Learning To Soar (Part I)

Back in 2001 I met a fellow at one of my various places of employment named Jeffrey. Everyone talked about what a great dancer Jeffrey was, and Jeffrey is a fabulous dancer. Apparently somewhere around the age of 40 Jeffrey decided to take dance lessons, and a star was born. At the time I met him, he was dancing, on average, 5 to 6 nights a week.

Despite my extreme lack of athletic ability, I was interested in learning how to dance myself. On Jeffrey’s recommendation I started taking salsa lessons at L.A. Dance Experience in Westwood. I enjoyed it, but after a few months I was very eager to try out swing dancing. Although he had never been himself, Jeffrey said the Pasadena Ballroom Dance Association had good word-of-mouth. So I packed up my dance shoes and trekked out there.

Did you know that there is a higher plane of existence right here on this earth? Did you know that there’s a gymnasium in Southern California where no one is judged on looks or weight or fashion sense or social standing or net income? Did you know that there’s a direct connection between your feet, your heart, and your smile?

Friends, let me be the first to testify that dancing is one of the greatest joys of life. The adrenaline rush you get from dancing is so pure and exhilarating that it can just rocket your soul right into space, do a couple of orbits around the solar system, and still leave you with enough energy to do The Shim-Sham at the end of a fifteen-hour day. Simply put, thanks to Jeffrey I stumbled across something that makes me extremely happy.

PBDA was founded in 1983 by sisters Erin and Tami Stevens, and currently they teach classes in various dance six days a week, have a ballroom dance once a month, and swing dances with live bands every Saturday night. I have never met two people who look happier in their employment than Erin and Tami. I have never seen them without smiles on their faces. I have never heard them raise their voice or disparage anyone, and their warm attitudes are an inspiration at the end of every long sixty-hour work week.

The dancers at PBDA are also quite remarkable. What I particularly like is that no one is there to become a competitive dancer. They’re just there to learn how to dance and to enjoy it, free of pressure or bias. I have met so many great people at PBDA, of every background and ability, and they are the ones who keep me coming back week after week. I love when I walk into a dance and see everybody there. They’re dancing and laughing and I barely get a chance to sit down all night and it’s the most amazing thing in the world. (God, why couldn’t high school dances have been like that?!?) I love when they compliment my dancing, even when I step on their toes. I love watching Tami dance with her husband Scott. I love that no matter how rotten a day I’ve had, no matter how tired or down I am, dancing makes all that disappear in a split second. It’s the most unadulterated, undemanding, unrivaled joy I’ve ever known.

I met my friend Jenny at PBDA, and I swear she must be my lucky star. She’s one of the most generous people I’ve ever met. Last year she, our friend Mariah, and I went on a swing dancing cruise to the Caribbean, and she was a large part of making that happen. It was a fantastic trip—we met dancers from all over the world and celebrated the 90th(!) birthday of Frankie Manning, one of the pioneers of the lindyhop. (You can see some pictures of the cruise at flickr.com or through Jenny’s site.)

I especially admire the men in my classes. Every girl on this planet knows what it’s like to try and get a guy to dance. The begging and cajoling and the fake tears, only to find yourself dancing with your girlfriends to “I Will Survive” at every wedding (because they couldn’t get their boyfriends to dance, either). Yet here are these fellows, every week, who have overcome every male hang-up about dancing and are having a great time. One of my favorite dance partners swears that he used to be so clutzy that he once got kicked out of a step-aerobics class for being a hazard to others. But thanks to dance lessons, he’s now able to cut a mighty fine rug.

The “lead” is not an easy job. First the male must overcome his paralyzing fear of looking foolish just to join the class. Then not only must he learn the steps, but he must also learn how to communicate the moves to his partner, assess her abilities, and formulate a dance pattern—all in a matter of seconds. I can talk on the phone, check email, do laundry, and cook dinner at the same time, but I couldn’t lead a dance to save my life. But here’s the really astounding thing: even when I can’t contain my clumsiness any longer, when I’m all twisted legs and flying elbows and dead weight, they still ask me to dance again. That’s a real man for you.

“Thank the stars there’s a day
each week to tuck in

the grief, lift your pearls, and
stride brush stride

quick-quick with a
heel-ball-toe. Smooth

as Nat King Cole’s
slow satin smile,

easy as taking
one day at a time:

one man and
one woman,

rib to rib,
with no heartbreak in sight—

just the sweep of Paradise
and the space of a song

to count all the wonders in it.”

--Rita Dove, “Fox Trot Fridays” from American Smooth

You Can Take the Girl Out of the Country...

…but you can’t take the country out of the girl. I don’t know how long ago it was—maybe 2 or 3 years ago—I was scanning through radio channels when I came upon a song that made me put a permanent halt on the scanner. It was The Dixie Chicks belting out "Long Time Gone"—a song about a small-town girl who goes to the city to be a star, only to find that she prefers the country life. I had heard of The Dixie Chicks but I’d never heard any of their songs, and this chance encounter was quite a revelation to me. I was raised on Oldies and Classic Rock and spent my high school years (and beyond) listening to ‘80s pop, but I had always turned my nose up at country music. I remember making faces at my dad’s Garth Brooks’ CDs—now I own 5.

