We dance for laughter, we dance for tears, we dance for madness, we dance for fears, we dance for hopes, we dance for screams, we are the dancers, we create the dreams.
~ Albert Einstein
Category: dancing
Faerie Paths — Rain
Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.
~Vivian Greene
Faerie Paths — Faerie Dances
Softly in the gloaming
Flitting through the vale,
Fairy folk are roaming
Over hill and dale.
Pixies in the hollow,
Elves upon the height,
Let us follow, follow
Through the paling light.
Follow, all unbidden,
To the grassy glade
Wrapped around and hidden
In the forest shade.
Hark the elfin tinkle
Of their little lutes!
Mark the golden twinkle
Of their fairy flutes!
~ Evelyn Stein
Sunday Evening Art Gallery — Twyla Tharp
Twyla Tharp, (1941) is a popular American dancer, director, and choreographer who was known for her innovative and often humorous work.
Tharp attended Pomona College but transferred to Barnard College where she graduated with a degree in art history in 1963.
In 1965, Tharp founded her dance company, Twyla Tharp Dance. 
Her dances are known for creativity, wit and technical precision coupled with a streetwise nonchalance. 
By combining different forms of movement such as jazz, ballet, boxing and inventions of her own making, Tharp’s work expands the boundaries of ballet and modern dance.
In 1988 Tharp disbanded her company and joined American Ballet Theatre (ABT), where she served as artistic associate alongside Mikhail Baryshnikov until 1990.
She continued to choreograph throughout the 1990s, but by 2000 the Twyla Tharp Dance Company was performing again.
“When I started working in New York, you were either modern dancer, or you were a ballet dancer,” Tharp shared.
“I thought that was ridiculous, because I could be both a ballet dancer and a modern dancer, so shouldn’t everybody else be able to do that?”
More of Twyla Tharp’s amazing career and chorography can be found at https://www.twylatharp.org/ and https://achievement.org/achiever/twyla-tharp/.
Witchy Woman Dance
Woo hoo, witchy woman
See how high she flies
Woo hoo, witchy woman
She got the moon in her eyes
~ Witchy Woman, The Eagles
I danced to “Witchy Woman” with four other “witchy” women in front of the band last night.
Let me explain.
I love live music.
Classical, rock, country — there is something about live music that sings to my soul. Maybe it’s the fresh air, the open atmosphere, the camaraderie of those surrounding me, all there for the same purpose. To meld with the music.
Last evening I went to a free outdoor concert in a neighboring town. The Whiskey Flat Trio was a band of older gents (and one younger one) who played great country and country rock-ish music.
If you know me you know I can’t sit still, especially where live music is concerned. I’m always tapping my knees to the beat, or clapping, or, need be (and I know the words), sing with the musicians. I love to get lost in the magic of the musical moment.
Well, I was beeping and bopping to the country beat, occasionally forgetting myself and raising my hands above my head when the music punctuated itself.
There was a group of “older” women in front of me who would now and then stand in front of the band and dance or more often do a little jiggy in a circle together. (I think they were the band members’ wives and/or friends.)
Anyway, one of the women must have noticed the ants in my pants and came to my chair and said I can come up and dance with them if I wanted.
Now if you know me, I also have this inbred fear (from my middle school years) of people laughing at me, so I thanked her yet kept in my seat.
The funny thing was they looked like they were having FUN! They didn’t care what people thought — they did their little moves to the beat of the music, all smiling at each other, singing when they knew the words, working together to be a whole.
I sat there wondering … if not now, when? What did I care? I am all about the moment and in the moment and being a part of the moment, no matter if I am sitting or standing or dancing.
So when the next popping song came along I went up to their little circle and started to jiggy with them. The song happened to be “Witchy Woman” by the Eagles.
How appropriate.
I danced and sang along with the band and laughed with the women and did my own little dance. I raised my hands above my head when I sang, “She’s got the moon in her eyes” and got lost in the moment.
It was marvelous. I didn’t care who watched, who whispered, who cared.
~I~ didn’t care. And it felt wonderful.
Maybe I will try stepping out of my shell again soon. You should too.
Don’t miss the moment. It will never come again.
Faerie Paths — Whirling Dervish
Whirling Dervish (wûrl-ing dûrˈvĭsh)
(noun) Islam
a dervish (member of an order noted for devotional exercises involving bodily movements) whose actions include ecstatic dancing and whirling; a whirler
Dancing Through the Grey
I just love this gif.
