INTRODUCING E-SAY

Recently I read an article on what makes a successful blog. I went through the checklist of three:
1. Keep blogs to 300 words or less.
2. Do not include cutesy pictures.
3. Write every day.

Clearly I have failed all three. My shortest blog was 800 words, longest over 2,000, and they are usually in the 1,200 to 1,400-word range. I like pictures and am an admitted softie for cutesy dog ones. I last wrote on January 6 and today is February 18 (points for both dates being in the same year).

According to the author of the article, I am completely on the wrong track. If I tighten up the wordage and write more often (I’m keeping the pics, they make me laugh), then the formula predicts I will have more readers and they will come more often (unless they are turned off by the said pics). I suppose that makes sense and is important information to know, maybe I could even experiment with the ideas, but I’d have to keep such ramblings like this particular sentence out because I’m already to 186 words. So I keep the pics, some rambling, and most importantly, I now officially change the name from blog to e-(s)ay. Because, really, these are essays not little tid-bits. I’m not made for the changing world. I still like erasers though I have grown overly dependent on spell-check and I wonder if Google has become our collective memory. They could do some weird shit to us (252, not good, 255).

Here is my plan. I will write my wordy e-says and cut them into bite-size (no pun intended, I’m not that kind of clever) parts, and I will post more often, maybe every day. Numbered, serial e-says. Okay? Better be, I’m out of words. 300

Dancing with Fear

A million years ago –say, like 22, a few of my lifetimes ago-- I decided that I would do one thing a year that I was afraid of. The first thing that I learned was that I was afraid of a lot of things. I was working at Bridger Bowl Ski Area near Bozeman, MT, teaching day care kids how to ski. Carolyn and Del (now owners of the chicken ranch where I lived for the first 6 months in Helena, to whom I’m forever grateful) hired me with the main qualification that I could pick up 4-year olds flailing in their snowsuits on the ground. I had only learned to ski the year before and that was with the careful teaching of Carolyn. Skiing itself was something I was afraid of. Also driving to and from work on the snowy roads. Also taking CPR training. Also cooking for dinner guests. Also meeting new people and engaging in small talk at parties. And countless others. Once I started the challenge, it was clear that I would have to take on more than one fear a year because there were so many. I could write a lengthy essay even a whole memoir on how this decision to face my fears has shaped my life and personality and physicality (of the preservation kind, I have never bungee jumped or been sky-diving), but I won’t here. Blessed be.

HOWEVER, this is where I begin my story of how I have come to be teaching Nia Dance Technique every Tuesday morning at 7:30 a.m. (Dancing Lotus Center on the walking mall next to the Parrott). For those that know me well, there are two facts that stand out from that sentence: dance and 7:30 a.m., both share the essence of being out of my comfort or capability zone. But there they are.

I started attending Nia classes in April, 2006, when my health was taking a dip. (Note: I started 2006 with the goal that it was the year to get healthy. My body responded with being hospitalized in the second month with diverticulitis and in the fifth with a hysterectomy. The body took me at my word, I suppose.) I was adamantly urged/instructed by spiritual director Kathryn to go. At the time, my general and inflexible feeling was that “my people” of peasant stock were intended to push ploughs not move with fluidity. The polka might get speedy but not so mysterious as the inner workings of free dance. Actually I can’t take all the peasant stock down with me to this stereotype so I’ll just say that my family is tall, big-boned, upright, and immovable unless playing basketball, which obviously requires movement but values tall and upright. So to say that I was reluctant, hesitant, nervous, and/or misguided would be an understatement. It was a fear and therefore fell into the category of facing it, the annual thorn.

Okay, I actually liked it even though I felt extremely (really, really, really) self-conscious. I could follow the leader (Kathryn) but the notion of the free-form dance, gliding around the room during some routines, almost lost me. I moved with downcast eyes. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me. Over time, I started to “get” the whole notion of Nia or at least a founding principle of “The Joy of Movement,” feeling the physical joy of moving the body, being aware of moving the ribcage from side to side, getting the pelvis to do the Elvis, sensing the side of my hands in the chopping motions, and feeling the strength on the back of my forearms when blocking out. I made it clear to Kathryn that I didn’t do sounds, no “ha” or “ya” for me. There was a limit to the movable.

