The Yoga of West Coast Swing

We talk in yoga teacher training a lot about what we learn on the mat and taking it off the mat. But because yoga is a way of life, I learn a lot on the dance floor too, and try to take at least some of it with me.

I learn confidence. I learn poise.

I learn dealing with difficulty (like those partners who cannot find the shoulder blade to save their lives) and I learn when it is imperative to use my voice (like the lead who rammed me into someone on practically every pass and was laughing it off and I finally had to say, you need to watch out, that's your job as a lead.)

I learn how to walk up to people and ask for what I want, which is a dance.

I even learned how to outright steal a partner.

I learn to compliment others -- and how to complement them, too, how to play off what they give me.

I learn to be strong and sexy and attract notice and allow myself to be noticed.

I learn how to keep myself safe and still take risks.

I learn that you dance, whether you feel crappy or happy, and the endorphins do their work.

I learn to let myself out of the prison of rules and restrictions about how I must act and what I must let others know about myself.

And I learn that "we're good" really does mean that we're good, and that you don't give up a great dance partner just because romance didn't happen.

The courage to shine

And then some days I walk out of therapy, and I think, What am I doing?

More to the point, why do I keep doing it?

It's true I don't know where I'm going next; I don't know about careers and I'm not at all sure I know how to turn a first date into something more.

I often feel like I don't fit people's notions of what I should be, or of what a woman should be.

But then I start to think, maybe I don't buck their notions enough.

Out of fear of being seen as too different, too opinionated, too strong, I hold back.

And what happens is that I end up, quite literally, sitting on the sidelines watching other people shine.

Shine by marmal8 on polyvore.com

There are some beautiful dancers who come out on Tuesday nights. And what makes them beautiful is not what they're wearing or how they look or their figures, but the way that they are completely present. They dance LOUDLY, infusing every step with their personalities, their boldness, their sexiness. Some of this is the length of time they've been dancing and watching others and having learned how and when to pull away from the lead and not be led. Some of this is having the guts to do all these things, to ask for exactly what they want.

Since I started learning this dance, my confidence has grown, but it still has a way to go until I let myself be that kind of dancer.

who are you by marmal8 on polyvore.com

So I observe myself, and take notes: with which partners do I burst forth, and with which do I hold back? How do my partners react when I add some little flourish? What gets me the biggest smile? What brings forth the moments when I shine?

Maybe after I figure it out on the floor, I'll start to figure it out off the floor as well.

The power of letting go

Four summers ago at outdoor yoga, I was first introduced to the idea of headstand. 


At the time, headstand was this thing. This goal. This unattainable, top-of-Mount-Everest goal that I thought I would never achieve. Oh, sure, I tried the little egg preparation. I decided that was as far as I could go, as far as I needed to go. It gave me the feeling of being upside down without the vulnerability.


I didn't practice headstand for three years. I practiced with my hands in a tripod with my head and rested my knees on my elbows, and that was my headstand. And it's a fine pose and gives all the benefits and keeps you safe.


And then things started to change. I changed. I discovered social dancing, I opened my mouth about things I didn't like at work, I lost my job. I went into a deep depression. I wanted to feel strong again, so I started doing the Five Tibetans, which are these great exercises that align the chakras and strengthen the core and made me feel so strong and confident. I horsed around, showing kids at the daycare how to start a headstand with that little egg. And before I knew it, my feet were floating up.


I was shocked and scared. My knees came right down to my elbows again and I couldn't get them to lift. This went on for a while.


And then another day, I was putting a sequence together for a friend, and thought, well, some kind of inversion on the end would make sense.


So there I went, into my little egg, and my feet floated all the way up.


I was, of course, so shocked that I fell over.


But there it was - headstand. Something I'd let go of so thoroughly that I didn't even want it. It suddenly appeared.


When I was a child, my grandparents had a framed poster on their wall with a picture of a monarch butterfly. The quotation at the bottom was 

Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.

-- Henry David Thoreau

Which may actually be from Nathaniel Hawthorne, according to the wisdom of the internet.

I had a challenge this past week - owing to a situation that made me uncomfortable, in a place where I was previously comfortable, I had to go someplace new. 

Last week I could have gone, but I couldn't quite see it. I went out in the yard and took my meditation there, among the new crocuses and burgeoning weeds.

Within five minutes of closing my eyes I knew that it didn't matter. That whatever decision I made would be okay, that I was deciding between going dancing and going to yoga that night, and either decision would be a thing I wanted to do and either thing would end up being the right thing to do and the thing I most needed to do. I knew that I would try the new dance studio when I was ready, and that I needed to let myself need it, and then I would be ready.

This week I wanted to dance so badly, I knew it was time to be ready. I was nervous. My stomach started feeling uneasy around noon. I checked the information over and over again, wondering if the week I picked to go would be the week it was cancelled for mysterious reasons. I was shaking when I walked through the door, even though I knew there would be at least a couple familiar faces there.

There were more than a few - it was nearly the same crowd. I was recognized, welcomed, even used for a demo as the other instructor fiddled with the music. It's different there, a smaller crowd, a different floor, a different vibe. But it's all right. It keeps me dancing. I let go of pushing myself, and I floated to where I needed to be, just as my feet floated up to point at the ceiling.

Compress and release

This weekend I had no commitments to anyone but myself. I found myself exploring dance convention websites, in honor of the one I'm not at this weekend. I saw my teachers in the highlights videos. Then I discovered MADjamTV - the webcast from the convention. I just happened to check it out during West Coast Swing semi-finals, and I absolutely saw names of people I know and names of people I might know, if I were sure of their last names. I'm not kicking myself too much for not going, because there will always be more conventions. Now that I realize it's something I want to do, I know I have a community to help me with the details.

Source: google.co.il via Katherine on Pinterest

A year ago I'd never heard of such a thing, and the idea of actually going to a social dance was one of those things I wanted to do but would never do because of social anxiety and strangers and being afraid that no one would talk to me or dance with me. The fear of being isolated was too strong. Up until recently I never thought I'd want to go to a convention (again, the fear of being seen to be alone amid a group of strangers) and certainly never thought I'd want to compete.

Dancing has always been part of my life, except during the times that I thought it wasn't available to me - thought there were no classes I would like or the studios were too far away or that I would never be able to go to a social dance unless someone I knew brought me. In the end that was precisely what I needed - someone to hold my hand for just a little while, provide that safety net, look out for me - and then gradually let me go.

I've found that there's a community that doesn't need to know what goes on in my life or my head, or even my last name, just needs to know that I love to dance and will show up most weeks and share the experience. It's a strange kind of attachment in that we touch, laugh, even sweat on each other, and yet know so little about each other. Someone may be a stranger, but given the right song you find yourself held close, breathing their breath, swaying as you find each other in the music, communicating without words, trying on a persona, becoming free.