This Happened

The weather (for it is raining here) will not beat me on this day. 

This happened.

I went to the dance studio after a day of crazy pressures.  I went with my hair weather fizzy, my pants gutter splashed, my toe nails unpainted, my T-shirt too short (thank you, aggressive dryer cycle).  I just went, and I was me, and you are getting the picture.

I have danced for four years now, something like that.  I have worked hard, and I have yearned, but every lesson is a reminder of how much I do not know, how great is the list of things I cannot perfectly do.

Today, in the middle of a lesson, sweaty by now with the humidity of the place, listening to the music, dancing rumba, Jan said, "Beth.  You have become a good dancer."

All right. That's it.  It happened.  I put it here.  It may not happen again for a very long time.  

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In the art of her becoming (dancing with Miss M.)

I'd always thought that I'd have one of those rambling, big families—a couple of boys and a couple of girls.  Instead I was given the greatest son a mother could ask for.  Light emanates from him.  Wisdom, too.

Still, being the mom of one has raised up the aunt in me; I am, I will confess, that woman (yes, that one) who seeks out friendships with those who, by virtue of their age and their perspective, their fearlessness and hope, are so much smarter and livelier than moi.  I'm the neighborhood crazy (as some have called me) who brings the kids into her home to talk words and books.  I'm that lady with the camera snapping shots of kids hanging from trees or sledding down hills or bringing water up a hill.  I'm that professor who stands crying in the classroom at the semester's end, and I'm that blogger standing in awe of the young talents who reach out to me.

I'm useless, really, but that's the thing: these young people forgive me.

I was thinking about all of this last night as I took a cha-cha lesson with a golden-haired eleven-year-old I'll call Miss M.  She's got the cha-cha down already, see, while the rest of us need far more practice.  We need patience, too, and Miss M. has that.  We need to know what she knows, and she shows us.  "What was that again?" we'll ask her, and she'll say, "It's the basic, and then the New Yorker, and then the chasse and the alemana."  "Hmmm," we'll say, and she'll demonstrate, without an ounce of arrogance in her.

Miss M. will make an astonishing teacher someday, but before that, she's going to wow the dance world with her dancing.  I feel rather privileged to know her right now, in the art of her becoming.

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I danced instead

Yesterday afternoon, save for a single client call, I did not work.  I headed off to DanceSport Academy instead, where I took not one, but two lessons.  At the end of the second, Scott Lazarov worked on some cha-cha choreography, and we recorded it, so we wouldn't forget when we got back to it.  I'm walking my way through most of this, for most of it is new.  My point is this:  I went to the dance studio yesterday and all the stress of which I've been lately speaking vanished.

Vanished, I say.

Which is what dance, every single time, does for me.

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Out dancing

We were out last night; we were dancing.  With our friends (you see how beautiful they are).  With our one arm (my husband) and our stitched-up gums (that would be me).  It had been months since I'd seen many of these friends, and they all had stories to tell—a mother's tale about a baby's adventures with make-up, an inventor's tale about a phantom ponytail, a little girl's story about illness and wellness.  I go to dance, of course I do.  But mostly I go to be with those who are growing in dance the way I hope to grow in dance, and who laugh with me throughout the adventure.

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Sorta Like a Rock Star/Matthew Quick: Reflections

On page 328 of Sorta Like a Rock Star, Matthew Quick's joyful-noise-making novel, Joan of Old, a woman just then dying, quotes some Nietzsche to our heroine, Amber Appleton.  It goes like this:

We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.

Damn, I thought, when I got to that page.  I just knew Matthew Quick had dancing in him.  For Quick's Amber Appleton might, when we meet her, be residing in Hello Yellow (code name for the school bus that Amber's down-on-her-luck mother drives) but Amber's determined not to let her domicile get her down.  She's got too much spunking hope in all things living, for starters, and she's got too much faith in her own rocking self.  That is true, at least, until the worst possible thing actually happens, and Amber has to find her way back to believing in goodness, and in getting good things done.

Fast paced and light on its feet, SLARS (as Quick and his fans refer to the book) introduces readers to a town in which nobody and nothing is perfect, except for the quality of caring.  He jazzes the page with quick strokes and bright humor, slipstreaming haikus, a cast of quirks, and a well-spring of only temporarily daunted heart.  No wonder Quick and his wife, writer Alicia Bessette, are on a quest for kindness.  Because, judging from the powerful Sorta Like a Rock Star, kindness fuels Quick's world.

