moving within fear

Artwork by a young Brooklyn YMCA member.

“When we bring presence to fear…we find within the fear itself the very juice that frees us.”

                                                                                                          -Tara Brach

For the last year, I’ve been living in fear—not running for my life, but swimming inside the causes and effects of being afraid. In my life, in my relationships, in my writing, in my dancing, I had been grappling with the idea fear. My obsessive compulsive stove-checking, second-guessing and general malaise came to a head and I came to a crossroads. I had to talk about it, to flesh it out, literally. 

A year ago, I was invited to teach some dance classes at Bucknell, my alma mater. I immediately felt the pressure to teach pitch-perfect classes with stunning heart-rate-raising arcs and masterful, professional choreography. I thought about attempting that. But then I looked at how I was actually teaching my current yoga classes. I found that what fed me fed my students; what my body needed seemed to be what they needed. My gift wasn’t in planning pristine exercises but in spontaneously and intuitively riding moments with the people in a class on any given day. So, I decided to teach dance the way I teach yoga. The playlist plays. I feel. I teach. When I arrived at Bucknell, I had been humbled by my years in Delaware and my empty resume. I had no alumni tales of glory, just my voice. I decided not to hide it. I pressed play and we took it from there. We continuously moved. As the students matched movement to breath, I spoke to them from my notes and my heart about fear and “holding the space.” I allowed myself to teach from the heart. The Courage to Teach by Parker Palmer echoed in my head. 

Below is a compilation of my notes on fear that I’ve shared with classes and have used as jumping off points in choreography. 

Fear has been on my mind. I’ve been noticing my build-up of fear over the years. Like residue.

Habits, distraction. More habits, more distraction. I’m ignoring the fear, letting it fester. But when it finally taps me on the shoulder (or punches me in the face), I start looking for escape valves and ways to decompress.

We move away from fear as a way to soothe, protect, find refuge, soothe our nervous system.

But acknowledging it can lead to greater freedom. It’s not even about moving through it (I don’t know what that means), but it’s about moving within it. That’s where the dance comes in…literally move around in it. Exhale curl in, in, in. Hollow out, empty. Move with it, because of it. Be next to it, moving maybe forward, maybe zig-zag. Maybe ‘round and ‘round in circles, my favorite. 

So, when I can’t look away anymore, I look in. I lie down on a wood floor and slowly move my arms and legs. Snow angels. Heel rocks. Inch-worming along. This is me up against the hard surface. Supported by it. What’s happening? Hey, breath is always here. I can always drop in. Oh yeah.

Fear is overwhelming when it’s nameless, when I don’t dare take a look. What are my options? Hide under the blanket. Do battle. Embody it.

“I am afraid.”

There, I said it. I’ll have to say it so many more times forever. Let’s dance. Dancing is my safe zone for working with fear. I dare myself out on the floor. Or I surrender. I don’t have a choice. The floor hasn’t opened up yet, I haven’t fallen through. It says, “I’m here.”

When I do things I’m afraid of, I move out (of myself, of the shallow end). I can converse with fear. “Hey, buddy. Did you see that Marina Abramovic documentary? Cool. Me, too.” 

I am afraid of injury. I am afraid you’ll think I’m a fraud. I am afraid you’ll get to know me and then not want to know me. I am afraid of never finding what I’m for. I am afraid of not fully living. I am afraid of money. I am afraid of fear. I am afraid of dogs dying. I am afraid I won’t ever feel like myself again. I am afraid I’m too old. I am afraid I look young. I fear newness, I fear boldness. I fear I’ll never finish this dance. I’m afraid of hitting “publish.” 

What’s the worst that can happen? My dreams are always worse that reality. I have terrible stress dreams of out of control classes. I’m up in front and no one is listening. People walk out, they walk all over me. I get worked up, I start to scream. I lose it. 

That has really never happened.

I can work with this. I can connect to what is real and ever-present—the part of me that remains unchanged, essential. First, breathe. Second, breathe. Hey, keep breathing.

Natalie Goldberg and her writing about writing is teaching me to say a “holy yes to the real things in our life as they exist.”

What you might find at City Lights in San Francisco