Life's Pupil

As always, I am less than exemplary with the consistency of my blog. I always plan on writing every day, or at the very least, twice a week. And yet somehow, I inevitably get lazy or tired and my track record remains less than perfect.

I find myself at an impasse. As a graduated college student, you could not make the case that I am comfortable money wise. On the contrary, I have negative dollars. Because really, that’s what debt is, it is the opposite of income. Since I spent money I did not have, now I have negative dollars to my name. If someone were to just mess with the paperwork and lose the negative sign, I’d have a pretty little next egg to my name. I’ll keep hoping that my debt resolves itself, but in the meantime I suppose I should work and try to get myself out of debt.

Here in lies the difficulty: being a college student means no experience, no experience means no job, no job means less money than debt, less money than debt means no home, no home means no where to study, means no way to get experience, means not job… If you muddled through that, I apologize. Yet there is the impasse! Of course my thinking takes me to the place where “if only” becomes a dangerous recurrence. If only I had a job I could afford an apartment. If only I had an apartment I would work out everyday. Somehow I don’t think its that simple…

This is the cross roads. I am done with college. Even if I were to go back to school, it would be different. It would be much harder course work and the intention would be to finish so I could get a better job. This is the point of no return. From this time onward I will forever be an adult! No turning back now… Unless I chose a career in video game testing, and then I suppose I could pretend to be a kid still. But I’m straying from the point.

When I look at the next few years of my life, scattered precariously with a career, marriage, traveling, possibly more school, it occurs to me that I am done with the comfortable part of life. Gone are the days when I got to think of number 1 first. Now number 1 is number 2 and number 2 is number uno. My fiancé is now the most important person in my life and his needs come before mine, and visa versa. Now I’m not doing things for my own good, but for the good of Us as a team. This is a huge transition! I’m thrilled about it and can’t wait to take the next giant leap in our relationship. But it is a huge adjustment nonetheless.

Between the adjustments of graduating, getting soon thereafter engaged, and starting my adult life for real, I am feeling lost in transition. I am reminded that humans are creatures of change. We are made to change. Our very bodies are not the same from one day to the next as ours cells regenerated at a rapid speed. Change is good and normal. And not likely to go away anytime soon. Things in college changed, yes. But there was somehow a unifying factor of school. I find myself suddenly floundering about without a unifying factor. I grasp desparately at anything that will identify me with another human. Even now, I am sitting next to a man in the coffee shop who is also typing away madly, and I feel somehow identified with him simply because we are doing the same thing. That’s why people get married after college… Because they are seeking an identity. This is certainly not a bad thing. I think everyone needs an identity. Still, that identity is unquestionably going to change.

The question that is forefront in my mind, among all the other questions crowding their way in, is this: does being an adult mean being in a constant stage of transition? I mentioned the next couple of years in my life… But what about after that? Once kids come along, every day is going to be a transition.

Being humans means being at odds with nature. Even though it is easier to stomp my feet and try not to be taught by transition, it is not going to do me any good. It might be the natural response, but the response that I will grow from is that of a student. Pardon the cliché, but we really are all students of life. And the funny thing about life is that it teaches us whether we want it to or not. And whether it feels like it is or not!

Sitting at Peet’s Coffee, bored out of my mind with no job, no home, no dance, life is inevitably teaching me. I am learning, as always, to thrive in transition, to embrace the process of job hunting, to sit quietly with myself and enjoy all the work I can get done now, like writing, choreographing, aimlessly surfing the internet, that I won’t be able to leisurely do when I’m busy with a job, husband, household, and life. The key is to roll with the punches and to literally embrace whatever life throws at you.

Old Timey Tunies

Just some songs we used chant when I was a kid... Just for fun!

"It's morning in the afternoon,
So eat your bacon with a spoon,
And if you have a scrambled egg,
You can feed it to your leg.

[Help me out with this line of prose!!!!],
And hop right into Daddy's clothes,
Put your left shoe on the right,
It's time to start the day, Goodnight."

And a little bit more morbid...

"Have you ever wondered when a hearse goes by,
You might be the next one to die,

They wrap you in a big white sheet,
And bury you about six feet deep.

All is good for about a week,
Then your coffin starts to leak.

The worms crawl in,
The worms crawl out,
The worms play pinochle on your snout.

They eat your eyes,
They eat your nose,
They eat the jelly between your toes.

And then your liver turns icky green,
And gushes out like whipped cream.

