They were dancing a dance that was too symmetrical for my taste. Too literal in the narrative they were composing with their bodies, and just as I was about to step in to tilt and slant this dance, I felt a hand on my arm.

It was R, who I’ve been working with for years now. I’d asked him to watch the guys dance with me that day, so another pair of eyes, another opinion, would be in the room.

R whispered, “Wait. Give it a sec, look. Do you see E?”

He indicated with his head toward E, who was inside and underneath an umbrella of moving arms and bent over heads. A protective covering so that E could have his eyes closed as he danced, and how he danced was in slow motion unfurling, throughout his entire body. His dancing was so gentle, that it was almost imperceptible. Like if you touched the wings of him, or got to close, his wings would disintegrate and become dust.

Small Moment of Sky with Jayne Lee, Delisa Myles, Breanna Rogers and Joanna Rotkin. Photo by Earl Duque, 2009.

I’ve struggled to be still and good.

When someone says smile, I for sure do not.

The sky.

Feels like that is something that comes up, over and over in this practice of Dog Dance -- the sky.

The Sky Inside
and
It’s like the Sky
and
We are The Sky

Margaret said this last one on Sunday, before we began dancing — “We are the sky,” she said, “all of us.”

A friend of mine sent me this quote from Gandhi:

"Whatever you do will be insignificant. And it's vitally important that you do it.”

I love that moment when I’m Dog Dancing, and with no thought or decision, my eyes open and all of a sudden I'm taking in the world.

Holy Moly People --

We raised $1,795.28 for Mirror Image Arts!

How in the world, wow and thank you.

Can’t believe it, and of course I can — it’s you.

Moved, floored, and delighted by your generosity.

A 1,000 points of light — that is YOU.

Hey all!

So I took Regan Byrd's white allyship training on Monday night. It’s the third time I’ve taken it, and it was as potent and probing as ever.

I highly recommend it.

As someone who really struggles to sit still during these types of zoom calls, I sat the entire time with ease, listening and focused on all that she was saying. Since it's on zoom, it doesn’t matter if you live in Colorado or not, which is kinda the beauty of right now, isn't it?

I did another zoom call that was similar to Regan’s last night, which really worried me, because I’ve never been good at the school thing, sitting at a desk, listening quietly, taking notes — I’ve always been a wiggler and a talker — so I didn't know if I could do another one of these zoom calls, two nights in a row.

I gave myself permission to turn my video off if I needed to, so I could dance around in my pajamas while I listened in. I didn’t need to dance around though. I kept my video on, and for a second night I listened, so deeply, in stillness to all that was being said.

One thing that was said by someone in the small group I got assigned to, when we were asked what we thought the difference was between change and charity (which I had no idea how to answer or even think about) was that charity can be used to “calm people down so that fundamental and systemic change doesn’t have the opportunity to take shape.”

I heard that, and said, “Wait, what? Can you say that again?"

I have an idea for us, but before I leap, I just want to say how lucky I am to be learning from, and growing with those who choose to engage in this practice of Dog Dance with me.

That people have decided to dedicate two hours of their time, each week, toward listening to the body in the world right now….I don’t know, it honestly moves me to tears.

And when I say tears, I mean literally — yesterday was the second time I bawled my eyes out in front of my class. And as someone who has trained herself not to cry in front of ANYONE, especially my students — I guess being called a cry baby by Billy Bender in second grade really got to me — I can’t stop crying.

I have four Dog Dance ensembles running right now, on zoom, with people from Canada, Costa Rica, France, Sweden, and also all over The United States…and I’m just blown away by the kindness, intelligence, and care of everyone who chooses to show up.

This Dog Dance -- it is a practice that is unspectacular in anyway, and yet, here we are. All of us, honing in on that pristine clarity of listening.

Thank you Dog Dancers.

Austin Channing Brown.

Talking about dancing right now is hard, and yet, as I work to decompartmentalize my movement in the world, dancing feels wholly necessary.

