Returning Anew

Falling On and Off the Beat: Metaphor and Practice for Learning to Start Again

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Some years ago, I was an avid Salsa and Rumba dancer. I’d go out a few times a week, every week and dance for hours. If you’ve enjoyed partner dancing to live music then you know that it’s one of the best feelings on earth. That joy of feeling into the steps, being in the moment with your partner, and wrapped in powerfully good music.

Falling On and Off the Beat: Metaphor and Practice for Learning to Start Again 1
Finding the beat then losing it

The satisfaction I had when my partner and I were in sync, but also the frustration we both felt when we bumped into eachother, or were off-time. But beyond both extremes, being able to re-engage in the dance, and lighten-up inside! What a relief.

It could be a metaphor for our quality of attention when working on a given project. When I have an idea and decide start it, but fail to go fully into the implemention or the action of it, or when I start and make great headway, but then get interrupted…it’s unsatisfying. It’s like intending to do a particular dance step, starting it and getting interrupted, or realizing that I’m off the beat. It’s almost painful. I’d argue that it’s even more painful in a work project than in a dance, or some other physical activity, because it’s more difficult to access the joy.

The joy is in the body, not the head. When we work, its all to easy to get into the head. The point is that whether we mess up and fall off the beat or nail the step, there is always the opportunity to re-start, and isn’t that really the best part?

Imagining the Worst that Can Happen is Useful if…

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Walking around the lake with my friend Mary one afternoon, the idea came up in conversation that I should visit my dad. I had a problematic relationship with him since my 20s, and had tried every which way to insert myself into his life – from showing unconditional love by being a ready ear to his troubles, to directly communicating my true feelings in a loving way. I even tried shutting him out of my life if things didn’t change, but that only made him do the same to me. Nothing worked. 

But I couldn’t give up.  

So, when we started talking about this idea, it made me stop inside. Strange thing is, I don’t even know who brought it up first, me or my friend. I knew that if I thought about it even for a minute, I’d miss an opportunity to change things – I didn’t know what would change or how I’d do it, but I knew it was worth considering. 

“OK, I’ll go. I’ll go see dad in person,” I said half shocking myself hearing the words out loud.

Without hesitation Mary responds, “Good. How about next Friday?”

“Next Friday works,” I say. Is this really happening, I think to myself.

“Good. It’s settled. I’ll pick you up at 9:00am and we’ll drive up together.” 

 At this, I’ve stopped breathing. “Sure Mary. Sounds good,” I say taking a breath in. 

Next Friday comes fast, and true to her word, Mary is at my apartment at 9:00am sharp. The drive to Sacramento takes twice as long no thanks to travelers heading North for the weekend and unusually bad commuter traffic. Plus, it’s hot – in the 90’s to be exact. All of this, however, is made bearable with a combination of stimulating conversation, a sense of personal mission and the tinge of adventure that a road trip with a good friend will bring.

Hours later we’re just a few miles from dad’s house and I start to tremble. Mary pulls over, “What’s wrong,” she asks with concern. 

“I don’t know but I can’t control it,” I sob. It occurs to me that I’m putting myself in the same situation I went through as a teenager so many years ago when dad locked me out of the house late one stormy night for being 15 minutes past curfew. He wouldn’t let me inside, so apparently I walked to the safety of my best friends family’s house on the other side of town miles away. I say apparently because I have no memory of what happened between standing at the door of my house and arriving at my friend’s house later than night. 

I realize in that moment that the same thing could happen to be all over again: Being abandoned by someone I love. I shared this with Mary whose quality of presence helps me find a little bit of stillness inside. 

After a few minutes she suggests that I call him and let him know that I’m on my way. I had decided before coming that I wouldn’t call him in advance because in the past that gave him the chance to come up with an excuse as to why he didn’t have time for a visit. So I had to come up with a story as to why I was nearby so that it would be harder for him to say no. 

“Dad, hi, it’s Robin,” I say with a shaky voice. 

“I know who it is,” he says, not unkindly. 

“I was in Nevada city for a dance workshop and thought I’d come by to say `hello’. Can I stop by?” I say hastily finishing the question in the hopes he won’t have time to think of a way to say no. 