You spread it on a slice of bread,
And that's what you eat when you're dead."

INput appreciated!!!

Unfriendly Church

Here I sit, on a beautiful Sunday morning, with the sun shining outside, in anticipation for going to church and meeting plenty of people I won’t ever see again. I want to talk about community, because it seems to be a constant challenge. Yes, I have plenty of friends, all of which I could call right now if I needed anything or just wanted to talk. But community is a different story.

I have had difficulty with community since high school. Spiritual community that is. I have found communities of artists and have spent most of my time in community with dancers for the last 4 years. As wonderful as this is, and as much as I always want to be in community with dancers, I also desire a deeply spiritual community that will challenge me and push me to grow. This is the type of community that seems to be always just beyond my reach.

I’m wary of writing a “what’s wrong with church” tirade, simply because they don’t do any good. And yet, what is wrong with church? Why do I have such a hard time finding a community of Christ followers who are passionate about all things God related, including art, relationship, and service. I meet many people who are passionate about church, about getting the show right, about technical timing and volume levels. But where are those people that go to church simply because they want to worship and be in relationship with other crazy excited people.

I admit that half the problem is that I like big churches. It is very hard to connect with people in a big church. Even if you meet someone, you are not likely to end up sitting next to them again the following Sunday. And I feel that most people, even in church, would real back if asked for contact info on the first meeting. On that note, lets talk about this meet and greet time for a bit. My expectation for greeting time is that I will introduce myself and learn a little about another person. The point is to make connections, right? When I was younger and part of a community, it was customary to say ones name and ask a few questions. Now, when this awkward part of the service rolls around, I find people simply want to shake my hand and get it over with, being surprised when I actually introduce myself. And not surprised in a good way. The interaction usually goes something like this: reach for each others hands, “hi” on their side, “hi, I’m Jessie” on mine, “Oh. I’m Mike…” with a look that either says this is awkward or why did you ask my name…? Not exactly the Sunday morning encouragement and community I’m looking for.

Whenever I decide to go on a tirade, I’m in danger of looking like an ass. Please know that is not my intention. I’m sure the people uncomfortable with meet and greet time are lovely. I just simply want to know how to find people in the church who are going to want to do something crazy like… do art! Or get out of church and get a beer!

The reality is that I don’t get much out of Sunday morning. I go and worship, yes. I listen to the pastors attempts at jokes, yes. But what is all this without relationship?? If I simply wanted to meet with God, I would have done it at home! I have music, I have a voice, and I have my bible. I can do that any day of the week. On Sunday, I want more. And I don’t want someone to be borderline offended when I offer up my name as a weak attempt at connecting with someone.

Portland is one of the friendliest cities anywhere. If you are open and don’t have a stick up your butt, people will start conversations with you anywhere. If you are bold enough, try to strike up a conversation with a stranger. Chances are, they will be open to your overtures at friendship. You might not go get a drink with that person (though maybe you will), or even learn their name. And yet, you will have made human contact, which I believe is significant, however insignificant the conversation might have been.

And so, knowing that I ask this question with great trepidation, what is wrong with the church???

Expectations Exceeded

It became evident to me recently that expectations seem to be my hot topic. Perhaps this is because more often than not events far exceed my expectation, which I find to be both ironic and gratifying. There is nothing wrong with having expectations, as long as there is always flexibility in the outcome. I tend to grow comfortable with change quickly and I find that a change in plans and expectations keeps things new and exciting. Its how I exercise spontaneity. Since I am a planner, I must have an expectation. I also must exceed that expectation so that I won’t get bored or become boring.

One incidence of having an expectation exceeded was in my discovery of my choreographic passion. All my life I’ve thought that I was a born performer and that nothing would fulfill me save living out my one passion – performing great works of art in front of sold out theatres. Unfortunately this expectation was greatly at odds with some of my realities. First of all, I’m not the worlds greatest technician. I’m not going to berate myself or say I’m a horrible dancer, because that’s just obnoxious. And I don’t believe it to be true. I can hold my own in a class, but I don’t stand out technically. I am one among the masses, if you will. This is perfectly all right since I’ve always preferred the masses to the elite few anyway.

Another discouraging reality is that there simply are not that many professional dance companies to throw myself at ‘round these parts. Even if I were an outstanding technician, who knows if there would even be a need for my incredible technique.
Finally, the reality of a long unhealed injury would have kept me from obtaining what I thought was my ultimate dream.

