Settling in…

It’s post-election Sunday. It’s our first rainy, grey November day. The weather couldn’t be more fitting. I just looked at an email thread between Becca and I this week. On November 9th I wrote:

I'm so fucking wiped. Holding space for young people this week was REAL. It was also impactful and helped me feel like I have a purpose. Anyway. So glad for a quiet Saturday today. I'm teaching again in the morning, a post-election stomp/rage/ground class and excited for that.

Clearly I’ve needed some sort of purpose to hold on to since the devastating news that DT is in charge for another four years. The initial playlist I made for this morning’s workshop was four and a half hours! There were songs of deep sadness and deep rage, songs like Simon and Garfunkel’s “America” and Cee Lo Green’s “Forget You.” On Saturday I did my next step curation process and actually whittled it down to the 75 minutes intended for the class. I choreographed a stompy, power pose aerobic thing to Taylor Swift’s “The Man” while hiking up the mountain. I cried unexpected ugly, big tears while listening to Sara Bareilles cover Elton’s, “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” Kate Bush’s, “This Woman’s Work” had me thinking about my mama, about all the mamas before me who’ve worked so damn hard to step into new truths. Nina Simone sang, “I wish I knew how it would feel to be free…” and I thought of all the heavy struggle for so many people, again and again, decade’s worth, centuries.

All of the listening and planning I did as I hiked my favorite Saturday loop had me feeling big feelings that maybe, somehow, I had some sort of purpose. People were texting replies to the class: I’ll be there! Thanks for doing this! Lots of folks seemed to be coming, even women I’d never met before. It all felt right and okay.

Then this morning I woke up with this odd sense of dread, something that’s unusual for me. What the hell do I know? Why am I doing this class today? The devastation of this election is massive. Who am I to suggest we write poems and dance around? What the hell was I doing?

I hate these feelings so much. They take me so deeply far from the me I want to live in all the time. They undermine the power of creativity, of connection, of vulnerability and risk-taking. Alas. All these damn emotions brewing and spinning and stewing and steaming. But nineteen people were signed up. I drank my tea and listening to my songs and put my head to the earth in child’s pose. I headed to the studio.

Ironically, when I walked into the studio, I was greeted with a huge mess. There had been an event the night before and nothing had been cleaned yet. Beer cans and trash and tables and paper plates and a random bag of hot dog buns greeted what is normally the most pristine and holy of spaces. I decided the universe was testing me even further. I quickly started to throw cans in the recycling, opened windows to get the air circulating, bundled up dirty tablecloths. Amy, my friend and the owner of the studio, soon came out and realized that her husband and his friends hadn’t tidied up from the prior evening’s event. She grabbed a broom and together we transformed the space in a matter of minutes. By the time the first women arrived, it was refreshed and good as new.

So what’s the lesson in the mess? Well, don’t let your mind-talk hold you back. Don’t let the dirty dishes cramp your style. Ultimately, the class went well, and I settled into my role of space holder, of mover, of poetry reader and believer. I sweat. I teared up. I taught the run-stomp-sways of “The Man.” It all went by too fast, and it reaffirmed that I need to hold longer classes. I think the participants appreciated the sacred space for the processing.

Because isn’t that what it all is? The processing? I looped the park a few times after class with Shelly and we talked about how we can keep talking to people with different opinions, how we can keep reaching for truth and connection. I then came home to Eliana wanting me to help her with her Common App short essays and sooner than I knew it, I was sitting with her by the fire helping her revise sentences, helping her state her dreams and goals as she goes forth into her own new reality.

At some point during that little college application stint, I began to feel a deep, deep exhaustion settling in all around me. The sun disappeared and dark clouds rolled in — literally and figuratively. Elie and I took a break, and I showered out of my stinky dance clothes. It was then that I found myself putting on my pajamas at 3:00 in the afternoon and crawling into bed. I never nap. I’m trying to learn to embrace it after fifty years of go, go, go. But on this particular post-election Sunday, I fell into the deepest, sweetest, holiest sleep. I dreamed of old friends and driving around in the California sunshine. I woke up disheveled and confused, thinking it was morning. When I saw that it was only five o’clock, I smiled. Look at that! You did it! You felt exhausted and you rested. You’re finally learning!

So, while I’m not sure what the purpose of all these words exactly is, I think it might have to do with just honoring wherever you are with all the hugeness. Honoring the energy and the fatigue, the sparkle potential and the deep despair. Holding space for authenticity, for connection, for deep breaths and big beats. A new moment is upon us and we’ve got to keep working, keep creating, keep revolutionizing in our own ways each and every day, keep grounding and honoring and attempting to build the world we deserve.

The trail in the Saturday sunlight