I was sitting in the theater recently, waiting for a dance performance to begin, when someone I’ve known for awhile sat down next to me.

We exchanged hellos and chit chatted, which was fine, but then something shifted when I mentioned Dog Dance, my excitement of it, this odd little dance I do when I can.

 She turned to face me directly: “Is Dog Dance about climate change?”

“No, why?” I said, in that laughy, light kind of voice I tend to use when something isn’t right, but I’m not sure what.

“You’re wasting your time, and ours, making dances that aren’t directly addressing climate change.”

 “Umm…” (that’s me stammering, still trying to be laughy and light).

photo by Averill Hovey, 2018.

This dance film I’m working on right now, The Sky Inside, with Julie Rooney at Dancing Camera:

It feels like it’s gonna to be a mash up of The Fast Runner and The Great British Baking Show.

I know, that makes no sense at all, and if you come see the film in April, you'll be utterly confused as to why I'm making that comparison, but here goes anyway:

photo by Averill Hovey 2018.

Last week, a small group of us were in Costa Rica, dancing. The first early morning there — 3, 4am — a haunted house breathy sort of sound moved through. Many of us woke, and wondered what it was.

photo by Averill Hovey, 2018. 

October 29th, 2003.
15 years ago this past Monday, a fire swept through, taking with it 14 houses, our 500 square foot cabin, among them. So many trees in the center of the hottest heat burned, while a few, where the fire jumped, survived. 

photo by Glen Kalen, 2000.

I’m making a dance film with Julie Rooney of Dancing Camera.

We started filming last week.

I’m calling it The Sky Inside, ‘cause that’s what if feels like when I dance these days — that the sky is inside.

The wide open space above and below.

The ocean that never ends.

The bounty of that.

photo by Tatiana Davila, 2018.

I ran into my high school English teacher — Mrs. Goldner — the other night at a political event.

The one that threw erasers when someone got the answer wrong.

photo by Jun Akiyama, 2018.

You know this, “First Thought, Best Thought”, right?

It’s what I've built my improvisational research on, for a very long time.

Sensing that first impulse, instinct, and itch, and then followint it, all the way through, without question.

Not so anymore.

Now I follow the 10th or 100th impulse.

Sometimes thousands of impulses fly by, and still, I don’t act.  

photo by Jun Akiyama, 2018.

last night i sat on the couch and stared into space for a very long time.

there was a never ending to-do list to my right.

the cat was on my left, and i was petting her silky furry body.

 without warning, i slowly slid, down into the cushions — head first, feet last.

photo by Averill Hovey, 2018.

Here's the quandary that comes up in my teaching from time to time:

Do I, from the outside and as the facilitator, give vocal cues of goodness to those who are dancing?

photo by Jun Akiyama, 2018.

I’m having a little experience lately, of Dog Dance being everywhere:

I’m walking with my nephew and he slows way down, falling behind.

I turn to look, and see his arms float up into the air, a slow motion reach, out into space.

I say curtly, “What are you doing? It’s freezing cold and I’m starving. Keep on walking kiddo.”

He says:  “But I’m doing Dog Dance Aunt Jo.”

My heart -- of course -- melts, and I feel like a fool.

photo by Glen Kalen, 2017

A couple of weeks ago I attended one of my all time favorite events in Boulder, hosted by Intercambio, where English Learners from different countries are paired with more fluent English Speakers to have a conversation.

It’s set up like a speed dating thingy, so every 15 minutes there's a cue to switch partners and start a conversation with someone else.  

I’ve done it 3 times now, and each time has been so much fun, but this last time was particularly memorable.

photo by Jun Akiyama, of Kinisis Photography, 2017

That honeymoon feeling can happen at the beginning sometimes, when people first come to class.

That newness, that awe, that what is this?

And almost always, there is a moment when that feeling changes. 

photo by Glen Kalen, 2017

"Drop" means to let go of, release, and relinquish.

It means to LET FALL.

In every class I teach, there is a moment when I say “Fall into the dance.”

I used to stay “step into the dance”, but as I became more steeped in my own work, the sensation for me has shifted to fall.  So I have been using the word fall lately. 

But falling can be scary, so if you prefer to go back to "step in" or "move in" or "drop down into", please do.

You choose which works for you

For me, it goes something like this for me:

Painting by Alissa Davies, 2017, that she began working on after class one day.

A friend of mine said all she wants to do is dig a deep hole, rest her body against the earth, and cover herself in leaves.

I say do it.

And then do it again.

She also wants to make and design her own line of clothing.

I say do that too!

Maybe make a line of clothing that’s edible so that we can eat the clothes right off of our bodies.

photo by Glen Kalen, 2017

Guess What?!

My friend Jill Sigman wrote a book, and it’s fabulous.

It’a also beautiful — the lay out and the photos are stunning.
 

I've been reading it at night instead of listening to or reading the news.

photo by Glen Kalen, 2017

I went to lunch last week with a subscriber to this newsletter, Steve Wangh.

An artist, writer, actor, teacher, and do-gooder, Steve and I had a fascinating conversation about the current state of the world.

This phrase he said…it keeps knocking around in my brain:

“Art allows us to bear complication.”

painting by Laura Brenton, 2017, that she painted after dance class one day.

First day of the fall dance session happened yesterday and I moved in the in-between spaces, watching  moments come and go, coalesce and dissipate, open and close.

Shapes formed, spaces widened, breath slowed.

Bodies in space:

It floors me -- cuts me to the quick -- every single time.

photo by Jun Akiyama, 2017.