Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Workshop: Rhythm & Zils

Date:  April 28th - 4:00 - 5:30 PM

Location: Bright Star World Dance
                  108 High Street, 3rd Floor, Portland, ME

Cost: $25 (Class size is limited to 15 students)




Zils are in integral part of any belly dancer's performance repertoire.  Learning to play them well means knowing not only about the dance, but the music and rhythms behind it. 

This fun, friendly class includes an overview of rhythms that dancers are likely to encounter, along with easy zil patterns that can be played along with them, and each student will receive a rhythm sheet with the patterns written out for practicing at home!

Students will also learn: 
  • Exercises that help build rhythmic skill
  • Tips for practicing at home
  • A few tricks that will aid in zilling while actually dancing!
Total beginners welcome.   This is a hands on class so bring your zils! 

Live music is provided by Stephen Carpenter.


 

Your Name:

Wednesday, April 3, 2019

Spring Session - Heretica: Cultivating Choice



When: Thursdays, 5:30 - 6:30PM, May 9 to June 20 (SixWeeks)


Cost: $65Advanced Registration/$85 Day Of (full session only – no dropins)***

Where:  Bright Star World Dance, 108 High Street, 3rd Flr, Portland, ME
 

Are you seeking a dance class that strengthens your spirit as well as your body?

Heretica, from the Greek word heretikos, is about learning to understand the why and how of your own movement.  Utilizing techniques such as authentic movement, meditation, silent improvisation, group rhythmic exploration, theatrical improvisation, as well as instruction in dance technique, you will begin to foster a seamless connection between mind and body; thought and action.  By learning how you relate to your body and how your body moves through the world, you become free to create physical expressions of emotion, build stories through movement, and share more of yourself in your dance. 
 
When you come to understand the connection between your body, our mind, and our spirit - the better you embody your self and the concept of Heretica.  
You become one who is able to choose.  
---

Heretica: Cultivating Choice, is a class that provides the structure of an ongoing dance class, with the freedom to explore how your body wants to move. Drawing from a variety of contemporary dance styles, authentic movement, and deep improvisation this class is a seven-week movement exploration.

With class warmups that improve strength and flexibility; exploratory dance exercises to help you foster a seamless connection between mind and body; and cool downs that leave you centered and grounded, this class is your bridge between inspiration and movement.

Plus, each week you will be offered optional out of class exercises that will help you build your movement practice at home.

You will want to wear comfortable clothing that allows for freedom of movement. You may also want to bring a notebook or journal, and a water bottle.

Students of all movement backgrounds and levels are welcome to join the class.

In order to facilitate free exploration we seek to create a safe space for all types of dancers and movement artists to explore creative expression. The class is open to all genders and movement forms.

*** Payment plans are available.  Please contact Joie directly if you wish to set up a payment plan.

Full Session Registration:

Heretica: Cultivating Choice
Student Name

Tuesday, April 2, 2019

Old Dream: Forgotten Songs


I have started to gather together the stories that have come to me in dreams.  They are scattered across blogs, Facebook posts, and drafts never shared.  This dream came to me a few years ago and it has stuck with me. You can find the recording of the dream on my SoundCloud page.

It is a small, nondescript house, with an a plain shed standing beside it. Inside the shed the walls are lined with shelves that are filled with large storage bins.  There is a long workbench on one wall and only one door.  There are no windows.   

Each morning a woman goes to the shed and unlocks the doors. It is always early, the grass will be wet with dew or crisp with frost, and the morning shadows long and low.  She steps inside and waits.  Soon she hears the crunch of gravel beneath the tires of a delivery truck.  She hears the driver open his door and step out onto the driveway.   She listens for the sound of the delivery van door sliding open and the driver’s footsteps as he approaches.   She sees him silhouetted against the morning light as he steps into the doorway.  They exchange pleasantries.  She signs for the delivery and he hands her one plain white number 10 envelope.



She pauses in front of the workbench waiting until he is gone before opening the envelope.  As soon as she does music begins to sound. One song at a time she hears the last time a piece of music has been played, or sung.  Sometimes it is entire orchestras playing complex symphonies but more often than not it is a single human voice humming absentmindedly.  She often wonders if the owners of the humming voices ever realize that they were sharing this song for the very last time.