Time went on and I started going three times a week and my body loosened up. I got less self-conscious, felt freer to shake my shy booty, recovered my sense of rhythm that I thought I lost after putting away my clarinet in 10th grade, and found more emotional openness inside myself. Most of all I laughed and laughed. Not that laughter has ever failed me; I just got to do it a lot. Fast forward to about a year from when I started, now Kathryn was encouraging me to take the white belt training, the first level and the prerequisite for teaching. That familiar shot of fear zipped around my body landing in my throat and stomach. Oh for f---‘s sake. The damn seed was planted. Then the irresistible Britta, the Black Belt certified, White Belt trainer came to town in April and taught a 4-hour playshop. I was sunk.

And that’s how I came to be sitting with five other women –two from Billings, one from Chicago, and another two from Helena- in June, 2007, nervously waiting for Britta to begin our White Belt Intensive (we’ll call it The Intensive after this). I was the only one that was undecided about teaching. I had the clause of taking the training for “personal growth” to cling to. What followed was 40 hours of training over 7 days and an experience of renewal that I’d forgotten existed. The main thing I had held onto weeks prior to signing up and attending was that it was okay to be “caught learning.” I’m of the sub-conscious belief that I must know how to do everything. Once I abandoned the notion of perfection, I had a lot of room to embrace foolery. Which was good because it quickly became very clear that there would be fears within fears to face. Dammit to hell. On the first full day we had to do our solo free dance. I had caught wind of this exercise but wasn’t prepared for it to be the first day nor that the music would be randomly selected. I did check to see if curse words were allowed before using them. My body was tingling and hands sweating, even right now as I remember it. I knew that this was better to get over with sooner than later. I had youth do this kind of thing at the beginning of camp every year to break the fear/reluctance/good-sense ice, so I knew that this was necessary, probably recommended by 4 out of 5 doctors, but f---ing hell. I didn’t close my eyes completely but sure enough didn’t look up at the other six sets of eyes though I couldn’t have had a more sympathetic, I mean supportive, group of people to experience this with. It was over in less than 6 minutes and eventually my palms dried off and my body quit quaking. The Intensive had truly begun.

Now a word about Nia: it is a combination of dance arts (Jazz, Modern, and Duncan —thus the gliding around the room on tippy toes), martial arts (Tai Chi, Tae Kwon Do, and Aikido), and healing arts (Feldenkrais, The Alexander Technique, and Yoga). Each one is a stream feeding into the greater flow of movement so within in one song various practices are intermingled yet with intention. For example, one routine has a song that juxtaposes the soft fluidity of Tai Chi with the powerful structure of Tae Kwon Do; another mixes funk with the sensation of melting. (Disclaimer: I am risking being caught learning at this very moment and have the option of correcting in future posts whatever information I’m getting wrong.) Foundational is the practice of letting go of the mind and sensing what is in one’s body, changing pain to pleasure, opening up to a universal joy of movement.

Britta came back this past October to teach another Intensive. I attended some of the sessions for refreshers and like many times in my life, I found that I have a dyslexic sense of learning or fall under the Law of Distraction. She was teaching us about tapping into Universal Joy and all I could think about was Universal Suffering. Of course, I was thinking rather than feeling but I am still confused on this which leads me to believe that I’ve got more to learn or communicate or digest or ingest or embrace --the joy of bewilderment. That and learning how to shimmy are my growing edges.

Onward, as regular readers would know, I’ve been absent from the blog. Not as obvious would be that I’ve had good reason and been really busy. More to come on that in other postings, but for now it is enough to explain that it took me six months before I taught my first class. By then I’d faced the fears of doing 30-minute radio interviews in San Antonio and returning to a past life of activism when I attended an event in Boston. Finally back in Helena for most of November, I was able to get to the nuts and bolts of learning the first routine to teach (for those interested it’s called White Belt Dreamwalker). The night before my first class I experienced what my actor friends have told me about dress rehearsals: I lost all sense of knowing the choreography and was most upset that the next morning I would cry in front of the class. I went to bed. The next morning, 5:30 a.m. (had to get a new alarm clock because my old one couldn’t be set for that early), my first thought was, “why the f--- did I say I was going to do this!” Coffee, meditation, and lucky charms (not the cereal kind) came to my aid and I showed up and set up. Lynn my cohort, training-mate, and sister teacher arrived first with her vibrant enthusiasm and put me at ease. If nothing else, we would laugh. Clare got there, brand new to Nia and one of the instigators for having an early morning class, and again I knew it would be fine. We were there to have fun and I know fun. The class went very well. I didn’t look to the side of the room where Lynn and Kathryn danced but I could hear them hooting and hollering, ha-ing and ya-ing. I did it, I taught a dance class, and still continue to do it and that’s that. I’m grateful that my fears led me down this path even though I can’t imagine where it’s going to continue to lead me.