Every time I come across it it makes me smile.
It’s Brad Pitt and his goofy character Chad Feldheimer doing the happy dance in the movie Burn After Reading. I love this part with him dancing and pumping the air and laughing and being silly.
This is how I’d like to be.
At least most of the time.
I know no one is happy all of the time. Life isn’t always dancing in the street, a bowl of cherries, or the pot at the end of the rainbow. Sometimes life sucks.
But when it doesn’t, it’s a chance to make wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, the (almost) best time of your life.
Now I don’t necessarily do the happy dance when I’m mopping the floor or filling the dishwasher. But when times get tough/boring/ stressful, a little bit of hopping around to “Swing Swing Swing” by Benny Goodman or “Flirtin’ With Disaster” by Molly Hatchet or the ending of the “1812 Overture” by Tchaikovsky can certainly do a number on my emotional state.
I know I sound like the old broken record, but there’s something about waking up every morning that makes me want to dance (after coffee, of course). Well, not all the time, but you know what I mean. Even with the aches and pains and trials of life, the miscues, missteps, and mis-ery, I try and find a reason to smile. To dance. Or even tap my foot, if I so desire.
How do we find Brad Pitt’s level of happiness?
That’s up to the individual.
Good books, great movies, powerful music, all are triggers. So are babies and kids, puppies, kittens, sunsets, oceans, crafts, flowers, phone calls and photo albums. The past, the present, and the future eventually all blend together anyway, so why not find something that makes you smile and feel good and run with it?
I know many hate this simpleton point of view. Life is not just black and white. Happy or sad. Hot or cold. It’s always a matter of gray.
Grey is good.
According to an article in the online magazine Psychreg, “When we attempt to view life in cut and dry terms we end up boxing ourselves into a rigid way of thinking and feeling. Our abilities to resolve our differences become more difficult and we can negatively impact our effectiveness. The more we learn about the grey areas of life, the more we see how it shapes our earthly experience.”
So we need the grey area. But in the end, grey gives up to either black or white. You either do or you don’t. You stay or you go. You live or you die.
You either dance to the music or you don’t.
Try dancing. It’s more fun, more liberating, and more addicting than any dark corner of life.
And it sure beats filling the dishwasher.
Shall We Dance?
Life has been in transition lately. Good, mediocre, up, down, cloudy, grey, with a hint of sunshine now and then. Spring in Wisconsin. But I have to tell you, I’m so glad I’m here to be good, mediocre, up, down, cloudy, and grey with a hint of sunshine.
For about six months ago I took a tumble unlike anything I have ever experienced. I am here to tell you that I’m alive and well. As for the story…it was one of those things that could happen to anyone. A slick spot, a little curve, and before you know it you’re tumbling down the embankment on the side of the road. How instantly your life can change…in a flash, in one long, drawn out moment.
There is no doubt a faerie’s touch saved my derriere that morning. Driving one way, sliding, turning around, and double tumbling down the little slope took less than 30 seconds. The memories of that moment in time are fuzzy now…all I remember is thinking, “I’m rolling. Okay. I’m rolling over.” There was no panic; no real fear. I think I was too stupid to realize how dangerous the moment really was. When I stopped rolling, landing on the tires, all I could think was, “My husband is going to kill me.”
Funny what thoughts come across your mind when you’re probably in shock and don’t know it.
My husband was neither mad nor murderous. It wasn’t until I had the car towed home that I realized what I was had done was dance with the devil. I literally walked away from disaster. From paralysis and death and worse. Afterwards people told me stories of some who weren’t so lucky. I don’t know if they meant to make me feel better or not.
Funny what thoughts come across other’s minds when they don’t know what to say.
My life has not drastically changed since that dance, but every morning I say an extra thank you prayer. I call my kids and grandbaby more often. I always say something nice to someone — to their face, not behind their back. I know what’s important in my life. And I strive to be a better person. To my family, to my friends, and especially to myself. I smell the roses and and the green grass and keep an eye on the sunrise and the sunset.
And I take a leap of faith and think that I was saved for a bigger purpose in life. Like keeping us all entertained.
Shall we dance?
