I keep thinking about this one contra dance I did with Joan last weekend. She might be a little older than I am, about the same size though a little heavier frame, and we are clearly both moms. Or at least maternal. We were partners for a crowded contra dance mid afternoon Saturday. She knew I was being protective of my arm; I didn’t have to say anything. I have been thinking a lot about the swinging we did together. (this is a contra dance figure) A lot. It keeps coming back to me as this sweet moment in time, this oasis of balance and safety. Joan is a good dancer and a dance teacher. She knows how to use her body well. In that close ballroom position, we kept each other safe from the crowds around us. I felt at ease, and happy.

It is hard for me, and maybe for most people, to ask for help or to express a need. It gets messed up with “neediness” and not being as physically or emotionally self reliant as I want to be. I have taught myself to ask for help but it still feels like shaky ground for me. I don’t like it. I feel like Elmo saying, “I can do it myself.” In reality, there is a lot I can’t do for myself. I have physical issues that lead to needs, or in the pejorative sense, “neediness.”

I didn’t ask Joan to keep me safe while we were dancing. Nor did she ask me for the same. We offered each other this safe space within which we were swinging or turning. I think my delight in this is that I felt held, literally and figuratively, safely. My needs were being met without having asked for a thing. Neither of us were put out. We were not stepping on each other’s toes, emotionally or physically. We were in balance.

I keep enjoying this sweet moment. I found a word to describe it. It was a moment of grace. I love this elusive word, grace. Grace is something that can’t be sought out, can’t be conjured up. It is a gift. By definition, at least my definition, it is an unexpected gift. And it is a moment of perfect balance. Bliss.

When I remember my own childhood, I can’t remember being held and cuddled, though it must have happened. I think of my own girls as babies and remember that incredible feeling of a sleeping baby folded into my body. My younger daughter was more the cuddler of the two. For years, our bedtime ritual was for her to climb into my arms for the “monkey hug” as I carried her off to bed. I hope my girls remember physical affection. I hope they experience that safe, blissful feeling of physical and emotional comfort throughout their. I am blessed with times in my life that my body and being are peaceful like that, whether hugging a friend or on the dance floor. It’s good stuff. Grace happens.

I used to wear glitter when I danced. I didn’t need any glitter. My glow was quite enough.  That first half hour of contra medley, I was smiling so hard that I had tears in my eyes. Ecstasy? Yup. I call it that. I danced from 7 to nearly 11 Friday and with some time off to wander around, Saturday I danced from mid morning until 6PM when we headed home.  I used to dance far more than that but for here and now, this was sheer bliss.

Wearing a pretty scarf as a sort of sling did keep my shoulder a little bit protected. People were very kind, and asked if I had a sore wing, and were careful of it. This means I can go back to Greenfield and get back to contra dancing, at least once in a while. Oh my!  We did lots of other kinds of dance, though, and this was exciting to me. Some were variations on dancing I am familiar with, like a whole session on Israeli dancing (thanks, Joan), Balkan dance, other folk dance. I loved the French couples session, especially the Bouree (sp?), which was pretty simple when broken down, but fun and flirtatious. We also did a session on Ragtime dance. Too bad the room was small and just too crowded, so we didn’t stay the whole time, but it was very fun to try out. I liked seeing how such simple steps could be embellished with upper body to make it look novel. You knew it was Ragtime as soon as you saw it. Also took a class in Zydeco basics. I loved all the clarity from the teachers, breaking things down really well. As I knew there would be, there was dance and music and color and excitement around every corner. Didn’t hurt that it was a gorgeous bright sunny day.

I am reclaiming my dancer self!!! Yahoo! I hated the times that I was wandering around looking for dancing to do. I am not a good audience. I didn’t want to sit in on a concert or watch others dance. I must dance if I am anywhere near dancing. Next year, if they offer it, I want to be sure to get to the tango session. I hear the teacher was really good. More dance! More dance!

Am I sore? Absolutely. Sore, tired, achy, my feet hurt. It is damp and drizzly today here but I am forcing myself to take a walk with a friend. I fear I will seize up otherwise. Nothing much more I plan on doing today besides baking cookies (for future goodie box for Juliana, yes, the tri-color) and making a pot of cream of celery soup. I am one very happy dancer.

