Turtle Ta(i)l(e)

This is Charlie.

The other day, I found a turtle. I was leaving one of my dance classes, hum de dum, as I always do, when I saw something on the ground. It was so pretty, I thought it must be some kind of jewelry, when I realized that what it looked like was a turtle shell. This realization was shortly followed by the realization that the reason it looked like a turtle shell was that it was a turtle shell. I picked it up and looked at it, and lo and behold, there was someone inside looking back at me. I was dumbfounded. Who finds a turtle on the sidewalk, the day after a spring snowstorm? This is a turtle, a TURTLE for crying out loud! How did it get here? I looked around dumbly, like someone was going to come running up shouting, "Has anyone seen a turtle, I dropped a turtle!" Or like I would see someone walking away with a turtle cage, the door swinging conspicuously open. No such luck. A few folks meandered by, all minding their own business and not so much looking for any lost turtles. I did the only thing I could think of to do. I took him home in a styrofoam cup that I happened to have in my car, and then he spent a few days living in a very large vase.

He is very small, maybe not even half the size of my palm. I read that it is illegal to sell turtle eggs or baby turtles, and I have a hard time imagining a wild turtle hatching out and climbing from the nearest pond, probably a mile away, onto a college campus. The only thing I could think of is that maybe someone decided that they didn't want him, and left him there. But I found him, and I want to keep him. A few days after he came to live with me, my friends Nikki and Mark gifted me with an aquarium, a filter, and a floating rock that he can climb up on and bask. I bought a heater for the water in his aquarium right away, because I think the house is uncomfortably cold for a turtle during the day. I also bought two little live plants, but now I am struggling to get them to stay where I plant them in the gravel of the tank. Keeping turtles is expensive, even when the turtle is free.

His name is Charlie and I already love him very much.

a room full of strangers

Spent some time today in the employees only break room at a fine hotel at lunchtime. One plastic folding table and a few chairs for all the people that hotel must employ? And yet it was full, but not crowded. We found the last two seats and I had to situate mine in front of the little sink and hope no one needed to get there before I was done gulping down cauliflower curry (only 1/2 an hour for lunch). Directly behind me at the table, a young woman with long, blonde, straightened hair sat completely absorbed by her cell phone, looking like she was trying to escape from everybody (Angry Birds?). A young black man, who we had seen earlier in the lobby emptying the garbage cans, sat across from her, rhythmically bobbing his head to whatever music was coming from his headphones. Across from me, in the awkward extra seating, sat two Burmese women, one of whom had been microwaving a container of rice-and-something when we had come which she immediately took out of the microwave as soon as she saw that we wanted to use it too. I hope it got hot enough. A younger woman sat next to her, eating some kind of salad out of two stacked styrofoam bowls with an un-styrofoam-bowl-like wavy rim. I wondered if she had microwaved something in them at some point that caused them to warp like that (shudder to think of what's probably being leached out of those bowls now). Occasionally, they would say something to each other in a language I didn't understand (Karin?), but quietly. Everyone in the little break nook seemed to have a fear of being overheard, and the place was subdued, a room full of strangers, and me.

26+6=1

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St. Patrick's Day is a favorite holiday of mine. Mostly it has to do with my deep Irish roots, and, more recently, my fondness for drinking whiskey. This year, we went out to the Blackthorn Pub (such a name!) in South Buffalo, which is traditionally where Irish immigrants would settle, and remains the most Irish part of town to this day. We had some beer and some dinner (corned beef and cabbage for me!) and there was an "Irish" band, who mixed traditional folk songs with "Dream, Dream, Dream" and some crazy song about how the unicorn didn't make it onto the ark and that's why it was extinct now. However, they DID play "Whiskey in the Jar," kind of an unofficial Irish national anthem and I, for one, sang along loudly. I think there may have been some folks who joined me, too. That fulfills a lifelong dream: singing "Whiskey in the Jar" while drinking Irish beer in an Irish pub on St. Patrick's Day. Beauty.

After dinner, we stopped for random desserts (since, in searching "traditional Irish desserts" Mark found things that were made of apples and barley and sounded gross) at Wegman's on our way home to watch The Quiet Man (another St. Patrick's Day tradition) and eat chocolate cheesecake, and drink whiskey and Bailey's. It probably wasn't a good idea to stay up so late on a Thursday night, but it was a grand evening. Let's not forget the reminiscing about our early memories of hearing about "The Troubles" and giving Mark heaps of guff for being British and therefore unable to sympathize with oppressed people and also very likely to get beat up at said pub on said day.

Yesterday was the parade, which was strange because I don't think we've ever had the St. Patrick's Day parade after St. Patrick's Day before. But Buffalo came out in fine style, there were no less than nine folks dressed up as St. Pat himself, along with probably 5 floats of local step dancing schools (which Nikki insisted, as she does every year, that we need to take up). Also, the unions marched, as they always do. We cheer enthusiastically every year for the unions (clever remarks such as, "Yeah, elevator operators! Just say no to stairs!") because they seem to appreciate it most, waving and cheering back at us, unlike the staid firefighters and the fleets of the Ancient Order of Hiberians who always march so stoically, regardless of our vim. Oh well. Also, we decided that next year, as the parade's most vociferous supporters, we need to be in the parade. Really, how hard can it be? Just join the Daughters of Erin society and buy one of those funny white tuxedo jackets and sashes and boom, you're in. Clearly, failure to achieve this goal will mean failure in our life heretofore.

