Once upon a time, a dance of celebration at the Breakfast Shed Waterfront, Port of Spain, Trinidad. I came to Trinidad after a series of fertility traumas, and the people, the land, the water, and the sun restored me. Photo by Renaldo de Silva.

My oldest son keeps asking me, “Mommy, who told you to dance?” My second son has asked me several times in the last few weeks, “Is dance your work?” I find their questions simple and deep, complicated and clear. I love how they see and experience my movement as an everyday part of their lives. I love that in our family, dance is not something reserved for special occasions or needing to ever have a set meaning. My dance has numerous applications on any given day, and my children know they are welcome to participate in the movements whenever they want.

I remember being in my 20s and being in between one heartbreaking relationship mess and another. I remember wanting to slip further into sadness over whatever violation and anger I felt towards someone who I was still struggling to see did not, could not, truly love me. You know how this goes. It took several more awakenings (read: years!) to really get that it wasn’t a good situation for me. And even more than just having to slowly, reluctantly, painfully come to that understanding, I was being led into a deeper clarity about how unhealthy relationships affected my dance practice. The final reckoning was in having to choose what my life was going to be like moving forward. Was I going to wallow and stew in despair, or was I going to dance?

One night during this time I had a vivid dream. I was lying in a hospital bed. And you know how in dreams you just know some things? So I knew, I could feel with full certainty, that I was on my death bed. I was sick with some serious illness, and I wasn’t an old woman. I was my young self, and I was terrified of dying. 

At some point a large and luminous African elder man comes into my hospital room. But I can tell he’s from the spiritual plane. It’s as if he’s floating and not walking. It’s as if only I can see and talk to him, and he’s here to tell me something. He is drumming a small drum under his arm. He’s dressed in fantastical robes that spin and fly up and around as he  spins and dips and moves to his own rhythm. He doesn’t say anything to me, but as he dances, I feel this tug on my heart, this pull on my limbs, my spine, my feet. As he dances in the air above and around my hospital bed, I am getting stronger. Where I had been feeling so weak and like I was withering away, I am feeling more and more restored. 

I see his movements are an invitation to me. He’s not telling me how to dance, rather he’s sharing with me that if I get up and dance I won’t die. His vibrant arcs and twirls are a kinetic code of survival. This is how you live, he’s communicating. This is how you end the suffering of your broken spirit. He’s telling me that if I surrender my life to the movements that I am called to offer to the world, if I give generously of my body and offer my dance for the betterment of humanity, then I will not only be healed from this illness, but I will be eternally well. 

At some point I am strong enough to join him in the dance. Now we are both flying it seems, moving graciously and abundantly through the air. I am not feeling like I am dying, and there’s a fountain of joy and gratitude nourishing me, sustaining me and keeping me afloat. I am not afraid of falling, and I’m not afraid of this magical dancing man leaving me. I see that I have the ultimate power to save myself. As long as I keep dancing, I can survive the harsh realities of the world. The movements, my movements, will buoy me through the storms. The dance will keep me soft, open, and hopeful through the inevitable, soul-shattering heartaches that happen from time to time as a part of growing and navigating our existence as human beings. 

When I awake I am breathing intensely. I can’t tell if it’s tears or sweat, but my face is moist and I have an urge to both sit up and lie still. I look up at the ceiling, and then out toward the soft morning light filtering through the blinds. I hear sounds of birds, cars, buses, people moving here and there, a city in motion and beginning it’s day. It all seemed so real, I keep saying inside. I’m still at home, but I know I’ve awakened to a new reality. I know that I can never go back to being the woman I was before this dream. 

Since that morning all those years ago I have encountered my dance practice with the deepest reverence. I see my movements as not only stimulating and sustaining my creativity, but as an integral and vital component of my survival. Dance has continued to be my lifeline through so many traumas, especially the ones connected to my fertility journeys. After each miscarriage, I have danced. I knew that if I wanted to restore my fertile radiance and recover a space of joy in the possibility of what could be, of who I could one day birth, then I’d have to dance. 

Not every dance has been smooth, or easy to come into, or even beautiful. Sometimes the movements are rough and static. Sometimes it takes me a while to find a flow, to access the opening where there is warmth and an opportunity at deliverance from my sadness. It changes day to day, moment to moment, as life spins me all around in different directions. Motherhood has infinitely transformed my dance practice and my relationship to movement. The dance has also been essential to processing the many stages of becoming a mother, and acclimating to the ever-shifting rhythms of my life as a mothering artist. 

I do not have a name for the old African man/spirit who came to help me back into my dance, but I carry his reminder to dance with me everywhere I go. I am deeply grateful that I was so receptive, and that I didn’t doubt the fullness of his offering to me. I have never forgotten that overwhelming feeling of coming back to life in that dream, of the delicious resurgence of passion and purpose with each lovely movement. 

When my children want to know why I’m dancing, I don’t always have the exact words in the moment. Most times I just smile and get a flash of images showing me all the ways dance has saved my life. And then, on occasions when I do come up with a way to answer them, they, being their munchkin selves of course, have moved on to a different topic anyway. 