Two parts of my brain are coliding. Part One: We are headed to NEFFA this afternoon, a huge dance and music festival in eastern MA. The festival FILLS the Mansfield High School as well as Middle School, the auditoriums, gymnasiums, classrooms, hallways, as well as the outdoor space between and around the schools. There is dance to see, dance to do, music to hear or participate in making, crafts people, vendors. All over. Just all over. I love that in a nook in the hallway you will come upon a handful of fiddlers, or under a tree outside, everywhere you look. People of all ages are there to dance and make music and socialize and have a joyful long weekend.

Contra dancing is my passion. With my back issues, I haven’t danced in ages, and this hurts my heart. My partner’s first love is international folk dance, especially Balkan. Both are well represented at NEFFA. There is this involuntary excitement I am feeling as we pack our bags with dancing shoes and water bottles. I am a dancer. I have to dance. I feel most alive and beautiful and vibrant when I am dancing. I am slipping into believing that I am going to NEFFA to dance. I want to dance for hours, without hardly a breath in between, and go back and do it again tomorrow. I have done that.  I have never danced full out since I have had a knee injury for a dozen years, but I know my back is going to be much more of an issue than my knee. My back hurts just sitting here at the computer. Part One: We are going to dance!!!! Yahoo!!

Part Two of my brain: Memories of last year. We went for one day. Jeff danced the whole day. I didn’t dance at all, not one dance. I brought my lawn chair and sat quietly outside and read, socialized a bit, and was glad I had pain meds. I got through the day without crying, either for the acute pain or the fact that I was in a sea of dancers and I wasn’t dancing. I just withdrew into a quiet place and held on. I so want to dance tonight and tomorrow. Dancer-brain says DANCE. Chronic-pain-brain reminds me that I will not last long. I do have a plan. I can do mostly folk dance and if someone is pulling on my arm, I can dance behind the circle on my own. Not as satisfying as being connected to the swirl of energy in the circle, but better than not dancing. And I intend to do at least one contra dance. I figured out that if I wear a decorative scarf like a shawl (so as to not pull on my neck) and stick my right arm inside the scarf, then no one can pull on my arm and I hope that prevents me from straining my back.

I want to enjoy the optimism that my plan will work and I will dance a lot. There is this speed bump in my psyche: Pain is going to come on sooner than I think. I will need to withdraw to the lawn chair, with book and pain meds, and just get through the day. My dancer-heart wants to fly and speed along on expectations of dancing. But I have pain even from vacuuming my little apartment. How can I expect to dance?

I have packed my pretty dancing clothes. I want to dance.  I want joy. Truthfully, I want ecstasy.

Baptism of fire, I never knew what that meant…But now the flames are rising higher, I guess I haven’t seen anything yet. Because it’s coming down around me and I am rising up…Like a phoenix from the ashes, wings across the blue… The only way out is through.[from songwriter Julie Snow but I know it from local singer, Lui Collins]

I once wrote about envisioning bottoming out as if the bottom were rubber, bouncy. When I hit bottom, rather than going splat, I bounce back up and move on. Not that I so totally bottomed out while ensconced in my fears, but it wasn’t pretty. I have taught myself that crying can be useful, not that I actually cry very often. Sometimes I have to release the fears, worries, anger, the pent up junk; sometimes I have to get into the crying in order to be able to identify what is behind the tears. There is something to learn here. What has gotten under my skin? What do I need to do to change this situation? (I do prefer laughter for an everyday kind of release)

I knew that my fears had to be transformed into courage, and into action. And here I am. I have entered a new phase of dealing with my back issues. I have done so many kinds of therapy, traditional and holistic, but I remain in pretty unrelenting pain. Time to call upon my resources and take action. This week, a new MRI; what has changed in my spine since 2 1/2 years ago with the last round? Then, an appointment with a neurosurgeon not far away, and if that doesn’t lead me to answers, then a neurosurgeon in Boston. It’s a plan! I not only called upon my medical resources, but you know, just writing about my fears, the outpouring of comfort and support from my friends helped me relax and from a less-panicky place, be able to move forward.