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What is Dance?: The House of Dance Contest Winners

Something rather extraordinary happened when I invited you to define dance here, in this blog. It was as if all the other noise of the world had been turned off, and only music was playing. Your responses were all so good that I've chosen to reprint them all here.

I have chosen not two, but four winners (and wish, indeed, that I could send books to you all). Those of you who see your quote highlighted here, get in touch with me so that I can mail you a copy of House of Dance, now out in paperback.

Dance is a physical expression of music, a chance for anyone who is willing to close their eyes and lose themselves in the moment, to let their bodies respond to the sounds that fill their ears. Unlike any other art form, it's a blending of heart and mind, body and soul. Dance can be freedom. But not everybody wants to be free. — Solvang Sherrie

Dance is feeling the rhythm suffuse itself throughout your body, become your pulse, and allowing your body to naturally follow that beat. It's letting yourself go to the moment, to the joy of life, to inhibitions and fears. — J. Petro Roy

Dance is the body telling a story. It brings the song to life, as if your body is a host to the music. — Jami

I think that dance is a way to physically express emotions that can't always be expressed verbally; or sometimes its a way to tell a story that might not have the same effect by simply speaking it. — Lauren

Dance is expressing yourself and your emotions. You tell a story. — uprobablydontknowme

In simplest terms dance is self expression. It is the self expression of the creator of the movement, the choreographer. It is also the self expression of the dancer. Trained or untrained it does not matter. It is about expressing emotion through movement; whether to music or silence, in front of an audience or alone in your bedroom. — Danielle

Dance is telling a story with your body in it's simplest form...perhaps only a feeling...but an expression nonetheless. — Stiletto Storytime

Dance is creating art and a way to express who you are. — Sarah

Dance is the poetry of movement. I know my answer isn't as long as others but I feel that is the best way to describe dance. Terrific contest Beth. — Briana

Dance is a physical response to an irresistible stimulus, bringing internal and external rhythms together and forcing the body to move in time with them. As they sang in Hairspray, "You can't stop the beat." — Florinda

Dance is losing your inhibitions and expressing how music physically moves you. — BermudaOnion

Dance is an acristic:

Dappaankuthu from Tamil; percussion; Bollywood.

Ardha from Arabia; Bedouin; war-dance.

Nutbush from Tennessee (City Limits!); line dance...

Coček from Serbia; belly dancing; gypsy brass!

Eisa from the Nansei Islands; memorial service - Ryūkyū musicians...

Take your pick!

Tanja Cilia

Dance is opening of your heart and mind to the bodily movement of the inspiration that grabs hold of you. — Katie Guzman

Dance is moving your body in new ways, pushing boundaries and changing perspectives. I love getting lost in my own movements- sometimes even caught off guard. Dance allows you to be who you want to be (especially when done in the privacy of your own room). It is awesome. — Taryn

Dance is the body's way of celebrating freedom of mind and spirit. — Bee

Dance is when your body becomes a channel for which music can flow. When your veins run with the flow and rhythm. Your very movements are decided by the tempo, you get lost in the beat. Dance is like the changes of nature, for which each sound, your body, and the dance change in a never ending cycle. Dance is an expression of yourself,as you find your heart, and others somewhere on the smooth wood floors. To me, dance is an expression of emotion, but more importantly, Dance is the movement of life. — GooseGirl

Dance is a chance to express yourself through music, it's an art - blah blah blah. The classic textbook answer is that and such. Not that it's wrong, but I believe you can't just define dance to be a mere meaning to be able to just move your feet and/or body to a rhythm (though that's highly necessary, in matters that you wouldn't want to just fling your arms about and smack someone). For some people, dancing is their life. Others, it's a culture (perhaps to celebrate their succesful day of hunting). Wrong thinking would be, such as various belittling professionals: if you aren't willing to do your best, don't dance at all.
However that's not even remotely true. Just because you can't doesn't mean you shouldn't. If you want to say what you mean and you're not good with words, dance. Show others you mean something and that the beauty in what you see will be shown to the rest.
Plus, it's great exercise. — Jade

Dance is what you feel like doing when you are happy - so I could say that it is happiness in 3D :) — Pink Dogwood

