little truths

Disclaimer: I just wrote this paper for my African Dance class, so it might not make much sense out of context. I’m just really happy with how it turned out and wanted to share!

When I signed up for African Dance, I never dreamed it would become an integral part of my life. I thought that it would be a convenient, fun way to exercise and learn something completely out of the norm. My ignorance surfaced after three weeks in the class.

I felt different. I felt fluid. I felt connected. I felt… whole. Not every single movement agreed with my body, nor could I conquer any move perfectly. But the way I felt when I was dancing was entirely right. I could feel myself being drawn into this unknown world—a world where I was one with my body and spirit, and all the gorgeous things around me. Instead of just noticing all the good things in my life, I was becoming one with them.

During Mama Silvia’s class at Dance Place, I felt quite lost initially. The drums were crazy fast and the moves were entirely different than anything we had practiced at AU thus far. But as I warmed up and began to feel the drums in my body, I realized how entirely different the dance form is with live music. It gives every step energy of its own, and creates an environment of spontaneity and spirituality.

Every possible age group was represented in this dance class. There were 16-year-old girls, some shy to learn the moves and others who looked like they walked out of the womb dancing and never stopped. Middle-aged women dominated the floor not only with their form, but with their wisdom. The looks on their faces transformed as they became one with the music and I could tell they understood something about life that I have yet to learn. It was eerie, endearing, enlightening. From a beginner’s perspective, every move they made looked flawless; but there was something beautiful about knowing it wasn’t about nailing every step, but rather about feeling every step.

I was raised loosely Catholic and Buddhist, and it took me many years to realize that I do not subscribe to one, single faith. I like to abide by the ever so cliché statement, “I am not religious, I am spiritual.” African Dance has definitely confirmed this inside me. After dancing at Dance Place, I feel like my spiritual journey with African Dance is starting to near clarity. Prior to this class, I felt most at one with my spirituality through words and brief, fleeting moments of certainty that we are here for something more. Dance has showed me that I can find spirituality through movement; I did not think I was capable of that.

I started dancing as a naïve, unsure girl, and am ending this semester as a much more aware, confident woman. I love my body. I love the way it breathes, the way it moves. Learning to view my body in this way has led me to honoring it in a whole new way. I honor the body I have, I respect it. I honor that while my body cannot always keep up with the drums, it tries. I honor that my body is still young, but I should not fear age. I honor that my body is imperfect, and that is what makes it perfect. I honor that body feels good when it’s moving.

I honor that my body and my spirit can be one.

I had a very unsettling dream last night. The details put my head in a tailspin and left my heart reeling in a mix of emotions. When I awoke still in a hazy dream fog, I found myself giddy, believing the dream to be real. But as my mind and body slowly awoke to the reality around me and I realized none of the dream had happened, I was sad… wishing it were true. Then, I beat myself up for wishing such a thing because I shouldn’t want this dream to be real. I am currently trying to find a sense of relief that the dream was just a dream, but it isn’t coming.

I want so badly to forget it happened.

I remember the whole dream in perfect crystal vision, but one part irked me as most important. I was sitting by a pool with water as blue as ice, the sun as red as a tomato. I was buckling golden sandals on my feet, delicately making sure the three buckles on each foot were aligned perfectly. As I did this, a good friend sat next to be blowing bubbles in my face and in the air. So, I looked up “bubbles” in my dream book.

Apparently, bubbles in dreams mean “illusion; delicate and easily lost; daydream.” How true. This nighttime dream of mine could have easily been a daydream I concocted in my sober, awake hours. It represents an inner most desire that I have tried to will away, but I occasionally admit to still wanting, if only to myself. This time, my daydream became a nightdream, so delicate and easily lost as I awake to my real life.

I can’t decide if life is but a dream, or if I just wish it were.

Let me preface this post by saying, I do not smoke cigarettes. Occasionally after a night of drinking, capping the night with a cigarette is nice—but as this is such a rare occasion, I do not identify as a smoker.

That said, the potential decision to ban smoking on American University’s campus really irks me. This is an infringement of rights on more than one level and just plain sucks. Before I get to my totally judgmental rant, I will state a few facts. AU is already a dry campus, and as most students who live on campus are under 21, this rule actually holds some weight. But as smoking is perfectly legal after the age of 18, AU should not be able to ban a perfectly legal activity from its grounds.