I love that I have this awareness of why it’s critical for me to dance each day of my life. So many people in our world think they are not good enough, or worthy enough, or beautiful enough to dance. But all of us, every single person on this planet, has a dance that is necessary for their livelihood, and also for the advancement of the human family. This is a core part of my commitment to the dance, spreading the truth that all our moving bodies generate a positive vibration that is vital to the survival of humanity.

When we are dancing we are more connected to our power, to our truth, to our most radiant and dynamic versions of our selves. Imagine, I always think, if everyone of us could find our way into our uniquely crafted dance. How magical it would be if everyday we all allowed our bodies to move in the service of love and gratitude. Our world would be profoundly, and radically changed, and in such a good, good way.  

---

leave a comment

Photo by Colin A. Danville

Dear Children,

You need to know that tears are as much a part of this life as laughter. For the most part, your days are made up of giggles and squeals, of running and jumping, of exploring and questioning. You spend your time investigating curious ideas and constructing impromptu experiments to test out those ideas. Along the way you stumble into your discoveries and are led to ask even more questions about yourself, your family, your life, the world, and everything in it. 

You know sadness too. You know the sting of busting your head on the floor when you’re moving too fast, or having a toy unjustly yanked from your hands, or being sent to the corner for the very mean thing you said to your brother or sister. You know the disappointment that comes from not getting your way, or from having to wait until the elusive next time to get the thing you really, really want. 

But mostly, you associate crying with a phenomenon of your frustrating moments as children. Not often do you have to witness your mother’s unhappiness, but it can happen. It does happen time to time. And you need to know that this is also a normal part of life. Sometimes your mother will have tears falling down her face, and you won’t know why, and you won’t be able to make them stop with a gentle kiss on the cheek. You won’t be able to pick me up and rock me side to side as I do for you. You won’t be able to pull out a breast and soothe my woes as you nurse me to sleep. You won’t be able to strap me on your back and carry me around until I feel better. All these ways are how you’ve learned to tend to tears, and it may come as a shock to you that none of these methods will help you if you see your mother crying. 

Unlike your tears, I won’t be able to explain all of mine to you. In those moments, it’s generally very complicated. Sometimes it will be because someone else said something harsh or cruel to mommy and my feelings are hurt. Sometimes it will be about some drama in our family that’s too much for munchkin ears and brains to comprehend. Sometimes it will be because my heart is broken and it will take me a really long time to mend it and recover my joy. 

You, sweet as you are, will naturally want to help me feel better. And you may feel powerless at the realization that there is no instant remedy for mommy’s pain. One day, a long, long time from now when you are adults, you will understand what I mean by “some things take time.” Right now, you live with such raw devotion to the present moment, you can’t fully fathom this time that it takes for grown-ups to sometimes feel better. Still, in your own way, you will try to soothe me. And I will be grateful, even as I know I won’t be able to pretend everything is okay so that you feel good about your efforts to make mommy feel better. 

It’s important that I teach you how to honor all of your emotions. Some emotions are more difficult to experience, but they are as much a part of the fabric of humanity as all the lovely, feel-good feelings. I am responsible for showing you how to navigate your emotional landscape as authentically as you can. In showing you my tears, I am helping you understand that grief, loss, heartache, and despair are natural parts of the human experience. Little as you are, you too are human. And one day, you will have to grow through your own awakenings into the depths and possibilities of your emotions. Sometimes I won’t be there to pat your back or hold you in my lap while you feel the full weight of your sorrows. Sometimes your tears will overwhelm you, and the sobbing will move violently through your body, and you will have to let your storm run its course. You will have to give yourself the time and space to find your own way back to peace.

But you are a ways off from such adult labors. For now, you will experience most of your tough moments within reach of your mother’s loving support. You will be encouraged to use your words as they come to you, and as you mature, to be thorough in sorting and identifying what is really bothering you. This is a critical life skill, and as your mother, I am here to model emotional intelligence and emotional literacy for you. These are things we practice for a lifetime. As you grow, you will come to find your own truths, your own rhythms within this dance. In this way you will learn to have empathy for others, as you too will know intimately what it feels like to sometimes have to navigate the sad, lonely, devastating parts of life too. 

Tears are not something to be afraid of, is what I’m really saying. Tears bring us clarity, like how the rain washes out the old and makes room for the new to shine and bloom. Sometimes we have to cry so that we can finally admit our honest needs to ourselves. Sometimes we have to shed our tears so that we can stop resisting and censoring the thing pressing so passionately on our hearts. Sometimes we have to release our hidden dam of salty waters so that we might access the breadth of our own brilliant visions, so that we might feel the fullness of the moments we are creating with this one life we each have to live. 

So my lovelies, when you do see me crying sometimes, know that I am just expressing one of many emotions on the spectrum of feelings. One of the most essential strengths to cultivate in this life is the ability to give yourself permission to feel. When you see mommy crying, that’s what I’m doing. I’m giving myself a moment to be real with the undersides of joy. I’m taking the liberty to be whole and human, and teaching you to do the same. 

With all my love,
Mommy

---

leave a comment