“Well, this is a surprise,” he says with a long pause before continuing, “You may as well stop by, but I don’t have much time.”

Hearing the words, you may as well stop by, was like witnessing the opening of a treasure chest that only happens after years of toiling for the secret key. Ten minutes later, we pull into his driveway. I gather my courage and take a deep breath  and approach the front door. I’m ready for any outcome.

“Hi there, mate. Come on in,” dad says with a boyish grin. He’s originally from England and even though it’s been many decades since he lived there, his accent is easy to detect. The word “mate” to him is a term of endearment, much like American’s use the word “buddy.” 

After introducing him to Mary, we stand awkwardly in the entranceway. Dad leans over to give me a hug and says, “It’s good to see you.” 

It was the beginning of a new start.

Sometimes When Things Go Against Your Plans, Hopes and Expectations it Can Be Awesome!

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Have you ever found yourself in a different country, by accident? I have. The country was Portugal. 

In August of 2000 I planned a trip to Europe to attend the wedding of some friends. The wedding would be in southeastern France, along the Cote d’Azur in a small village called Canadel. 

August is tourist season, so everything is expensive. Luckily, I was able to get a couple of cheap airline tickets from a former colleague of mine I worked with when I flew for TWA years earlier. Yvonne, my travel companion, and I wanted to spend a few days in Paris before heading by train to Canadel for the wedding. 

My flight-attendant friend, Jose got us the lowest level roundtrip tickets from San Francisco to Paris. This was fine by me because the lower the level, the cheaper the cost, the more money I could spend on clothes and food while in Paris. But Jose warned that these cheap tickets (buddy passes they called them), come with a risk. If flights are overbooked out of NY (our point of transfer), we’d be the first to get bumped. But I wasn’t worried about this – after all, I’d used buddy passes dozens of times before and have never had a problem. Not only that, if worse comes to worse, we could fly to a city near Paris and take a train in. 

I was certain that nothing could go wrong. And so, with full confidence, I spend the money saved by getting cheap tickets on a Paris-worthy shopping spree! Why wait to be in Paris to shop? I planned an outfit for each day, (something I’d never done before!). I even got us a place to stay for free near the famous Champs-Elysees. An ex-boyfriend owed me a favor and convinced his sister who lived in Paris to give us a room during our stay. Everything would be perfect. 

August finally comes and Yvonne and I have a fantastic flight from SFO airport. Not only did we get a free upgrade to business class, but our flight gets into JFK early. On the way to our connecting gate, we stop at one of those over-priced airport shops to stock up on chocolate and magazines. Giggly and excited we head to the gate. I get in line to check-in while Yvonne grabs one of the few empty seats. It’s busier than I thought it would be. 

The line is really long and seems full of frustrated passengers. I look over at a Yvonne and flash a smile with a thumbs up, wanting to reassure her that everything is fine. But, in fact, I’m more trying to reassure myself.  

Finally, I make it to the front of the line. Reaching for my ticket, the gate agent says, “This flight is very full, but I’ll see what can do.” 

Meanwhile the other gate agent is announcing the names of standby passengers who’ve made the cut. My bulletproof optimism shrinks with the announcement of each name. I start to fear the worst. “I’m so sorry Ms. Fletcher,” says the first gate agent, “but I’m afraid there isn’t a single seat left. There are too many standby passengers and you’ve got the lowest priority passes.”

In the periphery, I can see Yvonne looking in my direction but don’t dare look at her until I have boarding passes in hand. “Well, what about a different airport? There’s got to be another flight going into France besides Paris, n’est-pas?” I say, chuckling at my clever use of French. 

“Unfortunately, most flights leaving for Europe for the next day 1/2 are oversold. The only thing I can get you both on is a flight to Portugal – but it’s boarding right now, so you’ve got a minute to decide,” she says with controlled urgency. 

“Yes, we’ll take it, at least it’s on the same continent,” I blurt before realizing the idiocy of that comment. 

Just then Yvonne walks up and asks, “What’s taking so long?”

“It turns out that every flight going to Paris is is full, so we’re going to Portugal instead,” I say with forced enthusiasm. “I’ll explain later, we have sprint if we’re going to make this flight.” 

