Dance

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a dancer. I'd dance in the living room, on my porch...I felt so beautiful when I moved. Free.

My mom took me to an audition at a dance company in downtown Chicago when I was about 8 years old. It did not go well. I couldn't make my body do what the instructor was asking. I was off rhythm, embarrassed by my lack of grace and coordination in the eyes of my "judges". What had seemed so natural and graceful, what had given me such joy, was now something I was failing at.

Taking ballet classes didn't do much for my confidence. The dancers were all thin and tall and didn't have breasts (something I had more than my share of from an early age). My feet didn't turn out like the others', no matter how much I tried to make them. But I still danced on my own, making up routines for my sister and her friends and dancing in the living room.

In college, I still wanted to dance but had given up on being a dancer. I accepted what I thought to be true at the time...that my body was not built for a dance career. Becoming a dance minor was the only way I could take all the dance classes I wanted to, so I took those classes, purely for my own enjoyment.

I took ballet, toe shoes and all (another disaster), jazz, tap and modern. It was the first time I'd ever taken a modern class. Each modern class was different, but I soon found that in general, this was a dance style that seemed to fit my body type. Most of the movements utilized gravity rather than defy it...the instructors encouraged us to use our weight and it felt wonderful.

I read "My Life" by Isadora Duncan and was so inspired by her, by the notion of dance coming from within and it seemed to reflect my own experience with and relationship to movement. Movement from within came so naturally while echoing someone else's movements often seemed awkward and foreign...something I could get "wrong."

I went years without dancing. It's hard to believe, now that I'm doing it again, that I could go so long without it. I have rediscovered my love of moving, of releasing into a dance... I have a dance studio above my garage where I can turn on music and simply move.

It is unfortunate that modern dance is not readily available to the public and that many of us have bought into the notion that only certain bodies can dance or be graceful. Perhaps, like me, people have watched a dance performance, a ballet or a show on television and been impressed with what those performers can do with their bodies. And we should be, it is impressive. But it is not the only way to experience dance. It is not the only form that can be admired. Watching someone truly in their body, enjoying their body and its rhythms, working with gravity but not being overtaken by it...there is beauty in that.

At an unschooling gathering last year I watched my friend's son perform a dance he had created. It was nothing you'd see on television...there were no recognizable, technical moves. But the movement was coming out of him and through him and his motions were remarkably fluid and he was responding with passion to a piece of music that he loved. It literally moved me to tears.

Art, in all its forms, should be accessible to everyone. We don't need to teach people how to create art...we need to be reminded of the dances, the songs, the pictures, the stories that we all have inside of us and be given opportunities to express them. Some people like to be given a vocabulary for that expression and that's okay, too. It's a start. And of course some bodies have limitations. Certainly some people are more in touch with their bodies and have a kinesthetic intelligence that enables them to do astounding things that are amazing to watch or to express things through movement that can't be put into words. And that truly is a gift.

For me, there is such joy in moving without restriction. Listening to a piece of music that evokes some emotion or that reflects how I'm feeling and being able let those feelings move through me in a physical way is exhilarating and healing.

One of my best friends once choreographed and performed a piece about an abusive relationship she'd been in. I'd never seen anger look so beautiful. The beauty was in the movement and it was in the face of my friend battling her demons.

Now I look at my physical limitations as a gift. If I had been gifted in ballet and all of the technical ability I wanted, I may have missed out on finding the dancer within. I may have become a dance performer and lost sight of the dance waiting to emerge from each person. Every person, no matter the size or shape. There is a reason I identified so much with Isadora Duncan's words and philosophy. They mirrored my experience.

The grounding nature of some of the modern vocabulary lends itself well to the average body. If I didn't have an average body, I might not have known that or been able to share it. And that is what I want to do...help people to love being in their bodies, dancing.

Free.

Hair

I cut my hair. Really short. Now, it's not the first time, but it' been awhile.
When my son was just a baby, which was 7 years ago now, I shaved my hair clean off with my husband's clippers after a botched attempt at a self-performed haircut. It was completely impulsive, but I remember grinning at myself in the mirror, thrilled by my own daring and tenacity. Doing something so bold felt good, gave me a sense of strength that I sometimes forget that I have. "Here I am", it screamed, "there's nothing to hide behind."

I kept my shaved/short hair for quite awhile but it's been years now and my hair had grown quite long. It was thin, tangled, coming out in places…I'd been considering cutting it for awhile, remembering how liberated I felt when it was short. Then that second voice in my head said, "You were younger then, thinner…you didn't need anything to hide your face behind". And indeed, in the 7 years that have passed since the first hair-shaving, I've nursed for 4 years, been pregnant for 9 months, suffered several major depressive episodes, put on weight and unschooled three children. And yes, it shows…in the lines in my face, in the somewhat puffiness under my eyes and in the wisps of grayish-whitish-silver that congregate at my scalp. I let those things convince me that my hair provided some sort of cover, that only fresh faces deserved to be seen, that I could hide the encroaching white hairs underneath the longer, brown ones on top.

But I've found myself feeling stronger lately…physically and emotionally. I've been doing yoga for several months and while I'm not as thin, toned or accomplished as some of my yoga peers, I have more upper-body strength than I ever had and more endurance than I imagined myself capable of having. I've accepted the unconventional child-raising methods I've chosen to use, accepted that we don't necessarily fit in the mainstream and accepted that I am truly human, perfect in my imperfection. I am valid. I am worth seeing.

So when we were all sitting around at our Fall Equinox party a few weeks ago, discussing the things we were wanting to let go, I mentioned my hair. Yes, it's just hair, but it's also representative of the past years of struggle, the weight of uncertainty of my choices, the fear of showing myself. My friend offered to give me a haircut, right then and there and after some convincing, I agreed.

"How short do you want it?" she asked me.
"Really short," I said, "I want it to be bad-ass."
She laughed, "Ellie, you're too soft to be bad-ass. But I'll do my best."
So the hair started coming off, inch by inch. At one point she stopped and stood back to look at me. Her eyes lit up and she said, "It's really cute!"
"I don't want cute," I told her soberly, "No cute."
She sighed and kept going. We went inside to take a look.
"Shorter," I said, after looking in the mirror.
One last round of cuts later and she stepped back again, surveying me.
"It looks like it was shaved and is just growing out. This is what you want."

I peered in the mirror. Indeed it was what I wanted. My hair was background noise, an afterthought to my face in all its lined, tired glory. But somehow, to me, I didn't look as tired anymore. My silver hairs looked like they belonged instead of being intruders on my otherwise youthful strands. The strength that I knew I had, seemed to now be more evident. I felt free.
Just as the trees lose their leaves in the fall, bringing one cycle to a close, I've dropped my hair. It feels like a fresh start…not a new me, but a more definitive me, a decidedly stronger me.

The friend who cut my hair has a 5 year old son. At the park recently, he told me that bad guys have short hair so now I looked like a bad guy. I took this as a great compliment. I've always had a softness, a tender look about me. You could call it innocence, femininity, vulnerability…all qualities that I possess, more at some points in my life than others. The addition of this other element, of strength, of "bad" was quite a boon. That five-year-old made my day.

That being said, it isn't the haircut itself that is bad-ass or strong--it's the act of cutting the hair off. It's the strength it takes to say, "I don't need this to be feminine". It's the courage to let the world see the evidence of my human struggles and victories on my face. And for me, it's being brave enough to drop the facade of "good" girl. I am caring, compassionate and kind but I am also fierce, opinionated and confident. And both sides are worth seeing.