practice, and into my art. But it began with this.

I offer this clip from Pedro Almodovar’s movie “Hable con Ella” – it is the opening sequence. Notice the dance. I was struck dumb when I saw it in theaters. It is the Dance of Three.

A Very Blustery Day

Lots of wind and rain and humidity. From inside the house it looks cold out there.
But actually it's not. I only need a t-shirt on to go check out the birdhouses and feeders.

So far the damage is minimal.

Someone else will have to go into the 63 degree water after the chair. I don't go in til May.


I'm hoping the Hollyhock will recover. Or bloom again. Or something. It's been a great day for getting lots of piles unpiled, printing reports, finishing tasks, cleaning down to the very bottom of tables and getting through stacks of "things to do." I keep thinking I have errands to run, but I really don't want to go get in the car. In fact, I'm sure there is another pile around here somewhere.

Panic/Anxiety

Today has felt like one of "those" days. Where anxiety lurks and panic lingers.

It's only 9:15.

This may grow into a longer post as the day goes on...but for now I just wanted to put it "out" there so maybe it would slow down the looming fear inside. We'll see.

---

And now its 2:35 and not much better. Yuck. I hate days like this.

Doors

Doors are really interesting. I mean in some ways they're very ordinary, and we can go in and out of them for years without noticing them. This is what my front door looks like. Not really fancy, but I will tell you its a handmade door - milled and made by the original owners who decided to use pecan for all the trim, doors and woodwork when they built the house in 1963. It's on a lovely tract that used to be a pecan grove. Here is what the doors and shelves in the library look like:
And this is the pocket door in the library. Also out of pecan. Very heavy. Really pretty. All the doors work amazingly well for being 46 years old!

So, I go in and out of our front door all the time just taking them for granted. Then we have to have some repairs done to the locks and a door specialist (a "Schmutzie" if you will) comes to the house and starts fixing the things (sorry I don't know all the names).

He pointed out a most interesting thing on our front door. There seems to be no threshold seal. And he was thinking maybe he should redo our threshold when he noticed a small, weird bolt-like thing on the inside of the bottom of the door.

You can see it in this photo. Well, it turns out that that when the door closes and the bolt hits the metal plate in the door jamb (which you can also see) a rubber strip is pushed down - and the door is sealed. It is very cool! The Door Guy was kind of amazed.

In fact, he really was fascinated by it and his enthusiasm was quite infectious. I also took time to be amazed. And grateful to the family that built this house for taking the time to do things like that.

In a previous part of my life I might have blown this guy off. I might not have taken the time to talk to him, to listen to what he was saying, and to really appreciate the fact that he loves what he does. But, I thought of Schmutzie, and I smiled, and I listened.

And now, I have this amazing door. I mean, I had that amazing door all the time. I just didn't know it.

Resentment

I've heard it said that "Resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die" and I can really see how that is true.

I've found myself being resentful that an enjoyable site on the Internet has become a previously enjoyable site. That it is now being completely dominated by someone who is sick, insane and toxic. That person, however, goes blithely about posting and conversing, and simply having the freedom that can only come with clearing out a room due to your own insanity and violence.

At some point I was really resenting her doing that. "Hey," I thought "I want to hang out there - why do you get to have all the conniption fits and vomit all over the place and now I can't post because you'll take over the thread and turn it to shit?"

And then I said to myself - holy cow. How can I possibly let someone else, who I (hope to GOD) will never meet manipulate me into thinking that she has that kind of power over me.

I can call her insane (and probably am right). But if I continue to go there and post and put myself out there -- then I am also insane.

And, I'm not.

And now I don't even have the resentment. Yep, there are nice people there. I'm sure there are. But life is too short and the Internet is a huge place. Who the heck needs that kind of insanity?

Not me.

Nikki

My couch companion as I type.

People That I Know, part 2

When I was a child I went to a camp in North Carolina called "Our Lady of the Hills." Catholic. I went from age 10 to age 15. It was an amazing time for me. That month away from home was always seminal in my year's growth. I have so many memories (and so many memories that I've forgotten and wish I still had!)

One counselor in particular really captured my heart. Her name is Nancy Eldredge. She was a student at UNC Chapel Hill and I was in the 7th grade when we met. I was an awkward, shy and bookish kid. She was beautiful, and smart and magnetic. She was also a Christian.

Can I make a side note to say that having been raised a Catholic I guess I believed something along the lines that these were two different things. Anyway, she was Catholic and really into Jesus. This was 1971. The age of Jesus Freaks. Although she never forced anything on anyone, she became a hero of mine, and I was in love with her.

