passing on a performance of "fear, yes, and freewheeling"

Magical dancers in rehearsal for "fear, yes, and freewheeling"

I have already let go. I let go days ago. Physically, yes, I passed on this dance in each of our rehearsals. But I believe in an essential exchange of words:

"This dance is now yours."

It's a ritual passing of ownership. And for a piece all about rituals creeping back into my existence, this was an important ritual for me. It's not just movement that transfers from one body to the next, but trust and psychic energy. Letting go and passing things along opens the project--the baby--up to newness. Things you didn't create explicitly. But things you set in motion. 

I didn't have a baby this year, I had a dance. 

How do we pass things on? And what a strange phrase it is, "passing on." Death with dignity. Give and take. There is movement to it, momentum. Ancestry. I think of my mother, passing on my grandfather's brother's ring. I never take it off.

Right before showtime, when we get down to the wire,  it's interesting to see what my expectations are. What last burst of brilliance can I share? Of course it's too late. I know that. The dance is done. It's all pent-up potential energy now. I spent months doling it out to dancers. What nuance is left to be eked out? Unexpected rhythms will rush, galumph, soar, roam. It's quite literally out of my hands.

A week or two ago, out of nowhere, I finished this piece. I put my head down, did the work, and we woke up on the other side with a dance. Months ago, in the nascent stages of this work, I envisioned chaos and a painful lurching to the finish line. I saw us all in my mind--disheveled, distraught and drained. I continued to work. I know what I know. And my body tells the stories I know only subconsciously. Primordially. As with all magic, a surge of energy emerges. Muse-like. Muted grays and blues come through with hints of ruffled underskirts. Unknown rituals take shape and organize a set of strangely specific rules. I write things down again and again, tilling and culling the good bits. I put them forth into the rehearsal room, week after week.

Now here we are. Now is the moment right before costumes and makeup and final eyes-closed-here-we-go. I am almost not needed. There is no more time for choreography. There is room only for words.

What I say and how I say it matters. Dancers need to know this work belongs to them. It has been passed on. They need to know that "lights up" means in-the-moment intuition is everything. They alone make the work sing. They are the work itself. They are free.

I jumble out these words as best I can. The dancers nod. I sit on a blue-cushioned chair, waiting.What happens? A dance unfolds that I've never seen and I'll never see again.

A door I didn't know existed opens up to heart-rushing spontaneity. The dancers' animal instincts mischievously ask "what next?" They soar on adrenaline and bleeding, bandaged feet. An essential pause happens where there was no pause before. The dancers hang. Centers of gravity drop. Eyes wash over as physical command takes over. Hearts are along for the ride. I sit with the witnesses. We unhinge. We lean in.