Another year, another enacting of cherished traditions under our belt. I love celebrating with Nikki and Mark (what would St. Patrick's Day be without heckling Mark?!?) but sometimes I wish we had more folks to celebrate with. Maybe we should have tried recruiting some of the Daughters of Erin...ladies??

Morning Moment

Another favorite morning moment: When I stumble out of bed on my non-dancing mornings earlier than I want to, and grope my way downstairs, very first thing, to light the stove to boil water for my coffee. The kitchen is grey-dark, and after the moments of waiting, and clicking, the blue flame bursts into being underneath the kettle, the gas cloud having grown big enough for those first seconds to make it just a little bit scary. I love that.

"A Dancer's Morning"

For the record, I am not a morning person. Never have been, and it looks like I may never be. Except, when I started my new job, I also started having to wake up at 7(!) in the morning on MWF. That's all well enough, except that TR, I have dance classes that don't start till 10:00. If this were an earlier period of my life, I would absolutely sleep until the last possible minute, roll out of bed, throw on the leotard, grab a portable breakfast and head out the door. But, at this mature new phase of my life, this is no longer the case. I don't want to drastically mess with my sleeping schedule by getting up early some days and sleeping in others. So, I get up on my class days at (almost) the same time as I usually get up for work (hey, I'm new at this).

As for what ensues, well, I have come to find it quite lovely. I roll out of bed, make a civilized sort of breakfast (the kind you eat sitting down, with some kind of table in front of you), tie up some lose ends, make phone calls to other early risers, or maybe just cruise around the internet for a while, and then, when it's time, I get on my dance gear and go. Today, because of the whole Lent thing, I decided not to even look at the computer and just ate my breakfast, concentrating on the deliciousness of the food I was eating and listened to the birds sing. Who am I?

Oh, I know. I'm her:



I don't even want to tell you how much of an infatuation I've always secretly had with this commercial. I think when it started airing, I was just starting to figure out how much I loved dance, and to me this looked like the most idyllic life ever conceived of. Waking up. Sipping Folgers coffee (which just goes to show you how advertising messes with your head because I think Folgers is undrinkable and even good coffee makes me nauseous when I drink it before going to jump around for four hours). The morning light streams in the window. A deep "Welcome Life!" stretch, a few dance steps in the kitchen and then off to a fulfilling day at the studio. Perfection.

I've got to say it...dance class mornings for me are a little like that (until the whole arrive at the studio and execute all steps perfectly with a triumphant smile on your face thing. That, not so much.). I'm not joking, did you hear me before? I was sipping a chai latte and listening to the birds sing! Birds! All I'm saying is, how often do we get to live out something that even resembles a childhood fantasy? To me, this is awesome.

Some words and things

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At this point in my life, I feel full of frustration. There are sources too numerous to mention, but one of the smallest on them is this blog. The tone is never right! It never feels like me! No matter how much I tell myself I will not feel pressured by the Watchers, I still do! Aaaarg!

But, it is Lent. And, as everyone knows, I love Lent. This year, I have decided to give up watching TV. It may shock you to know that, in spite of not having cable here in the house, I manage to watch more than a fair amount of TV between the graces of Hulu and my Netflix subscription. There are numerous reasons why I chose that this year, which I will maybe illuminate in future postings. But, for now, all you need to know that not being able to watch TV is driving me a little crazy. And, for those of you not keeping score on your liturgical calendars, Lent started on...Wednesday. I am honestly wondering how I will stick it out for 40(!) days(!) of this, but one thing I would like to do is blog more. SOME people think I have grown lax in this space (because I have) and may be on the verge of abandoning it (which I am not, I think). But I'm not doing it for SOME people. I feel like if I hung out here long enough, I could work the bugs out. I could jump the hurdles. I could catch the flying fish (I made that one up). But, I want blogging to be fun again. Maybe it will fail and I will abandon you forever and go back to journaling in private. Maybe it will be AWESOME! But, we'll give it the old college try.

Also, I want to move. I hate blogger. I want a WordPress blog. I'll get started on that. You wait here, I'll come pick you up when I'm done.

Getting Back to Normal

photo credit: hula seventy


I just had a terrible weekend.

Although, to be fair, for a terrible weekend it was pretty great. I went out for dinner with friends, took pictures at the Botanical Gardens, finally got around to watching The Triplets of Belleville, made Roasted Vegetable Baklava and Sour Cherry Slab Pie. But, Friday pretty much shot down any chance I had of really, fully enjoying these things.