As each note sounds out into the air it solidifies into a tiny colored bead and falls into her open palm; a forever frozen musical vibration.  One by one she places each note into a tiny padded box, like those that expensive jewelry comes in.  Each box uniformly gray, and once closed, utterly unremarkable.  She packs them by the hundreds into the large plastic bins.  Note after note, song after song.

At the end of the day, when the last song has sounded, she writes the date on the outside of the envelope and files it away in a cabinet full of thousands of other envelopes.   She turns off the single light in the shed, padlocks the door and go back into the house to make dinner. 

She doesn’t know what becomes of the notes after she packs them away.   She knows she is not the only person doing this.  There are many around the world doing this work day after day.  She knows that the shed is not large enough to possibly hold all of the forgotten songs she has stashed away over the years.  There is some mysterious process that she has never witnessed in which the songs are carried away to their final destination. She imagines that somewhere there exists an immense warehouse with sky high shelves full of stacked bins, filled with an infinite number of little gray boxes, each holding a tiny gleaming and silent note.   

Wednesday, March 20, 2019

Imperfectionist

Today is the first day of Spring. As we prepare to put the cold, darker days of Winter to bed, and wake up from our long hibernation of the heart, I resist the urge to let my mind skip right ahead to Summer. The calendar tells me that Winter is done, I want warmth, long days, feet in the sand at the beach, the scent of flowers on the wind, a farmers’ market bursting with berries.

But I will have to wait, because Spring has its own plan and takes its own time. Spring is not for blossoming, it is a time for seeds.

In my spiritual tradition is a time to plant the seeds of intention; to ask what it is that I wish to grow in myself in the coming year. This is not an easy answer for me. In recent years in I’ve often been too in middle of things to pause and reflect on what I wish to plant. But last night as I lay in bed pondering the coming spring, a word came to my mind:

Imperfection.

Like my mind jumping ahead to fantasies of not too hot or humid summer days, uncrowded sandy beaches, and berries arriving at the farmers market at the same time as my paycheck arrives at the bank, my thoughts of my own future are nearly always filled with images of perfection that have little to do with reality. In my dreams of summer there are no bad air days to keep me stuck inside, I have plenty of time to take hours long meanders on the beach (if I even remember this is something I want to do since there are many summers that end without my going to the beach at all), and I arrive at the farmers’ market at 7:30AM every Wednesday, cash in hand, ready to fill my canvas shopping bags with fresh, local produce.

In the fantasies of my future self I am never, ever broke and my whole financial life is perfectly budgeted. I rise extra early each day to do a half hour of yoga, fifteen minutes of meditation, and another thirty minutes writing in my journal. I am a social media and marketing boss, posting engaging content that promotes the work that I do which of course leads to classes and workshops that are not only full but have waiting lists. My future self follows a diet that is organic and wholesome. I am emotionally balanced and almost never self-medicate with booze, food, or Netflix. I get restful sleep every night and I am perfectly, perfectly, hydrated. I live a fearless life where I achieve all my dreams.

Spring is not perfect. Spring is mud, and potholes. Spring is days that are sunny but leaving you wishing you’d brought a hat. Spring is 18 inches of snow in April and 75 degrees the next day. Spring is melting snowbanks that reveal piles of decomposing dog shit on the grassy verge** between the sidewalk and the street. Spring is too many layers or not enough. Spring is last Autumn’s root vegetables at the farmers’ market when what you really, really want is a tomato.

Spring is also the return of birdsong when it seems impossibly early and too cold for nesting. Spring is more daylight than darkness. Spring is fat green buds on the trees, crocuses, daffodils, and, eventually, the scent of lilacs. Spring is the sound of winter water running into the stormwater drain. Spring is sandals with wool socks because I just can’t wait any longer.

Spring is imperfect and beautiful, and it makes no apologies.