We make the flight just in time and arrive into Lisbon, Portugal’s capital in the late afternoon of a hot August day. But unfortunately, our bags go to Paris. In the cab ride from the airport neither of us are talking and giggling.

We’re dropped off at a cobble-stoned plaza that looks like it might be the central part of the city. Jetlagged and feeling sorry for ourselves, we randomly choose one of the many streets shooting off from the central plaza. My French Berlitz dictionary is not much help so we end up going with the first proprietor who speaks enough English to tell us the price per night. 

With no luggage to unpack, we settle in quickly and within the hour are sitting on the pension’s peach-colored metal terrace. By this time, I had been stewing in regret for not thinking things through, embarrassment at the fact that this didn’t just impact me but Yvonne also, and anger that things didn’t go as planned. Regret, embarrassment and anger, though unpleasant can sometimes be delicious ingredients but they make for a bitter meal that turn you into a real drag. 

So I wasn’t surprised that while sharing a bottle of local red wine Yvonne stared me straight in the eyes and said, “You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Things didn’t go as planned – get over it!” 

I sat there in my stew of negative emotions, knowing she was right but I just couldn’t let it go. I mean what mess I made of things. And not only that, I’ve got no clothes! 

I pour a second glass and the owner comes out with a platter of cheeses and bread. Just then, the sun slips beneath the horizon making the sky a brilliant orange-pink color with shades of purple and blue. Each building reflects the light in glowing but unique hues. And Lisbon comes to life right there before my eyes.

“You might be right Yvonne, life’s too damn short…and who knows what tomorrow will bring anyway. I’ve got a feeling that whether I plan or not, we’re on an adventure.”

To hear what happens next, listen to the podcast I did on this trip: https://soundcloud.com/obind/lisbon

Dancing through Grief to Be Able to Be Present

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love knows no boundsI sat slumped over the steering wheel. “What am I afraid of?” I asked myself. The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow. Not being enough, I sighed. My year had already been filled with so much loss. Now, having to face my dear friend’s decline due to advanced Parkinson’s. It was more than I could bare.

“What do I want to give my friend?” I thought next. Climbing out of the car, I resolved to give her my full attention. I simply wanted to be there for her. Nothing else mattered.

Marguerite’s home nurse greeted me at the door, warning me that she was having a particularly bad day. Approaching her room, my anxiety returned. I ignored it.

She lay on her side, eyes closed, even though she was awake. She seemed uncomfortable. Her nurse shared that she was feeling less pain than earlier that day. Her arms, tucked neatly under her pillow, contrasted with her legs. They moved forward and out in random movements from beneath the bedsheets.

I sat beside her placing my hand on the metal bed rail. I stayed like that for some time attempting to tune into her energy and rhythm. Her eyes remained closed while the nurse let her know I was at her bedside. Reaching to move a strand of her chestnut gray hair from her forehead, she opened her eyes and managed a smile.

She asked me how I was and took my hand. There was a long pause before she gestured to her CD player and asked me to play something from Cuba. I put on Celia Cruz, one of her favorite artists. She asked me if I would dance for her. So I did.

I danced the dance of Oshun, (the goddess and archetype of love and the river according to the Afro-Cuban religion Santeria) who provided me with guidance to dance with joy and abundance.

I tried to fill her bedroom space with dance, being mindful to not get carried away by the music on the one hand, but not over-focused on Marguerite, on the other hand. She was part of the dance, not just the audience. I danced large and small – fast and slow – but mindful of staying connected.

Half way through the song, Marguerite asked her nurse to help her sit up. As she did, her toes touched the floor. I pulled up a chair and brought Oshun’s dance between us. Random leg movements became deliberate and under her control as she tapped out the song’s rhythm in perfect time. I joined her foot tapping with my own. The nurse joined too, and tapped the rhythm on her lap. We danced together.

Marguerite returned to bed for some much needed rest. Her eyes – full of life. We hugged goodbye and I promised not to wait so long before returning.

As I drove away, I realized that it’s not whether I believe I’m enough or not enough. It’s in trusting that in focusing on love, the world opens and with it, more courage, more patience, more love. Even in years full of loss.