After hearing “Long Time Gone,” I found myself often turning back to KZLA to try and catch it again. Eventually I just stopped changing the channel all together. Despite my initial skepticism, it seems country music is well-suited to my current disposition. For one thing, today’s country sounds similar to pop music, so it’s not as big a stretch for me as it might have been 15 years ago, especially with artists such as Keith Urban, Shania Twain, Tim McGraw, and Phil Vassar. Country music is keeping a steady pace in record sales alongside rock music, and in the last couple of years there have been an increasing amount of rock stars putting in some country time. Kid Rock(!) is putting more country on his albums, and he’s appeared at the last 2 KZLA Country Music Bashes. On his latest CD Jimmy Buffett has duets with Clint Black, Kenny Chesney, Alan Jackson, George Strait, and Martina McBride. Tim McGraw is featured on the song "Over and Over" by R&B artist Nelly. Big & Rich and the Muzik Mafia perform an electic and energizing blend of rock, rap, and country. And what rock star hasn’t done a duet with Willie Nelson? (A few of the ones who have: Keith Richards, Rob Thomas and Matchbox 20, Sheryl Crow, Jon Bon Jovi, Al Green, and Jerry Lee Lewis.)

The other aspect of country music that I find even more appealing is it’s predilection to focus on a simpler way of life. I wouldn’t say it precipitated my move to Colorado (I’d been thinking about that for about 15 years), but it did seem to make the need to leave more earnest and pressing. It made me homesick for a pace and appreciation of life that isn’t manic, or filled with millions of cars and strangers and mechanical noises and pollutants and view-obstructing buildings. I know that life in Colorado will not be as pristine as my childhood, but it’s closer to it than L.A. is. Country music—most especially The Dixie Chicks and Tim McGraw—echo my desires for a better, less capitalist-driven, more fulfilling way of life. The music both takes me back and inspires me to move forward.

The Many Moods of Moving

...But maybe the hawk was time in the sky,
gliding clockwise, counting the days, weeks,
years of diminished tomorrows and dawning
recognition that this summit and sky
and those far peaks aren't now but forever.
--Charlie Langdon, "Thanksgiving Over Santa Fe," from The Dandelion Vote


Imagine this: You're in the shower, making an attempt at a few moments of peace before you start the day, when you realize you only have 16 more weeks left at home. Then the math kicks into high gear--that means you only have 16 more dances! That means only 30 more shifts at the bookstore! That means only 16 more weeks to see friends! So you start crying.

Imagine this: You call every truck rental place you can find to get a decent rate on a moving van, but the best you can do is $1,400. (Or, in layman's terms, one month's salary to drive oneself 900 miles.) You only have 16 weeks to come up with this obscene amount of money. Say hello to anxiety-induced heart palpitations.

Imagine this: You're a dyed-in-the-wool Jersey Girl who can't go shopping for at least 16 weeks because every spare and un-spare dime has to go toward "The Move." Appropriate emotional response: crankiness.

Imagine this: You're out and about, enjoying a beautiful Southern California day in February, when you almost get mowed down crossing a street because the driver couldn't be bothered to stop before turning the corner. And let's say this is easily the hundredth time it's happened in 10 years. So you think, "Hallelujah! Only 16 more weeks to spend around these farging iceholes!"

Imagine this: There's a friend you've been trying to get a hold of for 2 months, but to no avail. And then you think, "What if I don't get a chance to see him/her before I move?" And then the crying starts again.

Welcome to my emotionally-wrecked roller coaster ride of the near future. If you see me crying, don't worry about it. Just come back in 15 minutes. If I'm cursing a blue streak, take it as a celebration of my impending change of venue. If I leave a message on your voicemail, please call me back. I only have 16 more weeks to see you.

I'm feeling a bit disjointed and rushed these days. I have lists coming out my ears--things to do, things to get, things to accomplish, places to go, people to see--and my lists are driving me crazy. But I've got to have them, because I seem to have the concentration skills of a goldfish lately. Most of the items cost money, and that seems to be in shorter supply than ever these days, which adds to the anxiety. And the lists keep getting longer and longer, with very little being crossed off.

Last week my TV Guide horoscope said I will meet somebody new. Meet somebody new?!? Who has time for that?!? There are books to be packed, cats to be vaccinated, utilities to be canceled, insurance companies to be researched, dances to go to, a car to be tuned-up and registered, taxes to do, woodworking classes and art exhibits to go to, and blogs to write. Somebody New is going to have to meet me in Colorado... (I'll be there in 16 weeks!)

"The Gates" in Full Color

If anyone is interested in ordering enlargements, please email me. You can also see some more images at flickr.com.