And so, this is the seed I plant today. The seed of imperfection. It is the intention to grow into my inconsistencies, my less thans, my not enoughs, my not quite there yets. It is the act of shining the light on my contrariness and off days. It is a seed that I plant in the earth of my cracked self-esteem, watered by my weeping, and warmed by the desire to love myself as I am.

Imperfect.

For the audio blog recording please visit my Soundcloud Page.

**yes, this is what that particular space of land is called. I had to look it up: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Road_verge


Thursday, March 14, 2019

Saying Yes


"When we said 'Yes,' everything in us said 'Yes.'  When we said 'No,' everything in us said 'No.' We were undivided."  
- Mary Starks Whitehouse

This week during one of my personal movement sessions I moved with the focus of what saying yes to something felt like in my body.   I quickly realized that there are two very distinct types of yes in my life...

...the yes that is in alignment with my values and sense of purpose
...and the yes that isn't. 

The yes that isn't makes my shoulders tense, my chest drop, and gives me the sense of being under a great weight.  I know that this is the yes that I often give because I feel like it is something I should be doing, or that I might disappoint someone.  There is almost always some kind of anticipated outside judgement involved.  It is the yes that leads me to feeling overwhelmed and doubt filled.  It also more often than not leads to a period of procrastination in starting whatever project I agreed to.

The other yes, the one that is more in alignment with my vision and purpose, instead brings a soft opening.  I feel like I want to lift my heart to the sky.  There is a sense of being about to take flight. My body feels lighter.  It comes with a deeper knowing of rightness.  Later, when I sit to do the tasks associated with these projects, even the mundane, non-fun, boring tasks that accompany nearly any great endeavor, there is still a sense that I am serving something deep within myself.

That doesn't mean that there isn't any doubt or fear that accompanies this sort of yes.  In fact there is often a hesitation, a questioning, but these fears and hesitations sit in the same place as the yes does; they are its shadow.  They live in the bits hidden behind old traumas, tucked away out of a need to keep these precious parts of myself safe.  These are the fears I need to allow myself to breathe into, and heal.

My body is often far more wise than my brain.  Learning (or rather re-learning) to listen to its voice is ongoing.


Sunday, March 10, 2019

March 10, 2019 - Contemplative Dance & Authentic Movement Class Cancelled

I am cancelling today's due to the winter weather advisory issued by the NWS this morning. The worst of the weather is due to occur right during today's class and I want to make sure everyone stays safe.

Stay safe, warm, and cozy. I hope to see you next week!

Tuesday, March 5, 2019

A Dream: The song of the bridge...


Joan Simon [CC BY 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)]
This story came to me in a dream...

In this dream I am a young man, an apprentice to a priest of a sort.  When the dream begins I am face to face with my teacher, who has just asked me to take care of his village while he travels on an important errand in another town.  I am uncertain that I am ready to take on this responsibility.  I tell him I do not feel ready, that I do not know the people of this village well, and to please find someone else.  I list a half dozen reasons why I am not able to do this, but he does not relent.  

He assures me it is only for a couple of weeks. 

He tells me all will be well and not to worry. 

It is raining when he leaves.  I walk him to the bridge over the river that borders the town.  He again attempts to reassure me.  He reminds me that there are no celebrations to tend to at this time of year, no one in the village is dying, no one is preparing to give birth.  At most I’ll be asked to reassure a few heartbroken adolescents or listen to a parent’s concerns for their children. 
 
He taps my chest with two fingers and tells me that I should trust his teaching and what my heart tells me. 

I stand in the rain as he crosses the bridge and makes his way up and over the next hill, disappearing into the woods.  I stay and listen to the rain fall on stones of the road.   I notice the water is high in the river.  Finally, I turn away and head back into town to the small cottage my teacher lives in.  I hang my cloak, make a cup of tea, and sit by the fire until I am dry. 

I awaken in the morning to sun shining in the window and a knock at the door. I am told that sometime during the night the bridge has disappeared.  

Thinking of the high river water I ask if it was washed out.  No.  It is just gone.  Vanished like it had never been there at all, and the road no longer goes to the river’s edge. 

I go to see for myself and all is as the villagers say.  There is no bridge and the road curves back into town instead of reaching for the river.  Even the road on the other side is gone. 