On Friday, I went at my normal time to my normal place to practice my normal dancing. But, I was kind of extra-fluttery excited because I got a new digital camera for Christmas, and I was going to figure out a way to record myself dancing, something I have been trying to do for months. The little studio where I go to practice has this convenient, high ledge running around two sides of the room, perfect for resting a digital camera on at a height and angle that actually takes in most of the room. Begin recording project. Of course, I can't help but watch everything I record as soon as I finish it. And, like a storm cloud on the horizon, a slow build begins. The first video is okay, not great, but not too bad. I am able to admire the clothes I picked out to practice in, some of my movements look neat. The next two videos are songs that I've been working on forever, and not in a "this is my opus and it has all been building to this point" kind of way. More in a "I was done with this piece months ago, but had no way of getting a record of it and so didn't feel free to let it go, so just kept working it until it was overworked, and terrible, and god I just need to get this down so it can go somewhere to die!" kind of way. Yep.

And, watching these two videos, the stormclouds raced up to cover the sun, the sky turned black and angry, and a tornado ripped out of the sky and tore through all of my self-conceptions, hope, and generally every good feeling I've ever had about anything. These videos were terrible, because I was terrible in them. My movements were repetitive, boring, and uninspired. My technique was sloppy or non-existent. Nothing translated to the tape the way I felt it in my body. It was embarrassing, watching this little video that no one but myself had ever seen, I felt deeply embarrassed. Embarrassed that I had thought for even one micro-moment I could dance. Embarrassed that I had such high expectations for myself and then achieved so low. Embarrassed by my lack of originality, of form, of thoughtful, good work.

To back up a little, I have been encouraged by a couple of people in the last year to start thinking about grad school for dance, and I had been. I had started researching choreographers, reading articles about dance companies, not as potential career options, but to be knowledgeable in my field, to be familiar with and inspired by inspiring work. In short, I was starting to take myself seriously, and these little videos showed me what a joke that was. I had been looking at enrolling in another semester's worth of dance classes, and I didn't even feel like I could carry on with that. There was nothing to do but quit everything and walk around the rest of my life with a bag on my head to hide my shame.

I forced myself to keep dancing that afternoon, because I knew if I didn't intervene, I would probably never want to dance ever again. I did the only thing I know how to do and danced out the disappointment. The rest of the weekend, in spite of the fun things I was doing, it was hard not to walk around with my head hung low, feel sorry for myself, sorry to be myself, feeling like a failure.

Never mind the fact that I had injured both my wrist and my tailbone, which made me a more cautious mover and prevented me from doing any floor work. Never mind that I have always had trouble performing in front of even one or two people, and the camera was just another eye that I would have to get used to performing in front of. Never mind that I knew I was no longer happy with this work and just looking to get it out of the way so I could move on to something else. Never mind that a camera is just a picture, not the absolute expression of all hidden realities, and like any picture WILL be interpreted by the viewer, who is more than a little biased about her own expectations and filters when looking at herself. Nope, none of these mitigating factors can make a lick of difference, I am a complete and utter failure, doomed to roam the earth in infamy for the rest of my days. (Perhaps you can tell, I tend to be somewhat dramatic when upset.)

Then, in the midst of the weeping and gnashing of teeth, I have to wonder, where did all this come from? Who set the expectation that I would suddenly be able to land a triple pirouette, or soar through the air on every leap? I can't do those things yet, and I don't have to. And where did I get permission to treat myself so unkindly? I often wonder why I think it's okay to talk to myself in tones or with language I wouldn't even use with someone I didn't like very much, let alone someone I cared about and wanted to see succeed. I made a resolution to advocate for myself as an artist, and apparently some times that will mean advocating for myself with myself, as I tend to be my own harshest critic. I have to remember why I do this in the first place. I don't dance to be a great dancer, to get applause or critical acclaim. I dance because I have to dance, I have to keep dancing, I have to tell my stories. And someday I hope to be able to use this art to help other people. Good technique is important, but I'm always trying to be better, not necessarily the best.

And then there's the art perspective. How many times have I wanted to tear my hair out when a piece of writing was not going well? How many times have I ridden the rollercoaster between elation and despair in the editing process? How many times have I wailed that everything I've ever done is crap and there's nothing left to do but curl up in a ball and die? How many times have I discarded work because it just wasn't working out? Over the years, I have developed a very thick skin as a writer, but because the dancing life is much newer, I feel very fragile, and the slightest tremor feels like the whole structure is going to collapse. Also, it has been helpful to remember that everyone has been artistically down in the dumps at some points, and there's really not much to do besides slog through it. Although it seems like a distant memory, I know I've had days where breakthroughs were exploding across my sky like fireworks, and I felt like everything I did was beautiful and I couldn't take a wrong step, which means that I'll inevitably have days where every song seems uninspiring, and my feet barely seem to leave the floor.

So what can I do? I have to go back, I have to keep dancing and unfortunately, I have to keep taping myself until I'm no longer afraid of it (bleh!), until I can perform at 110% of capacity no matter who's watching. I have to keep going, because in the artistic life, (aside from the occasional detour of flopping down right where you are, flailing on the floor and whining for a while) there is no way but forward.

S.