Subway Dance Party.

Last weekend, I took part in Improv Toronto's 2nd annual subway dance party.

Along with about 450 people (some of whom came from as far as Buffalo), I danced on the subway, ipod in place, tunes pumping. We filled 2 whole subway trains.

I happened to meet up with Kristen Gale, whom I had met the week prior when she came to one of my Nia classes. Thanks to Kristen for filming and posting this wildly fun experience (below).

The organizers did a fantastic job of staging this very fun event. I'll definitely be part of the event they are hoping to stage this summer.

Picture this.

Saturday afternoon, Museum Subway station.

The train rolls in, doors open. Passengers leave.

Then groups of people, who had previously been divided into groups, get on their assigned cars. Each one ipod-ready for the execution. After the first stop, the group leader in each car starts us off. At the 2nd stop, 2 more dance. 3rd stop, yup, 3 people grooving.

By the 5th car, we are all dancing. And smiling.
Releasing "feel good" hormones. Which I'm pretty sure are contagious. At least, that's what I've heard...

My friend Ingrid happens to get on our car with her friend at Queen. We make them smile. I tell Ingrid I am working hard to beat down my February blahs. Another of Ingrid's beautiful dimply smiles warms my heart and reminds me it's working.

We roll off at Wellesley and then journey southbound back to Museum.

"Attention all passengers: please don't dance on the train, it is dangerous and could cause injury". I am surprised that is the only thing we hear from TTC staff through the whole event.

Passengers have varied reactions.

1. "I am totally going to pretend this is not happening. Even though the whole car (whole train) is bee-bopping, I will show absolutely NO reaction. This is a normal ride on the Yonge-University-Spadina line ... on a Saturday afternoon. Nothing out of sorts going on here..."

2. "WTF. (Nostril snarled, brow furled. Looking around, then, sprouting-grin-blossoming-into-huge-toothy-smile). Holy shit. We're in the middle of some strange public performance piece. I ready about this in the Globe last year. Where's the camera?!? Get the camera out! Shit. Doesn't this thing have a video mode? Son...how does this work? Hurry. They'll never believe this in the Soo...."

I giggle and make eye contact to let them know that we're sober (well, at least I know I am!), and creating a dance wave of joy, that's all.

Dance Our Way Home

I was introduced to Erica Ross and Dance Our Way Home in 2005 through Sheena's Place, a support centre in Toronto for people with eating disorders. In the throes of anorexia and an exercise obsession, I connected back to my body and it's beauty in this wonderful expressive dance practice.

Fortunately, Erica is now offering this special dance to a wider community in Toronto. Check out her website for more information about classes.

When I am part of a Dance Our Way Home session, I feel embraced by a welcoming community where I can dance freely with other like-minded wome. Erica creates a special dance experience filled with relaxation, guided imagery and fascinating music.
Maybe I'll see you there sometime soon!

Sunday Scribblings #83 - Trust

Trust.

Relying on....
Having faith in....
Believing unconditionally...

I don't trust myself.

I can be entirely unpredictable.
Untrue to my own principles.

I give myself a zero on the trust-o-meter.
Unreliable.

I wouldn't trust me.

If that's the case,
How can I trust anyone else?

It's all about dissolving expectations and embracing impermanence.

Life has nothing to do with trust.

Sunday Scribblings #82 - Sports

Sports do not bring up good memories for me.

As a child, I was enrolled in swimming lessons.

I failed. As in didn't pass. My twin sister passed, but was held back so we could stay in the same level. She won't let me forget that to this day and I hold that to this day.

I never could get the breathing thing down right and so would plug my nose with one hand and do the front crawl with the other. That made swimming in a straight line impossible. I'd start out at the right corner of the pool and end up at the left corner. For many years I couldn't even understand why this was funny to my sister.

I have memories of grade school gym. I was picked last for the baseball team during gym time. Why was I "dead wood?". I didn't have the skill, speed, hand-eye coordination. No one told me that was ok.

I was never invited to the Track 'n Field day at Birchmount Collegiate. I never even got to sit in the stands. Even Tina Mastromartino got to go. But I didn't. Instead I stayed back at the school, doing my academic-track work.

The process of trying out for track 'n field (which, I might add, was MANDAtOTRY) was humiliating.

Long jump. I fell flat on my face. And the freaking teacher there was so belittling:

"Obviously this isn't for you!"

But I did hold Miss LeBreton's hand when we were skating. I could skate. Other kids couldn't. And I got to hold her hand. And I didn't lose my balance. I was confident.

But then again, she taught us folk songs. And was different.

So she was a little ahead of her time ~ in 1980 she GOT what was important.

LOVE, ACCEPTANCE, BEING.

I guess she taught me a lot.

Thank you.

Sunday Scribblings #81 - ArT

(this post was borne out of some creative workshops I recently attended)

I. Word art.

random thoughts are like food.

pretty wild. i create soul inside.

it's ok. dance bodytalk.
living seekers redefined.
pushing the envelope.
keeping feature.
simple. amazing. wellness.


II. Eleven ways to look at a ladder.

1. I used to climb you when you were a tree
2. A stable place to reflect on fear. Providing a roadmap of upward mobility.
3. Geometric physicality cancelling rootness & embracing verticality.
4. I can see what you might see when I am on the ladder and you are 6 foot 3.
5. I can build shelves now. Cupboards, hooks & racks. I can use the space just below
my 10 foot kitchen ceilings. I can buy appliances I'll never use.
6. Platform of power weilding spaciousness for rugged effort and risk.
7. The stilts of a painter.
8. lonely friend slumped with it's cheek against the concrete wall of the garage,
between the beer fridge and lawn chairs woven with twin. We just can't trust his
joints anymore.
9. The room was filled with words. The room was filled with words about the ladder.
10. They say that in the end there will be a ladder & angels & trumpets & light. But I didn't see any of that.
11. A ladder just is. A ladder just does.

III. Opposite hand writing

Jelly outhouse
lets in the sky
moon narrow and pale
hard to say

Island is shy
self effacing
arid garden
octipi
burning eyes
spreading saffron


impossibly funny
nut brown afternoon
forever
earthenware mustaches
photograph once
tell her
ancient body
utterly new
each morning

barefoot forever
lit by centuries
woman in heat
flaking saltbed
fetch redbrown centuries
novelty ancient chuckling
tomatoes laughing
coffee pipes forever
PORtRaits of BEWIldERMenT

Sunday Scribblings #80 - Regrets

Some might say she didn't play her hand right.
That more than a few regrets had landed her here.

In disarray.
Here in the warming huddle that her earth squat and compression of core body heat thighs against belly thighs against chest head curled down to meet threadbare aging and aching knees. Knees that took her on long searches of safe spaces.
Yes, there are those who would chalk her up a series of mistakes.

Others might not even notice.
From her crouched position she is but invisible to their hurried must go and get that thing, that thing, that thing. that is. really. important.
But if she were fluorescent she would still blend in.
Assimilate with signs and digits and beeps and chatter and facebook and running stories that occupy their beautifully tended headspace.

And then them.
Them that open windows and peer into cracks that transcend anything other than what is now.
They look but see, feel but sense, hear but listen.
They don't waste time letting love out and then in.