Several people from the village are gathering.  “What do we do now?” They ask.    They tell me that the river runs for miles, upon miles and only gets deeper.  The village is surrounded by cliffs too steep to climb.  This is the only way in or out of town. 

My first thought is to build another bridge but when I make the suggestion, I’m told no one knows how to do that.  “But who built this bridge?  Who maintains it and repairs it?”  I ask.

The people of the village shake their heads and shrug their shoulders.  I am told the bridge has always been there.  As has the road that crosses it.  No one has had to fix it or repair it.  It has just stood there for as long as anyone can remember. 

I ask if there is anyone who might know how to build a new one.  It is suggested that I ask some of the elder folk of the village.  They might know.  But I am cautioned that they are full of old stories no one wants to listen to.  The small crowd disperses and I’m again alone by the water. 

I find I am a little annoyed that the people of the village don’t seem to care much about solving the problem of replacing the bridge and that it is left to me, a person who until yesterday had not spent even one night here.  I want to just walk away in frustration but worry about disappointing my teacher.  I go to seek the stories of the town elders. 

I spend an afternoon with an old woman who lives on a farm at the edge of town.  She tells me a story about her first love who she still remembers fondly, but she has no story about the bridge.  She sends me to the former town cobbler, who is full of tales of the lands all of his hand made boots have walked but he is also without any stories of the bridge.  He tells me to seek the old smith who must surely know something.  The next morning smith welcomes me to his home, feeds me lunch, and tells me of the time he made a sword for a travelling knight but the only thing he knows of the bridge is that it is older than even his father.  It has always been. 

As I make ready to leave, he tells me there is still one person yet who might know.  He does not know their name, but they are rumored to be as old as the bridge if not older.  They live in a tree by the edge of the wood.  

I ask which tree.  The stories say I will know it when I see it, he tells me.  I look to the sky and turn to leave thinking I might find this tree while there is still light.  The smith puts his hand on my shoulder to stop me.

“There are things you must bring with you,” he says. "The stories say that you must bring food to share and drink to pour.  You must bring something warm for the tree dweller and hay for the horse. You must also remember to knock and ask politely before climbing the tree.

The sky is now dark and I go to my teacher’s home to prepare.  I leave the next day with a sack containing bread, cheese, and a bottle of water from the well.  I also carry my only blanket and a bundle of hay on my back.  I walk until I reach the edge of the wood.  I see no tree different from any of the others.  I try to enter the wood, but the underbrush is too thick. 

I am tired and so I sit with my back against a boulder.  The sun warms me making me sleepy and I drift off.  When I awaken I see an ancient tree not more than a few yards from me.  It is afternoon and the sun is no longer overhead.  I wonder how I did not see the tree before and pass it off to being a trick of the morning light.  
 
The tree is tall, with grayish bark.  It is not like the pines of the surrounding forest.  It has broad green leaves.  There is a horse standing at its base.  I approach and lay the bundle of hay on the ground.  The horse begins to eat.  I stand at the trees base and look up.  Feeling a bit foolish I knock on its rough bark.  

“Hello?” I call out. “May I please climb this tree?  I have food, and drink, and a warm blanket.” 
In an instant I find myself among the branches of the tree; branches far broader than they appeared to be from the ground.  They are wide enough walk upon without fear of falling.  I look down thinking I must have misjudged the tree’s size, but the branches are so thick I can’t see the ground.  

“Thank you for feeding my horse.” 

I turn around to see a person of great age seated at a table.  Upon the table is a laid meal of bread and cheese.  Two wooden cups are on the table and the jug of water sits next to them.  

The tree dweller motions for me to sit.  

I take a seat and uncork the water jug, pouring into their glass first, then filing my own.  We eat in silence.  

When the meal is done, I ask about the bridge.  Do they know how to replace it?

The tree dweller sighs and shakes their head. They tell me the bridge is gone because the town suffers from an old wound.  The people of the village once came together to heal that wound and when they did the bridge appeared.  As long as the town continued to live in community, to care for one another, to celebrate and mourn together the bridge would remain.  But they have forgotten the wound and the ways to heal it.  And so, the bridge has gone. 

