My Twist on Existence

“Acupuncture is covered by insurance, but massage therapy is not?” I asked an HR representative from work.  

“Correct.  You need a doctor’s referral to cover massage.”

“Because the district doesn’t want to pay for happy endings?”

She frowns.  “Pardon me?”

“Joking.  Acupuncture.  Not a chiropractor or a yoga therapist?”

“Chiropractor with a doctor’s referral.  Not yoga.”

I don’t understand acupuncture.  I believe qi (chi?) is like the yogic principle called prana.  Energy flow.  The creation of breath.  Stillborn babies are born without Prana.  Prana moves out of the body when someone dies.  I like to relate it to what my 7th grade Biology teacher called “something like electrical current”  when I asked her what makes the lungs work, the heart work, the brain work?  “Ye Great Power Grid” was what she called it.  Gosh, I miss Mrs. Greiner.  

Disclaimer: I have been studying yoga for 15 years.  A drop in the bucket.  In fact, now that I know just about enough to be dangerous, I am perhaps further from Enlightenment than when I began.  Do not consider the following to be a comprehensive article on this subject.  I don’t.  This is merely my juvenile understanding.  Here I go.

“The body” operates as a whole living system (yes, the quotations imply the possibility that the body does not exist at all.  There are many solid arguments that support this theory.  This, however, renders my research and this blog entry pretty worthless. That just saddens me.  I don’t enjoy being sad, so lets assume “The Body” is The Body, shall we?).  Each living system operates as part of a whole living system of which is part of a whole living system...and so on, until we come upon a a whole living system called “The Universe”... sorry, The Universe.  BUT, lets not get too ahead of ourselves...where was I? 

Right.  The body as a whole system.  I have observed evidence of this theory many times in my own body and the bodies of those around me: I eat too much sodium-rich (but super yummy) pho soup and end up with headaches. My mother dies and my entire grieving family comes down with ailments varying from sinus infections to panic attacks.  I skip my regular cardio routine for a couple weeks and end up in bed sobbing about how meaningless Life is.   My co-worker gets a new desk set-up and her shoulders ache from the new movements her muscles need to perform on a daily.  Each body as a systematic process (or “creative performance”, as world-renowned Embryologist, Anatomist, P.h.d, M.D. and all-around regular-style genius, Bessel van Dee Kolk calls it) just makes sense to me. 

In order for the system to run properly, the “electrical current” must run uninterrupted through the respective channels.  In a perfect system this would happen without drama. However, as we all know, this is Life, baby, and Life - as they say - can get ugly.  Wires get frayed.  Cords get kinked.  Imbalance happens.  

In Yoga, prana blockages get fixed through meditation,  breath work, and burning karmic seeds (and a whole lotta other stuff).  In Chinese medicine, they pop a bunch hair-thin needles into your skin with a plastic tube (and - I’m just guessing here - a whole lotta other stuff of which I have little to no knowledge so I will not be discussing them).  This is called acupuncture.

I have a sacrum issue.  I may have injured it long ago.  I remember a few back-flops onto icy pavement.  I remember a nasty ass-plant on a bunny hill while riding a snowboard.  Hawaii would’ve been a pleasant place for this Minnesotan to grow up and thrive incident-free.  Maybe in a different life. Despite all these accidents, I can’t help but suspect my lower-back disfigurement was caused by a childhood wrought with The Facts of Life, Golden Girls, Smurfs, Family Ties, Different Strokes, etc etc.  I spent a majority of my time slumped on a sofa watching television.   

My sacrum and it’s respective parts are bony and jutting, yes almost tail-like, from above my glutes.  the plate of the sacrum itself is normal enough, however, it seems too close to the surface.  As it begins to taper into the sacral hiatus and transverse process of the coccyx, it gets messy.  Like I sat on a radiator, melted it, and some freshman fine arts student sculpted of it his best B- version of human anatomy.  A massage therapist once coined it quite poignantly: “It feels like everything is spiraled in on itself.”  She was excited for me.  “I think your kundalini is emerging.”