She was my counselor for two years. I longed to be her favorite. She had no favorites. She was exceedingly nice to me, and a wonderful leader of young girls.

As is the way with so many people in our lives (and most of the people in this series of people that I've known) I lost complete track of her. For years. Never did I forget her. Or make a note whenever I saw the name "Eldredge" and I applied to go to school at Chapel Hill (couldn't go, couldn't afford it) I never saw her or corresponded with her after that.

Then, last year I googled her. Lo and behold, she is a therapist in AZ and has a website. I wrote and asked if she was the same Nancy Eldredge. And she is!

We have had some lovely emails and caught up, but of course it's not the same. She is not the college student and I"m not the child. But it is nice to make that connection.

And (the point of this post) as things in life come to confluence sometimes I have learned about LLS because of an internet friend and her loss -- her son died of leukemia. So it was with some amazement, but not necessarily surprise, when I got an email from Nancy saying she is going to be running a marathon - on behalf of LLS - and I had the opportunity to donate to her efforts.

Here is her most recent training update. I'm simply amazed at what connections this old Internet can provide. (Thank you Al Gore).

hi Y'all,

I'm now officially training in the Andes! I have had some great workouts, and if you checked out my web page recently, you will see that I finally broke the 8 mile mark! Or at least I think so, given my lack of GPS contact here. So based on time, I made it somewhere between 8 and 9 miles in San Rafael, Argentina. Check out the webpage for more detail. My biggest problem has been with the concept of "fueling" the body, which I can really see makes a huge difference. I used to run when I first got up in the morning with almost nothing to eat, and only carrying water by hand or in a waist pack. That works fine with a run in cool weather of only 30 or 40 minutes. But now with runs of over an hour, I can really feel that extra food to kick in--at first I feel heavy and ungraceful, but then about the hour mark, there is a burst of "wellness" that feels strong, and I'm sure it's about the food. But I haven't really figured out WHEN to eat in relation to a long run, and WHAT to eat--despite the very good nutrition class LLS sponsored for us. Runnng here in Argentina (and now Chile), I have to figure out when to run in relation to the tour schedule, the time breakfast is available( not until after 8), what they have for breakfast (no sports drinks available) and the temps. So, I've been taking food back to the room for the early morning, trying to beat the heat. The water has been worked out, thanks to a suggestion from Susann for the Nathan hydration vest--much better for me than a waist belt hydration pack. But if any of you serious athletes out there have any suggestions, I'd really welcome them.

Since breaking the 8 mile mark, I've had several 45-60 min. runs, and then another longer run (1 hr, 55 min) in Mendoza around up the street (15min uphill, 13 min. downhill) from the hotel, and then around a beautiful park with a lake in the center. The morning we were leaving Mendoza to cross the Andes--by bus!!!--into Chile, I got up before dawn, and started my run. A beautiful sunrise over the lake, and not many folks running til about 8 am. Several cars filled with young men who had the trunks and doors open, with some type of salsa or cumbia music blaring. A few of them started keeping track of my time in the 3 laps I did and called out either encouragement--or joked about my slowness. At one point, a man blew by me fast, who had a very good running form. So, I decided to see if I could run faster, changing my style a bit, and matching his foot plants; it worked, and I actually kept up with him. Any motivation at that point was welcome. Then I peeled off to head down the hill again. All felt great, until, the Argentine equivalent of Montezuma's Revenge came on me again! I was close to the hotel, but in trouble, in a residential neighborhood, fearing an international incident! Just as I was about to panic, what did I see in the distance but a breakfast restaurant called "Mr. Dog" with open doors, a friendly staff, and most importantly, a bano! International relations spared.

The crossing of the Andes was amazing--with wonderful views of Aconcagua Mtn. at 23K feet, not to mention others around 18 to 20K feet. The ride up not too challenging (thank you wrist bands), but coming down, the road has 30!! switchbacks to get to the bottom, losing altitude fast. No guard rails, and very narrow roads with a great big bus. Thankfully a good driver!

Here now, I'm in a small township outside of Los Andes where we are definitely in the foothills of the Andes at about 2700 feet. I've gone for one good run, about 45 min. and getting in some good hill work-- only moderate huffing and puffing. The scenery is certainly beautiful, and the table grapes peaking thru the fence in the countryside where I was running gave me a bit of a boost too. Eating Chilean grapes off the vine rather than from Albertson's was a mind blowing treat!

Today, we went out early for a visit to a beautiful winery (I tasted, but didn't drink), then to a Chilean rodeo--amazing horsemanship, but again I felt sorry for the cows--check out the internet for what they do in comparison to US rodeos. Then a BBQ with a music and dance demonstration--more wine and a glass of the local favorite beverage --piscos--now back at the hotel.