The process of transforming fear isn’t pretending that we have no fear, but embracing fear as a tool for learning and growth.     Kay Gilley

Today I am calm. Today I am hopeful. I have a plan. It isn’t all sugar and spice. I have plenty of pain and I worry that this round of doctors will be fruitless, but I am not in a panic. One foot in front of the other. The roller coaster of life.  Juliana wrote about roller coasters the other day. She said you can either white-knuckle it and yell OHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT (which is a direct quote of her mother, as I was the one yelling this in her delicate young ears at Busch Gardens) or you can throw your hands up in the air and yell YAHOO!!!! Take your pick.

This is a hard one to write. It isn’t something I like to own up to. It is about fear.

For almost 3 years, I have had terrible pain in my shoulder/scapula area. At first I thought it was a shoulder issue but learned that it came from having 3 herniated discs in my cervical spine. I have been to many doctors and practitioners; the pain is easier than the first half year, but pretty unchanged for the last 2 years.

The actual pain is hard to deal with, and the physical limitations permeate my life. This is coming off of over a decade dealing with knee pain and its limitations. I am otherwise very healthy, just turned 56 yesterday, and as active as I can be. My blessing is walking, walking 2 to 5 miles every day, even through the winter months. Only giving myself a break and staying inside when the wind chill was in the itty bitty numbers.

Fear. About fear. I know that a certain amount of fear is useful, it is information: Don’t do that for it will bring on more pain. But I have fear of not ever healing, fear of endless limitations, fear of not being able to dance freely or look up at the night sky or wash my bathtub without increasing the pain, fear of the roller coaster of trying to find the right doctor or healer, fear of there not being the right doctor or healer, fear of the depression that accompanies chronic pain, fear of anyone knowing of the depression, fear of not having the strength to fill my cup half full every day, fear of my adult children knowing how much pain I live with, fear of…, fear of…. fear of fear.

“To fear is one thing. To let fear grab you by the tail and swing you around is another.”  Katherine Paterson

Obviously, this is way past the “fear as information” stuff. We are into the debilitating stuff, the fear that makes you crazy, and obviously, creates tension: Hence, more pain.

My fears need to see the light of day. I saw my reiki/reflexology lady yesterday. Mary Ann is a goddess in my life. My favorite part is in the beginning, when she says,” You don’t have to do anything. No to-do lists. I am here to take care of you.” Ahhhh. Yesterday we spoke a lot about fear. When she was touching me and directing my breath, she touched the center of my chest and said to visualize wings emanating from that spot, light and beautiful wings. I saw them. They were luminous. They felt healthy and weightless, moving effortlessly. I am creating a meditation around this: breathing into my luminous wings.

Fear feels helpless. I don’t know who to turn to to find healing. Fear feels angry. Didn’t I pay my dues with the years of knee pain and multiple surgeries? Why more years of debilitation? Will it end? When will it end?

My work, in this moment, is to take the energy that is tied up in fear and use it to move forward. Even if I find more dead ends, I have to more forward, make more appointments, take risks, find healing. Somebody has to be in charge here and it can’t be Fear.

“I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise.”               Dawna Markova

My work is cut out for me. Maybe the flip side of fear is courage.

I was in the Stop & Shop line yesterday with my last minute purchase of matzo meal. Didn’t want to risk running out in the middle of making matzo balls. I do make a fine vegetarian matzo ball soup, incase you were curious. A pleasant looking middle aged woman in front of me was buying several sprays of pretty little roses. Making conversation, I asked her what was the occasion.

Here’s where it gets tricky. She cheerily responded: We have a little gathering each year to mark the exact moment when Our Savior was killed, and this year, I am in charge of the flowers.

My heart skipped a beat. Just one. I passed over the what-the-hell reaction and moved onto saying that I thought it was a lovely color choice. So…. how in the world can someone know what TIME Jesus died. I mean, who was watching the clock, whatclock, what time zone, on whose word are we going, here? My logical brain said, this is insane. But my kinder brain goes to, well, this is about faith, and who can mess with someone else’s faith?