Dancing discards the shell; discovers the soul. — Sherry

To dance is to let loose. Forget about the world and just flow with what's within. — TruBlu93

Dance is...an expression of everything one feels. It can be fast or slow; it can be with someone or alone. It can be joyful or sorrowful. Dance doesn't have to be perfect, nor can anyone really define perfection. It doesn't have to be pretty, but it has to come from the heart. Someone dancing without an ounce of rhythm can be just as beautiful as someone dancing with technical perfection. It expresses what one feels inside, and should be shown with unabashed freedom. — Hilary

I have always thought dance was your own form of interpreting the music. — pitu572

Dance is sweeping the air into life, learning that you can move, that you can fly; that you have every right to live and put your inhibitions behind you. — Inkgirl

Dance is the act of freeing your mind, body, and soul and just feeling the beat of the music as it moves through you, girating as if the whole world belongs to you and all your problems are wished away. — Boriquaz

To me dance is many things. First off - it is a way to express your emotions, your passion and your energy in a purely physical way. Dance is also something where you can view someone's entire soul by the way they hold their hand or they way the spin. It's beauty and poetry with no formal training required. — Michelle

Dance is letting go, remembering, or expressing yourself and your emotions. Dance simply is whatever you want it to be. It's anything, and everything. — Lea, YA Book Queen

dance isn't just moving along the music... is moving with the music, feeling it & expressing your own feelings to it. — CaRiiToO

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Kim Yu-na, Mao Asada, and Joannie Rochette: What they taught us

Last night, so many of us waited for the final flight of Olympic skaters to perform, and when they entered the ice, I held my breath. So much is at stake, always, for these athletes—for anyone who has named a dream and held to it.

I don't need to report the scores; they're known. Kim Ya-na's record-breaking, cobalt blue performance. Mao Asada's steely, silver triple axels. The sweeping extensions of bronze-medalist Joannie Rochette over elastic knees. And let's not forget the American, 16-year-old Mirai Nagasu, who skated last and flawlessly in the wake of some of the most emotional performances the Olympics has ever seen. We were taught, by these young women, that it is possible to be exquisitely brave or simply exquisite, when the entire world is watching. We were reminded that sometimes power and grace are a single thing.

An arm uplifted is a hand extended. A sideways glance is a dream.

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Get your feet off the floor

I know that it doesn't make much sense to go ballroom dancing with a smashed-up toe, but I've skipped Zumba this week and taken funny, peg-legged walks, and I just couldn't help myself, so I went—climbed the stairs to DanceSport, opened the door, donned my un-girly shoes, and risked it.

I don't think there are enough words for dancing. The ones we use are too often used, and they are rather stultifying. Swirl and twirl—like two bad-hair day sisters. Sashay—if you are doing that, are you really dancing? Twist and roll—sounds painful. Gliding—a fine bit of self-puffery, me thinks.

Maybe all it is (for me) is that I'm being myself—that I'm being happy and not necessarily useful and nobody stops me. Yeah, sure, so maybe Jean rolls his eyes at my spastic reprieves, and maybe somewhere deep inside his elegant Belarussian self he's thinking, Lord, this is some way to make a living. But if this is the case, he doesn't let on—doesn't make me feel old, ugly shoed, sleep deprived, disappointing, academic, too intense, over-the-hill, or elsewise. For those 45 minutes, I'm dancing, and that's the only word there is.

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Waltz

Yesterday I danced the waltz with John Larson.

He countered the rain.

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In the end, what does it mean?

The thing about making yourself vulnerable in a discipline you'll never own is that you don't go out and do it alone. When you dance, for example, before a few hundred people on a Sunday afternoon on a stage, it's not the steps that matter in the end, not really. It's Annika and Monika, who arrive early, with all their enthusiasms, and love. It's those who stand on the margins of the stage, calling your name as you whisk by. It's your Broadway partner, Jean, who looks you in the eyes as you dance and laughs off a mistake and texts you later, "I enjoyed our show a lot. It was very alive." It's your husband, Bill, who worked so hard to make the tango right and who, at the end of the journey, said, "You did great." It's your father, who comes in his best suit; it's your friends, John and Andra, with whom you later share dinner; it's Mike, Aideen's Mike, who says, "I had no idea you had that jive thing in you;" it's Magda and her sweet Polish-flavored encouragements; it's Tim, who says, "Yes, you danced it well, and you danced it together;" it's Jim, the quiet choreographer of the very few words, who says, "Your dances were good."