Tomorrow I am planning a long run again. I figure I made it to 9 miles in Mendoza, so I can make it to 10. Wish me luck. And thanks again, for your support, kind words of encouragement you have given me, and of course your donations you have made to LLS.

Love, Nancy

Some of the things going on.

So, sometimes during the day I sit on the sofa in my kitchen (yeah, I have a sofa in the kitchen with a large window right behind me on to the backyard that is filled with feeders and birds) and I sit with my laptop and surf various blogs and sites and read the news and so on. I can waste a lot of time doing this. Time I could be spending on my art or my writing.

But every now and then I realize that I'm not exactly wasting time as much as resting and refueling. There are lots of things going on right now in the lives of others I know -- and I'm a kind of point person, support person. Here are some:

1. A lovely, 26 year old, mother of a 10-month old boy, who is the daughter of a dear friend just had surgery yesterday to remove a tumor in her rectum. Very malignant but the prognosis is good. Much chemo and radiation to follow. She will be home next week.

2. A dear friend in her 60's was life-flighted to a University Medical Center with bleeding on the brain where they have stopped two brain hemorrhages and are still watching one. She is awake, alert and eating and drinking. We're hopeful she will be out of ICU in 2 weeks.

3. A dear friend lost her beloved nephew in that horrific boating incident in which two NFL players also died. Her daughter is the same age as my daughters and was raised with her cousin like a brother. The grief continues unabated.

4. I sponsor a woman in Al-Anon and the anniversary of the birth of her daughter is soon. This dear daughter died at the hands of a babysitter when she was 6 months old. That was 8 years ago and the reverberations continue. Sitting in silence and love and with attention while she continues to grieve is all I can do.

5. My daughter was on the phone with a friend who was in the process of committing suicide 3,000 miles away. The young woman died. My daughter is suffering from continued nightmares and panic. She is 3,000 miles away from me. I seem to be bouncing around like a ping pong ball on whether I should go to her. Or support her as she works through her feelings. Or what. It seems that whatever I do will be wrong.

6. Two friends of mine, older people but friends nonetheless, who I dearly loved died. Within a week of each other. I miss them.

So, none of these terrible things is happening to me. I am, on the one hand safe, sound and secure. Life is good. I'm a banal representation of "the good life" -- nothing wrong here.

Yet I am also deeply connected to people that are suffering big stuff, going through immense difficulties and needing their friends (me) and family (me) to be present. I'm trying. I'm hoping I'm available.

So, I guess part of me sits on this sofa surfing the internet so that feelings and grief and sadness and so forth can wash through me and engulf me without necessarily tipping me over.

I hope so.

Mini Vay-Kay

Just got back from a little mini-vacation. I was down south a bit, for a conference, and my youngest daughter drove down on Sunday. Together we caravanned to Walt Disney World.

I know, roll your eyes, huff and puff, call them corporate shills. That's fine. We love it. We two. We love regressing into her childhood, we revel in the good, clean fun. We love the rides, the funny characters, the cartoons, the popcorn, the silliness.

Mostly we love the memories. Circling round and round and back again to the years we got to know each other as she grew up. My other daughters love it too - they are just busy with their lives and school and geography prohibits their being able to take off and simply revert.

I'm an extraordinarily lucky person - really. Perhaps the luckiest person on the planet.

I'm back now - and re-entering the real world with all its Bernie Madoffs, Jim Cramers and tabloid scandals. But I'm fine with that real world stuff too.

Because periodically I can take a little mini-vay-kay.

A Moment

Edith walked slowly through the automatic sliding door of Publix, making sure to put her cane down firmly with every step of her left foot. She focused on this new three step walking because she had been warned, in not-so-pleasant terms, what disaster awaited should she misstep and fall on her newly installed hip.

Dizzy for a moment from the slap of the humid air and the brightness of the sun, Edith stopped and took a deep breath. Charlie maneuvered the cart around her still form, and paused by her side.

“You okay?” He spoke softly, trying to be patient. He’d been doing the shopping for over a year, and he enjoyed his solitary traipsing up and down the aisles. Charlie thought about how his character was still being built as he wrestled with impatience these days, now that Edith had to exercise that plastic and metal contraption in her hip.

“I’m fine,” Edith breathed. “It just took my breath away, this heat did.”

Edith’s voice was low and rumbly, Charlie has always liked that. Her voice softened his irritation, just as it has done for the last fifty-six years of married life.

“Here, hang on to the side of the cart, I’ll go slow,” Charlie offered.

“No, no, I have to work with this cane. I have to get the hang of it,” Edith said. “You go on to the car, I’ll get there.”