I’ll end with a line from a friend of mine’s blog. LG and her partner Mary have been fighting cancer that is warring with Mary’s body. I admire their courage, love, and persistence. Here are LG’s words:

“Even when I don't feel right, I try to act as if until it changes. Emotions are energy and energy always changes.”

Fall Art Walk

Calling all Rodney Street neighborhood or the vicinity writers for a night of readings at the Rodney Street Laundry and Jailhouse Sandwich Shop & Soup Kitchen. The laundromat and other neighborhood landmarks have joined in on the 24th Annual Downtown Helena Fall Art Walk on Friday, November 9, from 6 to 10pm. During the evening, we will have readings every thirty minutes as well as tasty refreshments and an exhibit of visual art from neighborhood artitsts. Please let me know if you are willing to read something. Pull out something old, try out something new, just have fun with it. Can't find a better "crowd" (there isn't a lot of room for the masses) to rise to the occassion and give it a go. The rest of you Helenans be sure and put the laundromat on your walking list.

HOW DID IT GET TO BE FALL?

Saturday, September 29, 2007
I’m sitting in the Seattle-Tacoma Airport in a semi-quiet spot with floor to ceiling windows looking out on the gray puffy cloud-filled sky. It looks like I could reach out and ring the water from one of them.

Traveling is always a bit disorienting especially when the trip is fast-paced and packed from start to finish and the flight path is crisscrossed. I booked the flight with American Advantage miles, which was good for the pocketbook but not for direct travel. For starters, American doesn’t fly to Montana. With mileage points though they allowed me to hook up through Alaska Air’s Horizon Air. There aren’t many of those flights out of Helena so I took what I could get: 6:10am to Seattle (one stop in Great Falls that didn’t require getting off but did require moving to my assigned seat and losing my sleeping berth). Then was the painful 7-hour layover before I could catch a flight to Dallas. Two things Sea-Tac Airport has going for it: (1) there is a great place for chair and foot massage that is very rejuvenating especially when one has had only 4 ½ hours of sleep and (2) the bathroom stall doors open outward so you don’t have to squish in your bag and yourself into the stall, work around the door to turn around and get it shut before doing one’s business. Someone thought that one through. Probably an architect with a hell of a long layover somewhere.

Thirty-six hours after arriving in Dallas –just long enough to miss the turn off at Lewisville and almost go to Mckinney rather than Denton and still have some time to sleep once I backtracked and got to the right destination-- I caught a quick flight on Southwest Airlines (my favorite) to Houston and the day after that I drove the 3 1/2 hours to San Antonio. Now coming back a week later, I had it easy this morning with an 11:10 departure from San Antonio, quick changeover in Dallas, and then nice flight to Seattle where I now have five hours before I board for Helena. I love flying and traveling but as I gain in minutes and years, it seems to take longer for my soul/life-force/innards to catch up with my body. Hopefully that will happen tomorrow, Sunday, when I get some time to stare into space –not that I’m not doing that now but it looks like I’m focusing on the computer screen.

I was in Texas to promote my San Antonio book, It Happened in San Antonio (on sale at the Alamo Gift Shop, your local bookstore, and online). I had an excellent book signing at the Twig Bookshop, a brief news radio interview, and two nerve-racking 30-minute taped radio shows. Nerve-racking because prior to I felt like I was preparing for a pop quiz on my book that led me to reading the book in the style of cramming for finals the night before. Hal, father of my friend Elaine and publicist of mine, told me after the second taping that I had a thorough knowledge of my subject and that I’d be surprised at how many authors didn’t know their material. I wasn’t surprised at all but felt that a bit of grace/luck/willfulness had gotten me through by the skin of my teeth. In an earlier conversation he told me about a book entitled Fiction Writers are Liars and Thieves, which made me feel justified in whatever I said, true or false, even though I do write non-fiction.

Hal has his own recording status, he makes tapes reading Hank the Cowdog books (on #49) out loud for a radio and reading program. Kids that have trouble reading can listen to Hal/Hank while they follow along on the page. Sounds like a great program to me and Hal with his perfect Texas accent I’m positive makes Hank and the gang come alive.