I have no illusions. I don't pretend. I am not headed toward world championship titles, I am not the show-closing star, I am still (and will always be) fussing with the way I stand and move, I will never be "the one." I dance because I love to and I dance in shows like these because my friends are there. Because in the end what does it mean, save that we cheer each other on.

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The Drexel InterView: Beth Kephart and Paula Marantz Cohen

A few weeks ago, I prematurely loaded this brief excerpt from a much-longer interview conducted by the extraordinarily gracious Paula Marantz Cohen on behalf of The Drexel InterView, a nationally distributed cable show. My thanks to Lynn Levin for clearing the way for this permanent posting.

The conversation was held last autumn. During this segment I speak of the blog, the dance world, and next projects. I had not yet started on the book that preoccupies me now when this taping took place. I did not yet know that Dangerous Neighbors, my fifth novel for young adults, would find its way to Egmont USA.

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Tango: A Rehearsal Photograph

(courtesy of the brilliant photographer and wonderful friend, Mike Matthews)

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What Will the Tango Mean?

We danced the tango for Magda today. She helped us to see it through her eyes—shifted the balance in things, taught us the momentum that builds from a rightly strengthened spine, helped us close the piece in, so that we danced it, mostly, for each other.

But maybe that's not why she's entered our lives at this time—all this making right of a single dance, to be performed in a month, for a few hundred people. Three minutes—less—and it will be over, done—the steps worked out or not, the final leap syncing with the music or not, the rondes arcing wide or not—and what, she wondered, what (she asked us) will we have when it is over? What happens after that? What will this tango mean, this thing that we have built from Scott's choreography, and from (now) Magda's perfecting touch?

What will we have, and will we know how to dance—finally and rightly with each other?

Magda is supposed to be teaching us how to move. She is teaching us something richer, altogether.

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Where Beauty Runs Deep

Probably in this case the title says it all, for this is Magda, a world champion ballroom dancer who comes to Dancesport a few days a week and gives to others what she knows. She does it without temper or stomp, without conceit. She dances for you and with you, so that you might align, however briefly, with the slip light of her grace. She raises her arm and her hands are liquid, and for a fraction of an instant you are liquid, too—seeing possibility, hearing song, finding new religion in the uninterrupted, the continuous. Choreography is made up of parts; Magda weaves the parts into a whole. Dance is made alive by the slow abbreviated by the fast; she shows you how.

And when she says, Put your hands on the small of my back so that you can see what I am saying about the spine, you are reminded of how weightless beauty is.

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Scenes from the Day

Laurel crafting beauty at Chanticleer, in Wayne, PA, and the future stars of So You Think You Can Dance, at Dancesport Academy in Ardmore, PA.

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HOUSE OF DANCE

Once, in Venice, a day was thick with storm, and beneath every bridge, ever vendor umbrella, every café awning, people clumped together, waiting out the rain. San Marco Square was a lake and the canals were overflow. The pigeons couldn’t lift high, for the saturation of their wings. Boats went about like floating bathtubs. When finally the clouds cleaved from each other and the sky was blue, there was a breeze, and along the Giudecca Canal, at a wheezy bar, someone with a guitar began to sing. Old Italian songs of which even the smallest boy in the gaining crowd had a most familial knowledge.

So they danced. The old, elegant woman and her husband, each with a glass of wine high in one hand. Two barefooted passersby, in grunge. The little boy who took the light post as his partner, and spun and spun and spun, his hat smashed onto his head, his hat doffed off again. The sky soaked to purple after blue, acquiesced to crimson, to a bruise, and all that while they danced, and this is Venice to me now, soul gone spontaneous after storm.

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Dance Soul

If you sit in the path of a breeze on an unselfconscious day, you will be danced for. Some leaf will pinch itself off a tree and, not wishing to reach the ground, will flick and glide. Or a monarch butterfly will nicker in. Or a spider will step high. Or a single spot of bravura dew will not take the straightest path down the brawny stalk in the garden. The leaf, the monarch, the spider, the dew all lie in sympathy with dance. They are, like dancers, seeking more, hell bent on the bold, wrenched toward beauty.

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