quiet grit
It was a cold morning for me as I am sure it was for all of you. January has officially arrived. Despite its temperature we made our way into the opening of Winter classes last week. What a joyous time it was to reconnect and return to the warmth of our beloved Moovment House. Dancers and friends filled the room as we began moving and creating together once again.
Story is in the air and it seeps through the words and images laying the foundation of all that we will do. Echoes of Pippi Longstocking and a Greedy Frost King filtered through our student classes. On this past chilly Thursday evening, Darren Silver, told an old tale of a Selkie woman who lost her skin. We listened and discussed the story's meaning while we ate bread and drank hot tea.
As we carry on through this truly winter time, gone are the lights and festivities of December. I feel an emptiness that is unlike any other season. There is an initiation in this time of year that gets us to spring. I find a quiet grit comes allowing myself to be here. I daresay a little suffering. I can’t escape it. It is cold and bareboned. I remember a few years ago during pandemic life when we danced outside during January. I can hardly believe we did it. Last week those of us that were there, regaled our story of snow boots, frostbite and shoveling our outside studio floor. We all smiled with the kind of courage that we really did something together. The process was an initiation for the world we are in now, and even shaped the life of Moovment House.
How often do we think about initiatory stages in our lives, our families or even in ourselves? It sounds rather epic or mythical. In the world that runs fast, and where everyone seems to be achieving and winning, do we erase or rescue the process itself? Learning through lean times when you do not get it, or you are struggling or even bored is not at all easy. However it is these harsher moments that help move us on to the next place. How often are we erasing or rescuing our own process or that of our childre
In the story of the Selkie woman told on Thursday night, it was not easy to find her skin again. In fact it took almost three harrowing tries and more than seven years to find it. The first time she almost found it, it dissolved into thousands of pieces into the ocean. They say she fell to her knees and cried artesian tears, the kind of tears you cry only once or twice in your life. Yet she got up again. Her story stays with me still as I stare out the cold window this January morning.
I am thinking about the children, the community and the Selkie woman. I am thinking about my family, my mother and my daughters. I hold steady in the developmental stages of life. I want our story to be epic and mythical. Here is to making good stories!