I admit that all God-stuff or Goddess-stuff confuses me. It doesn’t make sense. I know that most people do believe in something godly but I can’t wrap my brain around it. I do, however, believe (pardon the use of the word) that the puny human brain isn’t built to understand things like this. I am a firm agnostic.  I’ve got myself a comfortable seat-on-the-fence and stay there.

I think it is one of those times when reality doesn’t apply. My Aunt Mary, who was the highest spiritual being I have known, appears to me every once in a while in a meditation or a dream or just an image in my mind when I am walking down the street. She is usually very vivid. She died a dozen years ago, but she continues to come to me with loving support and insights. I have this little discussion with myself: Is this really Aunt Mary come to me in spirit form or is it just a wonderfully clear bit of imagination?

Bottom line: It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if Mary is “really” here or not. Her spirit, in the metaphoric sense, is here and I am always so very happy and blessed to feel her near. Faith is like that. Reality doesn’t apply. Logic doesn’t apply. What you believe is personal, private, and if it works for you, that is all that matters. I am side-stepping people who use faith as a weapon, us vs. them crap. Just sticking with the good parts of faith and religion, the parts that support you in being the best person you can be, and offer comfort and strength when your load is too hard to carry alone.

If pale pink roses work for you, go for it. I bought a mixed flower bouquet for my Passover table.

Good that we made the trek to Springfield College last night for another of the PVJFF movies (one more to go; tonight!): Inside Hana’s Suitcase.  I was glad that we had gone even before the movie began. We were sitting off on the side, near the young man who was running the equipment. Damn. I can’t remember his name now. I know it is one syllable, like Cliff, but not Cliff. Tip of tongue! Tip of tongue! Anyway, this chance encounter was a treat. He told us about his somewhat circuitous path through college but it was when he spoke of playing music, specifically, playing the mandolin, that he simply lit up. This led to a discussion of different kinds of music and had he ever heard Klezmer? No? Well, I got him to note the dates and locations of several Klezmer concerts on the horizon. He was psyched! It was a sweet connection for the evening, and just maybe, a new musical direction for him!

Inside Hana’s Suitcase offered an unusual way to remember the Holocaust. It was filled with magical story-telling, set off by the receiving of one battered suitcase by a Japanese teacher. Have you ever seen the movie, Paperclips? In that, as in this, you have a homogeneous society (Paperclips was southern white kids and in Hana’s Suitcase, the Japanese children lived in a world where everyone was like them, not the melting pot of NYC, say) In both cases, one educator takes it upon herself to open the kids’ eyes to people different from them. Both times, it focuses on Jews and the Holocaust, and exposes them to an astounding new understanding of themselves and the world. I can’t state this strongly enough. I get goosebumps recalling the compassion and understanding that comes out of these kids, and the adults, too.

Inside Hana’s Suitcase is something of a mystery adventure tale.  The suitcase, with the name Hana Brady, her birthday, and “orphan” (in German) painted on it, was received from archives at Auschwitz.  The Japanese teacher took it upon herself to explore the history of this suitcase. It led her, ultimately, to finding that Hana’s brother, George, is living in Toronto, and making contact with him. I imagine that George, like many Holocaust survivors, didn’t speak much about his experiences to his now large beautiful family.”Why burden them?” he might have thought. A packet arrived from Japan, not only with photographs of Hana’s suitcase, but reproductions of drawings that Hana had done while in the camps (found via the Internet), and warm and welcoming letters from the children who wanted to know about Hana. This seemed to have opened a floodgate in George. Sure, filled with overwhelming pain, but he learned that Hana still existed. Not in the flesh but in memories, in children who wanted to know about her, hear her story, even to meet George. I am starting to cry just typing this. I went through a lot of tissues last night.

The movie is told through photos, actors’ re-creations, through meeting George and his daughter, but mostly, the story is offered by the children who have come to know Hana. The children are Japanese, Czech, and Canadian. These diverse groups of children all know her story, inside and out, and they piggy-back retelling everything they know about Hana, from before the war when she lived in a happy and prosperous family, to her death, and beyond. The pairing of two Canadian girls were particularly funny in how they finished each other’s sentences.