Even Plato Rock and Rolls
Plato once said, “Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and gaiety to life and everything.” Indeed. Those you who have found nirvana (no, not the band) through music, no matter what genre, will get the gist of the following story.
I consider myself an adult. Somewhere between 40 and 80, mother of two, full-time employee, loving wife, devoted mother, and average housekeeper. Mature enough to deal with menopause, bounced checks, bosses, brother-in-laws, burned food on the grill and late night (no night) kids. Yet now and then this immaturity creeps up on me.
‘Cuz I’m as free as a bird, now — and this bird you cannot chain —
Is there ever a ceiling to age? Is there ever an end to being young? Is there ever a reason to give up the magic of who we were — and who we still are?
If I stay here with you, now — things just couldn’t be the same — ‘Cuz I’m as free as a bird now — how bout you? — and this bird you’ll never chain —
It started one Saturday evening. The college kid was out for the night, the married son busy with his lovely wife and lovely baby, the house was fairly clean, the garbage taken out. Thunderstorms started to move in, threatening my evening of television. A movie, then. After ten minutes I was bored and antsy. Something was brewing. I just knew it.
“Let’s listen to some music,” I said to my husband, my foot bouncing with nervous energy.
“Like what?” he asked, picking up on the electricity in the tone of my voice.
“Well…how about a little Lynyrd Skynyrd?”
For those of you living on another planet, Lynyrd Skynyrd was a great country-rock band from the 70’s. So I innocently picked a song. Sweet Home Alabama. Suddenly all madness broke loose. My husband and I became…possessed. That’s the only way I can describe it. Sweet Home Alabama lead to the famous Free Bird.
Won’t you fly … freeeee bird…
We cranked up the stereo.
dede WA WA wonnca wonnca … WA WA wonnca wonnca …WA WA wonnca wonnca … wonnca wonnca … wonnca wonnca ….
Suddenly there were no middle-aged people lying around watching TV — there was only this young guy with long, full, bushy hair and a wild-looking woman with dark curls and big glasses dancing around the room, playing an air guitar or, worse yet, an air keyboard.
Daaaa du da-du-dada, Daaaa du da-du-dada, Daaaa du da-du-dada, Daaaa du da-du-dada …
We cranked it up, our eyes closed until the end of the song. Before we knew it, listening to music became a contest. Taking Care of Business. Flirtin’ With Disaster. Whole Lotta Rosie. Dancing in front of the speakers, shaking our booties in over-sized t-shirts and shorts. My husband ran to get the next song. Dream On. A slow song. I grabbed him and we slow danced in the middle of the living room floor. Slow with a rocky beat. Soon enough the song was over. Enough mellowness. I put on Walk this Way, and we sashayed across the floor, strutting like young dudes and dudettes. Another rock song followed, then another. My turn! I laughed and ran and picked out Fool for the City. My husband followed with Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting. Oh oh oh! My turn! Oh no! The song I wanted was not on that CD! Drats! I ran around, picking another rocking tune. The speakers were so loud they made the amplifier shut down. We had to shut it off and turn it on again. Couldn’t miss any of this song!
My husband put on a slow, country-rockish tune. Highway Song. I pulled him to the middle of the living room floor and we started to slow dance again. Suddenly the song picked up tempo, another moment lost in a guitar riff. We danced faster, laughing, hugging, trying to keep up with the increased tempo.
The phone rang — our oldest. Great. Hi, howya doing…how’s grandbaby..oh? …yeah…yeah…gotta go…see ya tomorrow… and we ran back to the stereo. We needed more rock and roll! We moved forward in the time warp we had created. A bit of heavy metal, Metallica, vibrated the plant atop the speaker. By the second song my head was beginning to throb. Perhaps we moved too far forward. We found another beboppy tune, Kryptonite…
If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman …
The two of us, married over 30 years, sat on the sofa, bellowing out the lyrics of this song as if we were both on stage. The dogs came out to see what the loud voices were all about, then, deciding we were harmless, went back downstairs.
As our energy slowly ebbed, our choices changed. The ache in his elbow returned, my sinus headache from the rain outside demanded aspirin. We pulled out a few more mellow oldies, letting the clock tick away both forwards and backwards.
Our hearts are in the music; our lives entwined with hair bands and bald bands and country rock bands and everything in-between. We have grown up on music, have cherished it like an old friend and have never let it stray far from our world. Music has set us on fire and soothed our souls. It has brought back memories, tears and laughter; it has set the stage, not only for what has been, but for what will be.