“No shit?  So there should be a little pain involved in that type of transformation, I suppose?” I was only half-mocking.  There wasn’t always pain.  For far too long I didn’t have any experience with this part of my body that wasn’t sexual.  It wasn’t there.  Hazy.  Not like the dull ache that starts somewhere around my SI joint and rides deep below my glutes and cups my upper trocanter inside my hip socket.

Since the pain started, I’ve tried to fix it with many different modalities.  Strength training, viniyoga for the lower back, resting...and now, acupuncture.  25 tiny needles. 20 minutes under the infrared light lamp.  Hand-painted kittens on rice paper hanging from the walls.  After the first appointment, I felt nothing.  The second day, New Years Eve, after 30 needles, I felt tired and achy.  The third day, New Years Day, the 40th needle inserted and I’m exhausted.  

“Why am I so friggin tired?”  I asked Dr Li.

“Your immune system fighting.  It’s good.  The needles make it worse before better.” He says in his stilted English which is pretty good for only 4 years in the U.S.  “Plus, you go out dancing on new year, yes?  Stay up too late.”

“This is why you are the doctor and I am the patient, Li.”

Claire is a woman living at my father’s cooperative-housing complex Her husband passed six years ago.  She and dad have something in common; he being the widower of six months.  

Claire is still pretty darn sharp for a 90-year-old.  She is a big fan of the Facebook and Youtube.  To be even mildly social-media-savvy after nine decades of life, I can imagine she was probably quite brilliant in her heyday.  

She asked my father to help her with her computer a few days ago.  Upon inspection, he explained that her hard drive was a goner and since the machine was 3 generations old, there no longer existed any spare-parts he could buy to help him fix it.  It would never return to the level of performance with which she had grown accustomed.  

My father looked up a few deals in the paper and on websites.  He came upon a killer deal at his beloved MicroCenter.  It was December 7th’s one-day-only deal.  She hummed and hawed over the frigid weather and the all-too-busy shops during the holidays.  Finally she admitted she hadn't been feeling very safe driving lately.  My father offered to drive her.  She quickly agreed.  

When they entered the store, Claire shook off the sneering pre-pubescent salesmen.  "I know precisely what I need, young man, and Mike is going to take me to it."

They bought the computer and he loaded it into her Buick (which she insisted my father use in order to save on gas and wear-and-tear of his own vehicle).  Driving home, he offered to set it up and get it running for her as soon as they returned.  

"No no no!  I've taken up too much of your time already," Claire said, fumbling through her purse.  

"I don't have anything going on," my dad told her.  His eyes began to water as the weight of that statement pressed on him.  December 7th.  It should have been his 48th wedding anniversary.  How pathetic he must sound, he thought.  He chastised himself for pushing his needy itinerary onto this poor old lady.

"Oh no.  I can't find my keys!" Her tone was anxious.

"You needed them to lock your apartment, so they've got to be somewhere on the path between there and here.  Check your pockets."

"I have checked my pockets," she said, indignant.

"Okay, I have spare keys to everyone's apartments since I'm head of the security committee.  At least I can get you in and resting while we call the store."

Dad helped Claire and her new computer from the underground garage to the hall outside her apartment door.  

"Wait here and I'll go get the spare keys. " 

He placed the electronics box on the floor at her feet and started off toward the elevators.  Just as he rounded the hallway bend and out of sight, he heard her shrill voice.

"Mike!"

He backtracked, jogging a little.  Claire came back into view.  On her face was an exasperated expression.  At the end of her outstretched arm dangled a set of keys between two shaky fingers.

He slowed to a walk.  "Where were they?"

"Inside my glove... in my pocket."

He chuckled as he approached her.  She snatched him by the coat and threw her arms around him.  My father likely stiffened, as he does.  This time he needed it.  He allowed her to hug him.  

"What was that for?" He asked as she released him.

