Notes From the Dance Floor

WHEN YOU CAN'T JUST DANCE TO THE MUSIC
by Noel Canin

At the age of 59, I walked into a 5Rhythms studio without realizing that this was one of those pivotal moments, so extraordinary that unbeknown to me, nothing would ever be the same.

It was hard to just let go and be. Certain kinds of movement were difficult for my body. Some of the music was appalling. How was I supposed to move to that? It brought up the discord of my childhood, of my life in Israel.

And then, like a drum beating in my own heart, I realized that if a particular piece of music evokes the discord and lack of harmony in my life, if I can learn to dance with that, then I can learn to live my life in this alien land of Israel in a meaningful way. Disagreeing, opposing, being horrified by aspects of a county, doesn't necessarily mean I have no right to belong, no possibility of creating and loving and being with every part of who I am. If I can dance with joy and dance with grief, then I can dance with discontent, discomfort.

I then realized that it isn't even dancing with -- it is dancing the thing itself. It is moving wholeheartedly within every part of who I am, who I don't want to be, what I would like to be, what is. I am what I dance and I dance what I am. To this I belong. And now, nothing has changed and everything is different.

DOG STORY
by Marcy Baskin

Sitting quietly with my beloved dog, Bodhi, through his last days, we were very connected and both knew the end was near. My heart was already broken by the sheer weight of what I was about to lose. Yet our time together was peaceful, savored right up until his last breath.

I tried to practice yoga the day after he passed. When it was time to uncurl myself into headstand, bending my upper spine was impossible; my heart was in pieces and I felt their sharp edges. I jiggled and adjusted but could not find a position that didn't unleash a jagged stab of pain. I opted for a different, less vulnerable pose.

Three days later I came to dance. The moment I heard the rich slow notes urging me into a soft flow, I felt the press of tears, the ache in my chest.  My body froze. I turned my face away from the others in the room. Everything in me wanted to flee, from the droplets pouring from my eyes, from the pull that threatened to render me helpless in a weeping mass of sorrow. Then I remembered a teacher's words: just keep moving. I began to sway like a sapling in the breeze.

As if to take me to the very edge of emotion and back, to prove to me that yes, even this, can and will, move, the dance worked its magic and I felt the shards soften and begin to knit. I shed some tears and they dried. My body flowed luxuriously with deep sorrow, my sadness simply becoming a part of everything and everyone else in the room. I finished the wave feeling vulnerable yet strong, my heart empty and full at the same time.

PEACE WAVES

by Rivi Diamond

(We received this story from a friend who teaches the 5Rhythms in Israel. We decided to print it in it's entirety, for it speaks to the real potential of our practice, when put to the test on the front lines of our world's conflicts.)

 

Upon returning to Israel, my homeland, I wanted to get involved in some form of peace activism. But what form? I am not a demonstrator anymore, have volunteered my translation skills through too many hours on the computer, and can't do shifts as a "watcher" at the checkpoint because I am too busy watching my kids. What I can do is dance the 5Rhythms -- that is a gift I have received and now pass on as a teacher.

 

I signed up for a weekend Peace Education Conference in which participants are encouraged to propose a presentation or workshop. People from all walks of life and from many countries arrived at Talitha Kumi, a Christian Monastery in the Palestinian town of Beit Jallah. This is an area termed "Zone C" in which both Israelis and Palestinians can travel without special permits.

 

I had the privilege to offer three different sessions of  "Peace Waves: The Universal Language of the 5Rhythms." There was a mixed crowd in the first group: an Arab woman residing in a refugee camp in east Jerusalem, a young Palestinian man from Jericho with a near fatal injury and a bullet still in his spine, seven young people from Gaza who miraculously received a permit to leave their sieged strip of land, Israeli Jews and American Jews, Palestinians from Israel and Palestine, Canadians, and even a Japanese Zen master.

 

I was stunned by the openness and trust people exhibited in the first dance session. An Arab refugee and an American flowing in and around each other with grace. Palestinian and Jew in the sharp snap of staccato. The beautiful young man (bullet-in-spine) abandoning himself completely to the dance of chaos with every cell of his injured body. All borders and nationalities dissolving into a shared, joyous lyrical trance. The stillness in which we  all dropped everything that separates us for a few precious minutes.

 

In the last session the room was immersed in flowing almost instantly. Staccato was strong and fierce, which was no surprise given the majority of dancers were Palestinian men! We barely made it to the end of staccato before breaking spontaneously into the wildest chaos I've ever seen. A popular Arabic song lifted the fiery dancers right to the magical kingdom of lyrical. In partners we danced stillness to the heart-wrenching voice of Israeli NOA singing "Ave Maria."

 

As we held hands in a closing circle, I saw each dancer filled with tears. I began to speak: "Well, if we can dance together we can ...." 

 

"...make peace," a young woman from Beth Lehem offered softly. No other words were needed.

 

So until the leaders on either side stop wasting our time and precious lives, we will keep dancing....