Hana  is not forgotten.  I have put in a request through my local library to get a copy of the book, Hana’s Suitcase, by  Karen Levine. It has circulated the world through translation into many languages. The kids in the movie say that they learned that people are all the same, and from George, that you can’t give up. The kids remember. They retell the story. Like Anne Frank, Hana lives on. Excuse my tearing up again. I need a tissue.

Adages get embedded in society and our psyches. That does not make them true. Bullying is in the local news in the wake of a 15 year old, Phoebe Prince, committing suicide. No one threw sticks or stones at this girl, but words, especially cyber-bullying, hurt her so much that she couldn’t live with the barrage of meanness.

Words have power. I imagine cruel words coming at me, and I recoil and shrink into myself. Or lash out. Then I imagine someone saying something kind, and I picture myself opening and relaxing and breathing it in. And respond in kind.

Kind words can be short and easy to speak but their echoes are truly endless.—Mother Teresa.

Let’s stick to the positive side of this equation and its value. On days when I feel more spiritual, whatever that means, I would say that words align with power in the universe. When I use optimistic words, the universe gives me a kick in the positive direction of my thoughts. “Here, Katie, go that way, into hope and light and love!” Other days, I am more pragmatic, but either way, I try to find ways to support myself in a positive light.

Positive thoughts from within: what do I say to myself when I first start forming words in the morning? I actually make a practice of paying attention to this. There is a world of difference between grumping about the day to come and naming what I am looking forward to. Likewise for the end of the day. I started a ritual with my boyfriend early on in our relationship. Just before going to sleep, we ask each other, what are you grateful for today? Jeff tends to list everything he has eaten! And then say something about his beloved daughters, something about work, for our shared evening. About me. I name the little things of my day that brought me joy or insight; my own daughters, emails with my 91 year old mom, sunshine, walking with a friend, having someone to cook for (who will then list exactly what I made in his own gratitude list), for having loving friendships. This ritual felt forced when we started. Now it is expected, necessary. It is holy. It is how we end our day.

Positve thoughts from outside, aka, praise: first, I have to recommend that you check out Juliana’s blog from today, “Oh! Thank you!” http://keepitlocking.blogspot.com/ She, and I, would say that while it isn’t healthy to have all one’s self worth fully attached to outside opinions, it is of great value. We learn about what we are doing well. We hear what people like about us. Feedback, given in a kind way, also teaches us how to do better. Pretty basic stuff: praise the small stuff (I like way you really listened to me even though you were upset) elicits more of same. When my girls were little, I read a transformational book called, “How to Talk so Kids Will Listen and Listen so Kids Will Talk,” by two moms, Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish. I am grateful for having had this book in my life! Their big premise is that if you treat your child with kindness and respect, you will raise kids in a healthy environment. I live by this premise, every day, not just with my kids or kids, in general,  but with everyone. It appears that this parenting style worked well. I have amazing, self-assured, powerful daughters. Demeaning words, I believe, can do great harm. I love Juliana’s laughing at me one time. She had just graduated from MIT in Material Science and after graduation, was devoting herself to ballet while working as a waitress to pay the bills. In real honesty, I told her that she would be a really good waitress (she is poised, physically coordinated and has a phenomenal memory… all useful). She couldn’t believe that doing something as ordinary as waitressing, after getting this hotsy totsy degree, would lend to finding something to praise. But it did! That’s how I operate. You can be sure that if there is something positive to say, I will seek it out and put it out there.

Juliana also wrote on the art of accepting praise. It takes practice, it is a “practice,” to hear praise, take it in, appreciate it, and as she said, respond with, “Oh! Thank you!” Hear the compliment and soak it up like warm sunshine permeating your skin.

Kindness in words creates confidence, kindness in thinking creates profoundness, and kindness in giving creates love.                                           Lao Tzu

And as Juliana says: Give praise generously, receive praise easily, and do remember that your most important teacher is still you!!

Pain. Fear. Two things that zap the zest right out of you. Or of me. I have had my share of them in the last few days, and for a dozen years, for that matter. I live with chronic pain. I don’t really want to get into that right now. Suffice to say I have had four knee surgeries and I have herniated discs in my cervical spine.