"Thank you for putting up with me."

My father cried as he relayed to me this story.  Until my mother died, he never cried; always the stoic Sicilian-blooded blue-collar man.  Now, he cries at the sight of babies, beautiful flowers, and commercials for life insurance.  He cries with others when they are scared or lonely or sick.

He has never lived alone.  In his sixty years, he has transitioned from his childhood home; being the eldest of five siblings, to the barracks of a naval ship, into a wedding bed with my mother.  He has always had a plan and a place.  He has always been responsible, been prepared, and been perfectly able to muscle through whatever got in his way. 

This isn’t personal.

Those millions of people didn’t cast their vote for a man who victimizes women because they don’t care about me. Most of them don’t even know me.

Most of them don’t know about being raped, beaten, threatened, or assaulted by white men. They don’t understand being ridiculed, controlled, belittled, and manipulated by white men as long as memory serves. They can’t even conceive.

The women who voted for this man, luckily, have never shared this experience. Perhaps they think they didn’t get battered and shoved and humiliated by white men because they were too smart. Perhaps they think they made better choices. Perhaps they think “locker-room talk” is just that. Just talk. Maybe the women who cast their vote for this man — this man who bullies and shames and diminishes women — have shared this experience, but think it was their own fault. Maybe they think they should have been more careful. Should not have stayed in that relationship. Should not have stayed at that party. Should not have left alone. Should not have lead him on. Should not have been so stupid.

This isn’t personal.

They did not do this to me. To spite, anger, or hurt me.

Most of them did it because they were convinced it was the right thing to do. Or maybe they did it because they were being loyal. Or maybe they needed to feel justified. To have evidence to prove that how they live is okay.

Perhaps most of them did it because they are scared. Of losing. Of being beaten. Of being forced to do things they don’t want to do. Of being overwhelmed. Of being uncomfortable.

They did not do this to spite me.They did this for themselves.

This isn’t personal. I refuse to take it personally.

A white man used to work hard at a job he didn’t like to make sure my sisters and I had food at dinnertime. A white man taught me how to drive a manual transmission when I was sixteen. When I was a child, a white man tucked me in at night. Later it was a white man that taught me I can still learn to dance. A white man in high school taught me to love world mythology. And today, a white man loves and respects my opinions, my body, my spirit, and my flaws.

This is my personal truth. No amount of political rhetoric can take that away.

Squish my rib cage?

Faye demonstrates on her own torso.  Yes.  I see.  The edges of my teacher’s hands gently sink into the pulp of flesh around her breasts, armpits, and sternum as she pumps and massages in time with her rhythmic breath.  

I lay on my back - as do my fellow students - and struggle to wrap my hands around my own ribs.  My wrists groan and resist.  My flesh seems steely and taut.  It does not give.  I do my best to imagine myself buoyant like a trampoline. 

How can a body feel so blubbery from the inside and so sharp, so armored, from the outside?

“Why is confusion good?” She asks us.

October 1st 2016.

I have just arrived at the same dance class as Christopher Hannon, 2016 McKnight Fellow and principal dancer for the James Sewell Ballet.  He is not teaching; he is a student.  

This terrifies me.

I am about to experience my first “Gaga-style community class” as advertised in a program handout from the performance I had attended a week previous.  After brief inquiry with the few professional dancer pals, I learn Gaga is a language developed by the preeminent choreographer and award-winning artistic director of Batsheva modern dance company, Ohad Naharin.  

The program described the class as “open to all.”  I look around and see bodies that do not look like mine.  I am glad there are no uncovered mirrors in the 2nd floor studio of the Cowles Center in downtown Minneapolis. Doesn’t “open to all” mean ...anyone?  Or does it mean any professional dancer?  My throat tightens.  Maybe a mirror would help since my body-dysmorphic brain has now started its usual sense-delusions.  Feeling my blubbery love-handled hips and buttocks flopping testicle-like from their sit-bones I maneuver my way toward what seems to be the back of the room. Jesus, the whole damn JSB company is here!  I either have to get to stretching or get to fleeing.  I tuck myself into a corner, come to all fours and begin to play with my spine; extending with every inhale and arching with every exhale.  My throat softens.  Relief.

