leotards and familiar stages and beautiful dancing faces

With a heart so full, I prepare to head back to Bucknell University for a moving weekend in every sense of the word. It is humbling to dance next to a long line of dancers who grew up and set down roots in the Tustin Dance Studio. The palpable presence of those we miss is felt daily, and as we step on stage, their spirit of being just radiates. 

Here's to the Department of Theatre & Dance and their endless commitment to the ephemeral, the fleeting, the fragile and the essential. I continue to grow each time I return home.

when in doubt, reach out.

When it feels like there is nothing to say and nothing to do, elementary school kids always know best. I have had the honor of teaching for an after-school theater arts program at H.O. Brittingham Elementary, a program headed up by the ever-reaching-out Clear Space Theater. The amazing kids at this school are bright, funny, sweet, curious and brave as all get-out, especially when they step up to the mic, spout out their lines, sing like angels and dance like there's no where else to be. My subconscious must have know there was a good reason to be cleaning up my desktop this morning, despite an unruly laundry list of things to do (laundry included). I guess I needed something to soothe my searching, anxious mind today. I stumbled upon this group poem I had saved a while back. It was written by Mrs. Van Rees’s fourth grade class.

Thanks, you wise and wonderful kids, for sharing your voice. A nice reminder that we all have one.

MY VOICE

My voice is like a good luck charm

And an imaginary forest


And a theory about happiness.

My voice is like lights beneath the water

And the light of snow

And like an ocean of grass.

My voice echoes in an empty movie theater.

It is like a dark list of random objects.

It is also like waking dreams.

continue inviting people to intimate spaces and do brave things

In the after space, in the place where we are post, in the time following dark-hearted deeds, there is a massive, incomprehensible and indescribable chaos. We want answers, we want reasons, we want names and we want exceptions to what seems like the ruling force of darkness. 

In these times of aftermath, in the space inside our grief, while we are lost in the senselessness, we feebly share stories and we hopefully hear voices. We hear the courageous voices of comfort. We see those seeking the light in a dim room with heavy hearts. We find those who are pointing out the helpers. 

Today, my heart is with Boston.

Yesterday afternoon, as I felt the familiar rise of anxiety in my heart and the bursts of anger and outrage and adrenaline fatigue on facebook, I had to take a step back. I felt a wave of gratitude to be alive. And I felt grateful to have the opportunity to walk down the beautiful streets in my lovely town with my soulful and bright-spirited dog, Etta. The walking, the movement gave rise to a thought...

Continue inviting people to intimate spaces and do brave things.

That is our gift. As teachers. As artists. As conversationalists. As friends. As family. As human beings. Instead of closing off, we go deeper. We hug closer. We stay and listen. This work matters. This work is real. This work is a simple chat, a shared dance, a piece of theater in a darkened space with long-reaching, light-filled tentacles.

Walking, I wondered how to approach my evening yoga class. I was scheduled to teach at 7pm. I wasn't sure how to proceed. I knew soft, quiet, non-intrusive music was part of the answer. I knew I didn't want to go on a tirade or step onto a high horse or force a mood or preach. I wouldn't know what to say. I also don't know where people are coming from, what they know and what they feel. That's something that is always unknown coming in to a class. All I could do was be with my students, hold the space, make them feel safe and breathe. I decided to offer my phrase a few times throughout: "continue inviting people to intimate space and do brave things." One woman, almost in tears, thanked me. It was just what she needed. Me, too.

With open-ended gratitude for today, 

Jen(ny)

peering into the void

The start of something. A blip out of the inertia. A peek. A taste. Momentum. Move and don't stop. Move until you feel something. Move until you don't feel something. Move until you stop thinking and you're just there with yourself and the ones who join you. Move until your heart melts. This is the practice.