“How do I bring it back?” I ask, “There must be a way.”

“They must remember…” The Tree Dweller says.

I then find myself standing again at the foot of the tree.  The horse has wandered away.  The sun is gone, and it has begun to rain again.  

I am again annoyed.  I am bothered that my teacher left me here with no knowledge of this town’s history.  I am angry with him for going off when he must have known this was a difficult time for the town.  I am frustrated with the answer given to me by the tree dweller.  How am I supposed to make a whole village remember a story that not even the eldest residents remember?  And now I am cold and wet to boot.  

I head home filled with frustration. 

In the morning I take a walk around town and tell people that there will be a gathering by the hill by the town well.  I tell them that I will share what I have learned.  I also tell them to bring food to share, and wood to build a fire.  I think that perhaps if they share time and food together, they might reconnect with one another. 

That afternoon I wait at the hill as they gather.  No one seems to have remembered to bring food or wood for a fire.  They seem irritated.  They were told there would be a feast and warmth.  I stand and try to calm them.  

I tell them of my visit with the tree dweller.  I ask about the story of the wound. They laugh.  Some are angry.  How could I expect them to remember some old, forgotten story about a wound?  This is foolishness.  They can’t believe that I was left to watch over them.  Some begin to wander off.
Not knowing what else to do I climb the hill.  When I reach the top, I drop to my knees and press my palms to the ground.  Recalling my teachers words I ask my heart what I should do.  

Please…please…I ask.  What am I to do?  How can this be fixed?  How can these people be brought together?

I begin to hear a song.  A high voice singing.  It is my voice.  

My voice sings a story of a town at war with a town by the sea on the other side of the mountains.  The war goes on for years, maybe centuries. And the battles tear down the mountains until only steep cliffs remain.  

My voice sings of a town cut off from the world by the cliffs to one side and a deep river on the other.  The townspeople make no effort to find a way out.  They are fine being apart from those they do not like.   

My voice sings of a town that begins to die.  The wells turn sour and the crops die.  People are hungry. 

My voice sings of a young woman who walks to the water’s edge each day to collect fresh water.  One day she sees a man across the river, different in appearance from her, but he is strong.  He is not sick like those of her town.  She is fearful, but she calls out to him. 

My voice sings of two people meeting at the water’s edge each day.  He speaks to her across the water and tells her stories of the lands beyond the river and the town by the sea. 

My voice begins to sing of her love for her town and her people.  Of her desire to make them well and whole again.   She knows that she must find a way across the river.  She begins to sing a song of love and magic and hope and as she sings a bridge begins to form over the river…

My voice sings of her father, who followed her to the river that morning. He hears her song and sees her walking to the misty bridge.  His eyes fall upon the man across the water and he yells in rage.  He runs to the bridge as she steps on it and grabs her shoulders to stop her…she stumbles and her voice falls quiet.  The bridge vanishes as she falls and does not catch her…

My voice sings of her father’s grief as he watches her fall in to the river…swept away by its rushing waters.  He drops to his knees sobbing as the man across the river begins to sing… 

My voice sings of the townspeople weak, sick, hearing the song and coming to the river.  They begin to sing.  As their voices rise the bridge begins to form. They sing for many days and nights, not eating or sleeping until the bridge is finished.  The father and the man meet in the middle of the bridge.

My voice begins to sing her song…the words coming slowly…

My heart was born by the river.
My heart sings of the sea.
My heart crosses the rushing water.
My heart brings hope home….

My voice is slowly, slowly joined by others. They too sing the story of the town.  A story of war, and sickness. A story of isolation.  A story of hope and grief.  

As we all sing, we weep in grief.
As we sing, we keen in mourning.
As we sing, we lift our voices in hope. 

As we sing the days, and nights pass.  I see hundreds of people moving about the hill.  Some on their knees, other walking, standing arms raised to the sky.  All are singing.  I do not know how many gather; how many people are remembering their own story, their forgotten song.

I do not know how many days pass.  I awaken on the hill with my teacher looking down at me and offering me a drink of water from the river.