Hal, my mother and I got to the second taping about an hour early, which didn’t help my nerves any, but when the radio personality (Ron Aaron) arrived with a giant black Great Dane named Eloise by his side I decided that it wouldn’t be so bad after all. Hal asked what kind of dog Eloise was and Ron answered, “A Texas Chihuahua.” An answer even Emma would have thought funny and she’s known some of the smaller variety Chihuahuas. Later when one of our party went to the restroom, Ron said, “Oh, did he stop at the sandbox.” Ron is the executive director of the Animal Defense League of TX, a no-kill non-profit shelter that right now has about 400 dogs and cats (go to their website, the dogs all look happy and the cats coy). Hal, my mother, Ron, Eloise, and I boarded the elevator and went up to the studio and while Eloise circled around, Ron and some others gathered up equipment and another chair. The chair part caught my attention because there was already one and they were only getting another and there were three of us humans. There wasn’t a chair by Ron’s control panel either. He came back and said that I would be standing because that makes for better radio. Since he didn’t have a chair I figured he wasn’t pulling my leg. So I stood with a huge microphone in my mouth, Eloise bedded down behind me, and Ron doing his introduction. My cheat-note book out of sight behind the microphone, I swallowed hard and dove in. I had been comforted by the “taped” part of the interviews, however I found out that it just meant it wasn’t live right then but the taping wasn’t for the purpose of editing. It was The Deal. The morning taping went well but I could refer to my book and find snip-its. The second with Ron was more of an overview of the book and a discussion of San Antonio, also more banter, kind of like a non-competitive but still speed-ball ping pong match. He told me that the recording went right to the hard drive so that if I made a mistake to correct myself right then. Only choice was to jump in, hope the thoughts/answers came, and in a timely fashion. They did and I had a fine time even when Ron asked how I knew the story I had just told was true. I answered, “How do you know it wasn’t.” I got to bring in my alma mater Davy Crockett Junior High and our mascot The Pioneers and he got in a “Go Pioneers.” I also got in a plug for the Myrna Loy Center and, of course, the Rodney Street Laundry and Jailhouse Sandwich Shop & Soup Kitchen. I broke up the laundry and sandwich shop name as one must be succinct on the radio (so I was coached). It was a good day all around. The radio shows play Sunday morning (September 30th) on “Community Closeup” at KCYY-FM with Chrissie Murnin and “Talk San Antonio” on KAJA-FM with Ron Aaron. I won’t be tuning in. My voice never sounds the same on the outside as it does in my head and listening to a tape scares me.

I had been worried about sounding Texan enough but felt prepared after the flight from Seattle to Dallas with all those Dallasites and then one trip to the grocery store pretty much got me set. However after the second interview I asked my mother if I sounded Texan. She said, “No but you were well-spoken.” I don’t think she meant to imply that the two are mutually exclusive.

Side note/Wish I had a picture: As Hal and I were driving to the first interview, we passed a fast food restaurant with two drive-thru lanes: one for DONUTS, the other for TACOS.


In my last post I wrote about various different ways to define seasons. Soon after that the seasons began to divide and multiply. Summer-Montana is Heaven sub-divided into June Heaven with Precipitation and Chance to Stay Cool, July Hot-as-TX Summer-without-AC & Severe Drought Season, and August Fire and Smoke Season. And my personal seasons were June Visitors, July Buy a House via Email/Phone for Brother and Sister-in-Law, August New York City and Virginia Beach Trip to Unrealistic Redo New House in Seven Weeks with Laptop Hard Drive Crash, Diverticulitis Bout and Red Dots. The August season blended into the September season with the Redo and the final move into the redo-in-process house on the 10th. I now live on Butte Avenue (for those not familiar with MT cities, Butte rhymes with “cute”…really, no jokes). My neighbors include a small herd of deer, couple of rabbits, and graffiti tagger. The last week of August, some youngster tagged the house with the signature “Unknown.” It was funny at first because that was the last thing I expected to happen in Helena, my house to be signed in Sharpie permanent ink. When I had to clean it off, I wanted to ring the child’s neck. I figured that it wouldn’t take much to identify the tagger. I thought about stopping kids on the street to ask if they were at-risk youths or, simply, if they had a Sharpie I could borrow. I wondered for a bit if maybe the culprit was a disenfranchised buck (of the hooved kind) with pen rubber-banded to his antlers –the city has planned to bring in sharpshooters to cut down on the deer population. If I were a deer, I would feel at risk AND disenfranchised and take to scribbling to extinction. I gave up ID-ing the tagger and worked on cleaning the graffiti off the house. For future reference, paint thinner, TSP cleaner, and electric sanders do not take permanent ink off, they mostly make the wall cleaner and the tag stand out more. Also, it is hard to match up paint from a 500 year old paint can found in the Pulp Fiction-like basement even if it is the paint on the house. My mother was the last person I would think of as being the source for graffiti removal products but she faithfully reads the Happy Handyman column in the Houston Chronicle and remembered a product that cleans graffiti right off. Our Ace Hardware didn’t have that particular product but did have another one. With a good spray application and a hard scrub the tag came off. A few weeks later some high school informants told me that there was a girl going around tagging houses with “Unknown.” A girl-pioneer-tagger…I still want to ring her neck. The police officer that I talked to said that there was a gang in the area named the “No Browns” but if he was taking it from the tag, he was on the wrong track. And what kind of name is No Browns for a gang in a state with a population 92% white. Their goal is racist AND flimsy.

