The Show Will Go On!

My left foot was in fairly excruciating pain and I had a couple of hours to decide if I was going to pull out of the show that night. Despite the painkillers and anti-inflammatories, every time I even began to point my foot a sharp stab shot through me, up almost to my knee. I knew I'd landed a bit off one too many times from jumping in rehearsal, and the tiny bones in the top of my foot were probably misaligned. All too often, dancers ignore pain as part of daily wear and tear, until it's a bit late.

I thought I wouldn't be able to dance that evening every time I felt the pain and looked at my swollen foot, but the only times I'd pulled out of a performance were because I was either completely bedridden with the flu or I'd injured myself to the point of not being able to physically leave the house. In other words, if I could get my body out the door, I would dance.

And so I danced, and during those moments onstage I was happy. I could have danced more  - danced bigger without fear - but oddly enough there was no fear in my heart even though my body registered the pain. In fact, I was more anxious about watching the video later, preparing to wince at a half-baked performance. I was relieved to see that I appeared to be enjoying myself as much as I had felt while dancing onstage.

These are the times I pray that the love that burns inside me shines brighter than any technical shortcomings. I hope that you, too, can feel a bit of the joy I wish to give every chance I get to dance.

Rediscovering Why I Dance

Dancing atop the grand staircase at the Asian Art Museum

It’s been another hiatus, but I’m happy to report that I’m back and going strong! After a somewhat low period, my love of dance has been thoroughly reinvigorated. How? By performing! In the months nursing my injury, I’d forgotten what I was working for. It wasn’t until I was called for a job performing for a private event at the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco a couple of months ago that I remembered, with full force, just how much I love to dance.

I’d designed a program that spanned different ethnicities, in styles that would maximize the cultural breadth of China: Yi (southern), Uighur (western), and Han (northeastern). In terms of color, it was: bright pink, bright orange, and bright pink! It’s funny, because blue is my favorite color and I hardly have any costumes in that hue. Still, I’d selected dances and costumes that were diverse from one another and beautifully designed and made.  

I had four sets, from the moment guests arrived in the beautiful foyer to the very end, as they exited. Hello, and goodbye! I received numerous compliments and questions about what ethnicities my costumes and dances represented, which gave me such joy. Although, I do my best to limit any conversation with guests; when performing as a dancer at a function it’s important to stay professional. But, I didn’t want to be rude and ignore people point blank. And of course, I enjoy sharing with people the cultures behind the dance styles.

I warmed up amongst beautiful Chinese porcelains while waiting to perform. 

On the heels of this job was a stage show in which I performed a Yi ethnic minority dance from Yunnan in the south of China. Still on a high from performing at the Asian Art Museum event, I found a renewed energy during my rehearsals. Suddenly, instead of going through the movements, I was actually living the dance. I was ... dancing!

It’s really true; knowing the movements and being able to accomplish the technical requirements of a dance by itself does not constitute dancing. You could call it movement, or a series of linked movements. Dancing, however, is imbued with life. There is a breathing, an ebb and flow, a sense of direction embodied by rhythm and energy. There is a spirit that the movement serves to set free.  

I’d temporarily lost that spirit in the months before. I’d worked diligently on keeping in shape and learning dances, but my heart wasn’t in it. It’s hard to feel motivated when the the most basic movements required in my style of dancing causes sharp pain. Still, I’m glad that at least my sense of basic dedication (and the strong influence of habit) to dance, stretch, and exercise kept me going.

The difference in my experience after regaining my inner spirit for dance was palpable. When rehearsing, I felt my face break into smiles so natural and fitting for each moment of the dance. There was nothing premeditated or forced. I knew then, that the dance had finally begun to become a part of me, and that I was becoming the dance. 

Let’s just say I also knew I was doing something right when my teacher said at the end of my rehearsal one day, “It’s better. It’s improving.” She does not pay compliments when she doesn’t mean it, so even though she’d delivered the message rather tersely I was thrilled. And most important, it had felt *good* dancing the piece.

Just about to head backstage!

I had my usual nerves backstage, but once I was out there a strange sense of calm overtook me. It was just me and the stage again, the bright lights flooding me from the wings and above me, and the darkness out in the audience. In the back of my mind I worried that I wouldn’t be able to find center mark or the front of the stage after my series of turns, or that my slow front walkover would go wrong. But when I got to those parts, I felt no fear. My body knew what to do.

And when it was over, I lay awake at night going over my performance over and over again as I am wont to do. While I was tired and would have gladly welcomed more sleep, I knew what kept me up. I was excited. I couldn't wait to get back into the studio and work. Every chance, every moment I get to dance, is precious to me. My joy in rediscovering this knows no bounds.

Flesh and Blood

It seems completely obvious for a dancer to focus on movement, but I'm continually amazed by how much more I could be doing.  In fact, after today's rehearsal of an Uighur dance, I began to realize how much I wasn't doing.

To approximate what my coach, a distinguished teacher from the Beijing Dance Academy, told me in Chinese:

"Without ebb and flow, there is no contrast.  You merely have motion.  But when you focus on the origin of the movement and you know when to be soft and when to be hard, then!  Then, it becomes dance."

Another way she drove it home, after stopping me for the umpteenth time after a break in a series of turns:

"You've got the framework, but it's just the skeleton.  Breathe!  When you allow your body to fully live the movement, you build the flesh and blood.  That's what gives life to dance."

As she spoke, her eyes softened as her entire body melted into a mesmerizing fluidity of girlish coquetry.  She perfectly embodied the Uighur maiden, blushing secretly to herself at the mere thought of love.

During moments like this, I am unable to tear my eyes off of her.  How do I become that movement, so full of life?  I'm frustrated at my inability to sublimate the movement and simultaneously filled with complete adoration for my coach.  Her body, her eyes, every little thing about her, is completely captivating.

Then the moment is broken as her eyes harden and train upon me.  She's back in coach mode.  "You got that?"

Quickly I nod, not quite recovered, and try again.  And again, and again.  We run the dance several more times, and by the end I'm so far gone I barely hold the last pose, a snap backbend.  My coach is a tough trainer, but she takes pity on me at the end of the rehearsal.

"When you know the steps better, you'll get there," she said, her gaze softer.  You've already improved.  Be unafraid, let your body live the movement."  In a split second, her eyes sharpen.  "And for heaven's sake, let your neck go!"

"Yes, Teacher," I said, smiling, and do what I do at the end of every class: She dismisses me, and I bow with a hearty "Thank you, Teacher!" This formality is a given in China, and while my coach does not enforce it much here in the States I am careful to always show my respect.  Her proud, lifted chin does not quite hide her satisfied smile of approval.

Back home, I move in front of the mirror or in the light reflected off a window in the evenings, trying to find, and then grow, the movements within my body.  Instead of wearing them like an ill-fitting outfit, I must learn to activate them seamlessly as I tap into the appropriate state of being. Only then will I become the flesh and blood that is my dance.