Bob Seeger ended our time traveling for the evening. Turn the Page.
Here I go … on the road again … Here I am … turn the page….
My husband pulled me up for one last slow dance. We were 20 again, 20 going on 40 going on 60 going on 20. There is no such thing as age, only a state of mind. We “turn the page” in our lives every night we go to sleep, every morning we wake. We hummed the last few stanzas of the song, knowing our own pages were turning way too fast. I told myself I would make the most of every moment, every song, every slow dance. Every wa wa wonnca wonnca. I would turn up the volume of my life and dance with the gifts I have been given. One day my kids will understand — one day when their own pages start to turn.
Until then, it is our stereo … our rock and roll … and my turn….
Dancing in a Too-Tight Tutu
I
was sitting around the other day with my gal friends, sharing tales about the weekend. We all seemed to have gone through the same delightful experience, albeit in different ways. One sat with friends and sipped with friends all day, one went to an outdoor concert, and I party hopped. We all were relaxed, having a good time, and probably drank a little too much, for we all said, “I’m too old for this.”
I’m sure the situations were on the same astral plane as many others “my age.” Time flows, excitement and comfort wraps around us, the atmosphere make us feel good, and before you know it we are waking up the next morning with a headache, saying, “I’m too old for this.”
This psychic phenomenon is not limited to girls sharing drinking stories. This magical phrase echoes around us all the time. My husband and I spent one glorious day working outside. The air was cool, the dogs well-behaved, and we planted flowers in pots and mowed the lawn and fixed broken things and worked in the yard a little. Maybe more than just a little, for the next morning we both woke up, joints stiff, hands scratched, and twinges in the small of our back, saying, “I’m too old for this.”
Just think of how many times you have said this. In fun and in fear. A mother with a house full of 10-year-old girls staying overnight, giggling and talking till wee hours of the morning; college kids downstairs, friends over, drinking beer and playing cards, getting louder and rowdier with each hand; babysitting more than one of anything younger than five. You’re trying to be nice. You’re trying to be patient. But hours into the melee you think, “I’m too old for this.”
As I always like to point out, age is in your point of view. When the ladies shared their drinking stories, I wanted to stand and cheer. There were late 30s mingling with mid 40s mingling with late 50s. Yet all three of us unconsciously slipped back into our early 20s, losing track of time and responsibilities and all the trimmings that go with it, at least for an hour or two.
Were we trying to recapture our youth? Were we silly old goats trying to dance the dance of the sprite in a tutu that was too tight? Or were we just human beings who never forgot how to have fun?
By now we all know that life is what you make of it. Jobs and kids and finances and health problems plague us all. Some can pick up and make a clean slate of everything; others have to muddle through the chaos and hope they squeeze out the other side sane.
So when they say laughter is the best medicine, it really is. Sharing stories, playing games, dancing and prancing and acting silly all are ways to exorcise the demons we create for ourselves.
What’s wrong with not acting our age? What is our age, anyway?
If judged by our bodies, it might be ancient. If judged by our responsibilities it might be grown up. If judged by our dreams, it might be juvenile. Somehow there has to be a way to unite all sides of ourselves into one happy camper.
So why not let go of those inhibitions once in a while? Why not drop the fear of embarrassing yourself (or others) and laugh with others? It’s not like you haven’t been embarrassed before, or never will be again. But you would be amazed the different feeling you get when you are a part of the joke, not a victim of it.
The great thing about taking chances like these, and saying “I’m too old for this” is that you find you are really not too old for anything. The safe choices are usually general ones: take a class about something you always wanted to know about; buy yourself a journal (or a laptop) and start recording those thoughts you thought you’d never get out of your system. Volunteer at a shelter or sanctuary and make friends with the animals. Dance like a crazy person in front of the speakers to your favorite music.
Oh sure, you say. You go dance in front of the speakers. You wear the tutu that’s too tight. I hate to admit it, but I already do. And I can’t tell you how scary and liberating it is. And, even if I pull a muscle dancing the “hoochi coo”, it’s a great feeling to know that no one will ever forget the sight of me “hoochi cooing” in a too-tight tutu.
Especially with a glass of wine in my hand.
Humoring the Goddess 