I am not afraid of pain, as such. What I am afraid of is pain that won’t go away. More to the point, I fear the limitations that make me feel fragile, that keep me from doing simple daily things, that make it hard for me to be employed. I have danced all my life, been active and healthy. Now I am healthy, and thank goodness I can walk and I do walk, 2 or 3 miles almost every day, but dancing is barely in my life. And so much else is missing.

I have been dealing with the back pain for several years and have done countless kinds of therapy, both traditional and holistic. I just started with a new physical therapist, and that opened me to hoping again. I hope he can make a real difference. Once you open to hope, then you are vulnerable to disappointment. That is how this game works. Anyway, the first two sessions with this lovely young man gave me an hour of relief, which was amazing. On the third session, he did a little more extensive soft tissue work and gave me one simple exercise. I am disgusted to say that this set me back, once again. I just can’t find a way to get that scapula area to not be reactive to the simplest use, and this makes me crazy.

There is a reason for the overall name of this blog. Keeping my cup half full takes constant effort, intention, reminding. I have to pay attention. If I don’t fill my cup, daily, hourly, I sink. I can’t stop treading water or I will sink. And it isn’t pretty under water. I am not a fish. I need air and sunshine; I need to fly and soar. I need to pay attention to the minutia in my life that holds beauty, friendship, family, moments when I am useful in the world. I bake a lot of goodies, not because I like to eat them but because a) I enjoy the process, and b) I like feeding people. It is a purely positive thing I can do. Tomorrow might be lemon squares.

I don’t cry very often but I did today. A simple act brought on too much pain. And it scares me that I can’t do this normal activity. I feel beaten down. So what did I do? I took a walk, I took pain meds, and turned to friends for comfort. When friends come to me for comfort, it is so easy for me to be gentle and kind. It is so much harder to turn that around and be gentle with the person in the mirror.

A quote from Ruth Beadecker:

I intend to not eat that chocolate cake. I intend to clean my house. I intend to be a better parent. What I intend is the goal. What I do may not live up to what I intended but that doesn’t mean that intentions aren’t important. Without the intention, I could not meet, or, more importantly, even come close, to any of my goals.

I intend to wake up tomorrow and be grateful for my day. I intend to fill my cup with gladness.

I am on a roll commenting on the movies from the Pioneer Valley Jewish Film Festival. Last week (oh, there are so many movies!) we watched, in the beautiful new auditorium at the National Yiddish Bookcenter, a film called “Stumbling Stone.” A documentary about a German artist, Gunter Demnig, who began a project to create Holocaust remembrances for individual Jews, Gypsys, and others who were deported and killed. These are small brass plaques, set in a concrete block, that he installs in the sidewalk in front of the actual house where a normal person lived a normal life, before deportation. Before being murdered. Individuals died, not mass numbers. The plaque names the person, date of birth (I think) and the date they were deported.

He is a man with a mission. He now has a partner, who helps with the organization of this undertaking, but basically, it is only this one man who physically makes the blocks, hand engraving them, driving them around  Europe and then installing them. At the time the movie was made, I think 3 years ago, there were 8,500 blocks. According to a woman in the audience, who has been researching this, there are now 25,000 all over Europe. The idea is that you would “stumble” over one, look down, and remember, not the whole of the atrocity, but one person. One at a time.

Time has moved on. The world has moved on. As I have heard it, the survivors themselves rarely spoke of the camps. Their children, who are my generation, honored their privacy, leaving the tormented memories locked in a silence. It is the next generation, the grandchildren, who ask the questions. And want the stories recorded, held gently, made public, set in stone.

Here are the stones, thousands of them. Funny to have them just set in the pavement or sidewalks where they are just walked over, baby carriages pushed over them, bicycles ridden over them. But they are there. They are noticed. They catch the eye and remind us: don’t forget them. Don’t forget. Don’t ever forget.

One poignant scene: women who were daughters of SS officers, on their hands and knees, with cloth and polish, carefully shining the stones, one by one. A different scene from that of Jews being forced to scrub the streets. Atonement.

I know there is a biblical verse about stumbling stones. I poked around on the Internet to look for it. It didn’t mean anything to me, the readings I found. Not my thing. What matters are the stones, in their simplicity, in their multitude, there to be stumbled on.