Just after the graffiti incident I got sick and had to have a round of antibiotics that I then had an allergic reaction to. Red dots started appearing on my stomach. I thought about connecting the dots to see if it made a shape or word but was afraid that the “Unknown” tag would emerge.

A special note about the new house, Emma shares the yard with three cats that live in the guesthouse (a tiny rental house) in the backyard. One in particular is Emma’s new best friend and food supplier. The cat is a successful hunter and as cats do, he brings the dead prey back to the yard and home base. Emma then has endless cat-roadkill treats to look forward to. She’s a happy dog even if she has feathers stuck between her teeth.


I left off my July posting with the promise of Part II and Part III. Now there are more Parts than can be counted, it’s been such a full summer. I do remember though what Parts II and III were going to be about: II was about crashing the free, Willie Nelson concert in Choteau with sister-in-law Kelly and III was about taking the Nia White Belt Intensive Training to become a certified Nia dance teacher. I’m adding a post below that tells the Willie Nelson close-up adventure story in pictures as well as two other photo essays: SHOUT goes on vacation and Emma’s Dog Days of Summer. I’ll start my teaching-Nia escapades in posts-to-come as I’ve set a goal to teach my first official class on Tuesday, December 4th. After doing radio with Eloise, I’m up for (almost) anything.

THANKS, DAVE!

Though not confirmed, it is widely believed that David Letterman was the celebrity that brought Willie Nelson to the Choteau rodeo arena for a free concert for 2500 Teton County residents and 500 lucky lotto winners (or maybe it was 2700/300, you get the idea). Residents stood in line to get their tickets and others sent in postcards. One of the winners in the drawing was all the way from NYC.


Dave has a ranch outside of Choteau (populatin of about 1,800 and located 20 miles east of the Rocky Mountains on my road to Glacier Park) and seems a good neighbor. I don't know if he was thanking the good people for helping nab the would-be kidnapper of his son months back or just liking to see people have fun or what, really didn't matter. What could be better than a Willie Nelson concert in a rodeo arena in Montana? I didn't have a ticket but when Kelly got to town I thought that we should just drive up to Choteau and see what was what. She was more than game. So here are pictures of our little adventure.

By the way, Willie did say from the stage, "Thanks, Dave." There you go.


Kelly at our perch where we could look in on the rodeo arena and get a glimpse of Willie & Family. If we were in a big city and bought seats to the concert, very likely this would be as close as we could get! There weren't as many people as I thought there would be on the outside hanging out to at least hear Willie even if we couldn't get inside to see him. The Jaycees still sold burgers (local beef) and beer to us out the back door of their booths. Great people those Jaycees.

These people in the cherry picker came prepared. They were on the outside too but sure had good seats behind and above the arena. They could see the stage straight on. People sitting down below enjoying more of that local beef. moo

Wonderful surprise, one of the Jaycees came out and told us outsiders that we would get to go in! The entrance was right by the side of the stage.

See!

Willie was at his laid-back finest and the crowd was probably the mildest ever. The security consisted of (besides the Jaycees) the county sheriff's department lined up in front of the stage. However mostly they were helping people in the crowd by taking their cameras and clicking close up pictures of Willie and his band. A very dusty German Shepherd wound its way through the crowded legs. We got our way to the front without having to push or shove. What the Jaycees thought would be the last few songs that we could get into hear became about 45 minutes of Willie wrapping it up and then playing another and another and another. He was amazing. With the sun setting, he ended with the song, "I gotta get drunk, I sure do regret it." We sure didn't regret making the last-minute drive up to Choteau. Thanks, Dave!

SHOUT goes on BEACH VACATION

SHOUT learns about friends that bury friends in the sand.

"Where'd everybody go?"

SHOUT tests the waters.

SHOUT learns about tides.


OH NOOOOOO!

IN THE NICK OF TIME!

SHOUT safely back in room
with Max the lifesaver.

DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

DONE YET

Maggie Mae and Emma at House Redo

PUGFEST

Helena

URBAN HUNTER

New York City

BIKER LAB IN DOGGLES

Safeway gas station in Helena

TREAT

Emma at Rodney Street Neighborhood picnic