Talking about dancing right now feels distracting, and yet, as I listen to those around me, I feel in my body that dancing is what continues to open me up to listening.

Talking about dancing right now feels muddled, and yet as I dance, as I listen to my breath,

Inhale
Gap
Exhale
Gap,

I learn so much.

I quiet so much, so that I may listen.

When I dance, I unwind, and then I integrate into presence so that I am able to connect with our world and all that is happening in it.

This is a thoughtful and forward thinking group of folks, who thrive in the unknown, revel in the quiet and slow of the body, while bursting forth into imagine.

How do we, as a collective, address the known violence of oppression and systemic racism? How do we take part in the noise right now? How do we use our imagination to engage in skillful action?

As we were wrapping up and bringing class to a close on Friday, Nancy said the most beautiful thing.

That first weekend of shelter-in-place, I took a class over zoom that was taught by a dancer living in San Fransisco.

Guess who I saw in that dance class?

Zoom was not made for bodies.

It isn't set up for the quiet exchange of ideas, energies, and radiances that emerge from those bodies. It doesn't know about the mycelium, tentacling out, beneath the surface of the earth, where we all meet.

And no matter how many times I ask, zoom refuses to blur the line, disintegrate the boxes, or collapse the computer screen so that we can reach for one another, with our skin.

And yet, I've had experiences on zoom -- sometimes long and drawn out experiences that have lasted for a few hours -- where none of that matters and our work together transcends zoom and what it's set up for.

We take it over and we swallow it whole.

Paulette Fire wrote this to me, in an email exchange we had recently:

There are moments of beauty when we dance or sing or write or walk outside with our masks on and there are moments of anguish and devastation. And they coexist. One does not erase the other.

Later on in the week we were emailing again, and she wrote:

Move every single cell in your body at the same time and at the same pace for 4 minutes while pausing in unexpected places.

Like,

Pause when you feel off balance.
Pause when you might fall.

Pause when you don’t want to pause.
Pause when you do.

Now move only your right elbow for 5,4,3,2,1.
Your left knee.
Both knees.

Let your hips pull you backward and just as you start to understand backward, let them pull you forward.

Once you start to understand forward, let your hips pull you to the side -- left, then right.

Left shoulder — same.

Right pinkie — same.

Nancy Ruff wrote this, in our dance class last Friday.

"bodies that laugh so hard they cannot hold form, nothing is so beautiful."

A small group of us meet the 2nd Monday of each month to write together.

This is from the last time we met.

The prompt was Do Over.

I want a do over of that November night in 2016, when I sent my neighbors home after hearing the results, so that I could melt onto the floor until morning, phone pressed into my ear, crying with my friend Jill, who since that night has gotten herself to law school where she is studying to become an immigration lawyer.

At the end of dance class today, Johanna spoke of the long arc of practicing Dog Dance.

The permission it gives and the ease that it brings.

Because of course I want people to experience only bliss, only delight, only connection when they are dancing in our class.

But that's just not gonna happen.

(Someone said to me once, after one of my free dance classes: "If you can promise me that every class will be as good, as fun, and as uplifting as this one was, then I'm ready to sign up, right now. Here, I have my checkbook with me," and she began rummaging through her purse looking for her checkbook. "Wait," I said, "I can't promise you that. I wish I could, but I can't. It's just not how it works." She did not sign up for the class).

I was recounting to a friend last week how I used to dance, in my favorite tie dyed leotard, right in front of the picture window of our living room.

My mom would ask, "why do you have to do that, right in front of the window", and I’d reply, with a roll of my 7 year-old eyes:

“If a talent scout walks by, how are they going to see me dancing if I’m not right in front of the window?”

Sheesh mom, get with the times.

I’ve always craved an audience. I’ve thrived in front of one, enjoyed the applause, the laughter, the deep sighs. I’ve loved that part of my dance life.

I’ve always danced in front of the window.

Until now.