Great. Now that that’s out of the way, I shall continue. Non-smokers who are pushing for this are so wrapped up in their own rights, that they are forgetting about the rights of everyone else. Yes, you have the right to breathe clean, safe air and not have to worry about lung cancer. Yes, you have the right to walk into a building without having to walk by smokers puffing away.

However, what kind of message would AU be sending if we banned smoking? It makes us seem arrogant… a campus “above” smoking. Maybe the majority of students here are non-smokers, but maybe we should try listening to the minority for once. I know this fails all too often in a school where the political majority has the power to crush the minority, and frequently does so. And I know that a great deal of non-smokers think this idea is pointless and wrong. Are we really going to make smokers walk to Nebraska Ave. to light up?

And seriously? Do you want to be THAT kid in class? Do you want to be the person who judges other people for their bad habits? That’s all smoking is… a habit. Just like biting your nails. Or chewing on pen caps. Or swearing too often. Or leaving the toilet seat up. Or paying your bills late. Or eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. (Guilty.)

I know what you’re thinking: none of those other bad habits are hurting anyone. Second hand smoke has the power to do a lot of damage. But we cannot control smokers’ lives. There are already thousands PSAs against smoking, children are raised knowing the dangers of smoking, it’s ingrained into the fabric of society. And yet… people smoke. People drink. People have unprotected sex. Sometimes, the message just doesn’t hit home.

We can’t punish these people for making a concsious choice. Instead, let’s get off our high horses and recognize our own bad habits. We are humans, we make our own choices. And I choose to use another door to when I don’t want to walk through second hand smoke. Other days, I don’t mind. Other days, I enjoy eavesdropping on the smokers’ conversations.

A couple weeks ago at my roommate’s birthday celebration, we found ourselves at the Lincoln Memorial at midnight. Aside from appreciating the humbling architecture, the 15 minutes we spent there truly touched me in a different way the monument ever has before.

I sneaked away by myself. I let my legs carry be to the back of the monument, looking out on the busy street and a glowing Mt. Vernon in the distance. Since moving to DC, I have been to the Lincoln Memorial probably 15 times, but this was my first time going to the back of the monument. And let me just say… it’s spectacular.

There’s something about standing back there by yourself. I didn’t even really feel like myself at all. I could feel the car breezes and night air pouring through my lungs—the solitude swallowed me up and made me feel fiercely independent. And then, without my body fully communicating with my brain, I felt my arms lift up and my head go back. I felt my whole body embrace the night, embrace DC, embrace the life I have created here.

It reminded me of my favorite part in my favorite book. Just as Charlie says as he stands on the back of a truck in the Fort Pitt Tunnel in The Perks of Being a Wallflower, “In that moment, I swear we were infinite.”

“Is the sky blue?”

“Does Edward Cullen sparkle?”

“Have you really been personally victimized by Regina George?”

“Does Stacy’s mom really have it going on?”

“Does Glen Coco really get four but none for Gretchen Wieners?”

(Source: chroniclesofpanem, via lindseyanderson)

What sets you free? For me, it’s the feeling of daybreak when something awful is over. This is usually marked by a good cry or a fit of raging laughter.

It recently occurred to be how entirely similar laughing and crying are. After a particularity long week when I felt like the world is closing in, I turned to sleep. That didn’t really fix much. I’m still graduating in a few months. I still don’t really know what I’m doing. Or what I’m going to do. I’m very unsure.

I’m scared.

After this rough week, I found myself in a taxi on a Saturday night on my way home, and I fell into the longest fit of laughter I’ve had in a while. It burned my ribs and pinched my throat and made my eyes water. I’m not even sure what was so funny, but I am sure that those few hours of insane cackles were weird and medicinal and necessary.

I’m scared, and I’m laughing.

Today, I find myself wanting to cry. I don’t exactly know what’s wrong, but the urge is there. Come to think of it, I don’t really know what’s right either. I don’t know what’s wrong, or funny, or right, or sad.

I’m scared, and I’m denying it.

I’m scared. And that’s what’s wrong. And what’s right. And what’s funny. And what’s sad.