Lithe and sinewy Rebecca Hytting of Isreal’s L-E-V Company walks to the middle of the floor.  The group surrounds her.

“We all know what we are doing, right?” She says in soft-spoken English, then turns up the volume of the music.

No, I don’t!  My stomach lurches.  Not really, anyway.  I did my research, of course.  The website gagapeople.com explains:

Gaga/people classes last for one hour and are taught by dancers who ...guide the participants using a series of evocative instructions that build one on top of the other. Rather than copying a particular movement, each participant in the class actively explores these instructions, discovering how he or she can interpret the information and perform the task at hand...  

As music swells through the room, the dancers begin to move in slow-motion.  Subtly rocking. Arms gently unfurling.

Rebecca begins instructing.  “First of all, notice your skin...curious skin surrounding your body.”

I close my eyes.  Removing the envelope of dancers from my vision starves my brain of comparison fodder.  My field of awareness opens to sense a breath of air over my arms as they extend.

“It’s almost as though the pores of your skin are opening to sniff the space around you...sniffing the air... your clothing around it.”

Rebecca offers a generous pause before she continues, but we move.  We do not stop or pull ourselves from the mobile hypnosis we seem to be under as she offers the next sentence or two.

“Now we float.  Our spines are seaweed in rippling water...We look at our hands.  Smile with the palms of our hands and the arches of our feet.”  

She speaks from the middle of the room.  She moves with us.  I steal glances at her and recognize the images of her words in her movements.  Maybe she is illustrating for us, but as a ripple percolates from her pelvis around her rib cage and through her lifted arms, the surrounding dancers do not copy her shapes, but undulate into a random sea of kicks, points, swells, and angles.      

She instructs us to notice our tails.  She suggests a quaking of the pelvis and a shift of the gaze.  We imagine spinning orbs in our joints and ropes in our arms.  We flop like delicious spaghetti onto the floor.  We move our arms through peanut butter.  We sizzle like popcorn seeds in a hot pan.

“Laugh at yourself.  It’s a silly dance. Feel good and laugh.”  

And I do.  I work at 30 percent when Rebecca suggests it, and then at 75 percent.  I dance furiously at 100 percent (but slow to 90 because I’ve been dancing for an hour straight and now I’m hungry after all that talk about food).  I’m finding room in my hamstrings; particularly on the left side; the one that has been giving me grief for months.  I’m curious how the seaweed from my spine could creep into the spaces I’ve created there.

In an interview with Lucy Van Cleef, Ms. Hyttig described Gaga in her own words:

“..it is a form of research through movement that allows you to connect to sensation in the body. For me it opened up a whole new page in how I looked at movement. You can build on it every day, and each time it’s different. The research is just for you and how you understand yourself. It isn’t for anyone else. That’s why it can be applied to any work you do as a dancer. The dancer chooses how to use it. Maybe it’s just in the mind, a new way of thinking. But that kind of body and mind awareness changes you, so that you never stop working.”

I am moving in a room with other bodies who are not ignoring, abusing, or judging bodies.  They are exploring what they sense, how they move, what they are capable of.  For the moment, I can focus on what my body feels like, not what it looks like.  

As a child, Dance was presented to me as a discipline one must learn.  I had gleaned that we are all born with these wild, crass, idiotic bodies.  We first had to find the right teacher.  Then through pain, force, and sacrifice we had to tame them into something beautiful and unnatural.

Gaga offers something different.  Although my first class was taught by a principal dancer of a respected international dance company, it hints at a new narrative.  Maybe my body, in it’s current state, has a story that can be just as interesting; just as worthwhile; as the youngest, most delicate, most refined prima ballerina on earth.