Charlie moved carefully across the lane of traffic, looking both ways and making sure the lunchtime crowds in sedans, college students in sports cars, and moms in SUVs saw him and his cart as he inched toward the silver Buick parked in the first handicapped spot outside the exit. If the drivers slowed down for him, he reasoned, then they’d sure see Edith coming along behind.

Charlie got the groceries loaded into the trunk and shut the lid. He checked on Edith making her way across the parking lot, then he moved toward the driver’s door to get in and get the air conditioning going before helping Edith with her door.

As he glanced back at Edith, things seemed to move fast and slow at the same time.

Shuffling her way to the car, Edith caught her foot on the concrete barrier, swayed gently and then fell to the ground like a tree chopped at the root. Charlie flt the thump in his chest as her body hit the ground, as if something great had struck him in the sternum. Horror wiped his mind blank, and for a split second he froze in place. Next thing he knew he was kneeling next to Edith, looking into her face and touching her softly on the arm, searching for signs of breathing.

“Edith, Edith,” breathlessly Charlie called to her as if she were far away. “Edith, are you alright?” He felt a lump forming in his throat and tear prick his eyelids.

“Oh Lord, Charlie, oh Lord,” was all Edith could say.

Once she caught her breath, Edith strained to get up but nothing seemed to work. The veins and tendons drew taut from neck to shoulder as she lifted her head. Her feet came off the ground two or three inches as, with great exertion, she tried to upright herself. She couldn’t think. All she could do was flex muscles, any muscles, trying to make something work. Heat radiated off the black asphalt and tiny sharp edges of rock and stone bit into the flesh of her lower back where it pressed onto the pavement. Embarrassment pushed her blood pressure higher and Edith felt her bladder release. An even warmer wetness now seeped up her back.

“Oh my God, Charlie, get me up,” Edith pleaded. Tears dripped down the outsides of her eyes, into her ears.

“Yes, yes, of course, just lie here for a minute and make sure you’re okay first.” Charlie felt adrenaline pound into his head.

“Excuse me, sir, may I help?” a soft voice came out of nowhere.

“I’m fine. We’re fine,” Charlie snapped, not knowing who was talking, unable to see the young woman offering to help.

Yvonne Lee was on her way to pick up cabbages and carrots to take to work at the Rice Bowl, a Vietnamese restaurant where she worked as a chef. Her heart had leapt into her throat when she saw Eidth fall, and she had immediately rushed over to assist.

At the same time, Greg Nettles came up behind Charlie. Having parked his car, he was on his way into Publix for beer and chips. Greg had also seen Edith fall, and made a beeline toward the couple struggling on the ground.

Knowing he should be grateful for their help, Charlie just felt anger rising in his throat, replacing the sad lump with rage.

“We’re FINE!” he nearly yelled. “We’re just fine, I can do this myself.” Impotence fueled the short, fiery fit of pique and then left Charlie limp.

“Of course you are,” said Yvonne softly. Then to Edith, “Here, rest your head for a moment, ma’am,” and she gently placed her neatly folded apron under Edith’s head.

Greg squatted on the other side of Edith’s head and looked kindly into her eyes. “We’ll have you up and in the car in no time, ma’am, no need to worry.”
Edith closed her eyes.

Charlie felt the lump and the tears again. Sorrow threatened to overwhelm him. Can’t I even take care of my own wife? He moaned to himself, but he nodded at the strangers, and held Edith’s right hand.

Greg looked at Yvonne and they nodded to each other. Some kind of telepathy brought instant recognition to them, a sense of what was needed. Each gently placed a hand under Edith’s shoulders, cradling her neck and head.

“Okay, sir, you gently guide her up to standing and we’ll follow,” Greg said with tender firmness. As if on cue the three of them floated Edith to a standing position.

With her can rigidly held in her hand, Edith commanded her body to stay erect. Waves of pain in her hip, her back and her elbows nearly threatened to blot her out. She felt nausea rising from her gut with humiliation right behind. She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

“Thank you,” she said simply and quietly.

Being closest to the car, Yvonne opened the passenger door and Charlie slowly turned Edith around and guided her into the seat. Lovingly he lifted her feet and swung them into the car. He positioned the cane along the seat next to her, and carefully pulled the seatbelt across her lap, inserting the metal tip into the buckle by the console.

He cautiously withdrew from the car, and shut the door, turning to thank the strangers who had come to his aid.

They were gone.

Charlie scanned the parking lot, the entrance to Publix. Nothing. He looked down. The woman had taken her apron. Nothing remained of that moment, except a small dark puddle on the shimmering black asphalt. Soon it, too, would evaporate.