But in truth, something else will keep me from it, something much more powerful and determining. That something is that I don’t want it. Turns out, that isn’t actually my dream. I have a different dream, something I believe pairs what I love with what I am good at, which I suppose is something we are all striving to find. I count myself lucky that I have vision. And it is a vision I plan to achieve, realistically.

I started to realize that my dream was not what it seemed to be when I began choreographing my first full length dance. When I say full length, I don’t mean to imply it was a certain length. Rather I imply that all the elements were in place: costumes, lighting, hair, makeup, the perfect piece of music, collaboration, willing dancers, and a mind eager to create. This is what hard work feels like. This is what accomplishment renders. A dance, while not perfect, that far exceeded my expectations.
When casting for the spring dance concert came around, I knew I was far more excited to choreograph than to perform. I had yet to make the connection, but I did know that I was performing simply because this was my last dance concert at the University and I’d regret it if I didn’t. In hindsight, I probably should have saved my foot and simply choreographed. But at the time I still thought I was a born performer. That aside, casting yielded nine dancers who also paled my expectations in comparison. Thus began the process of creativity.

George Balanchine once said, “"God creates, I do not create.
 I assemble and I steal everywhere to do it –
from what I see, from what the dancers can do,
 from what others do..." This approach has worked wonders in giving me permission to choreograph whatever I want. Its okay to use something you saw, because really, that is the primary way we are inspired. I set out to find my dance, because I knew it was already there. Anything was possible, I simply needed to organize the right things into an order. But I digress. My dream…

Realization and understanding began to materialize when I finally watched my finished work from backstage, for the first time in front of an audience. My dancers were truly wonderful. At the risk of sounding obnoxiously corny, they were larger than life. And the excitement I felt – the nervousness, the spastically tapping foot and nail biting – knowing that something I had created was up in front of hundreds of people – entertaining, conveying a message, hopefully making people tap there feet – was far more fulfilling to me than performing could ever be. It was in that moment of realization (and the next several days of some hard thinking to form what I knew into words) that I knew I must choreograph. As I said before, I hope to achieve the thing that pairs what I love and what I’m good at. Let me explain…

I have been a teacher since I was 12 years old. In some form of other, I have been instructing others for over 10 years. While it is something I feel confident and at ease with, I can’t say I love it. I don’t really want to be a teacher, at least not in the traditional sense. I certainly don’t want to teach kids how to dance. And I don’t really want to teach classes at all unless I must. Still, teaching is something I’m good at, if only because I’ve been doing it for so long.

I’ve already mentioned that I’ve always loved performing. There is something about being up on that stage that makes you feel alive. Having an audience full of expectations of their own totally focused on you is nothing short of thrilling.
Choreography, in essence, is the perfect marriage of these two skills. You must be a good teacher, since choreography doesn’t just appear on a dancer. The choreographer must adequately convey ideas and movement, without being too abstract but without losing the fragility of what is happening. One must understand performance, to get what one wants out of a dancer. Finally, a choreographer must have an appreciation for the thrill of a few stage moments in order to capture the thrill the audience also came to experience. All this, without over-rehearsing and knowing intuitively when the dancers are nearly ready to peak.

This was not what I expected to be planning or hoping for as graduated dance major. And yet, its perfect! Needless to say, the path I am currently on exceeds my early expectations beyond what I could fathom.

Thriving with Pain

I’ve never handled pain well. I tend to be a giant wuss about it. Especially as a child, I would be brought to hysterics by the site of my own blood – by a spot of my own blood in fact. The interesting thing, considering my aversion to pain, is that as a dancer, most of my pain is self inflicted. I remember when I went en pointe my parents warned me that it would hurt, and I believed them. And still I decided to do so. And believe you me, it hurt. It still hurts, on the rare occasion that I pull out the old shoes and prance around in them. And it still hurts when I am reminded that my ankles are not as they once were, due largely to poor pointe training. Honestly, I don’t know how I dealt with the pain, class after class, performance after performance. Probably in a similar way I have dealt with the pain of my ankle injury for the past 6 months – by ignoring it entirely.

Ignoring pain is rather effective if you have something else to focus energy towards. Ever since my bone bruise started getting worse, I’ve had dance classes to distract me. I was doing what I love, so the pain didn’t really matter. This is a vicious cycle for dancers or any other athlete. As long as we are doing the thing we love, it doesn’t really matter how much it hurts. Who cares if we won’t walk when we are 50, we will have lived out our youth active and in shape! Yeah!

At least that is how I used to view dance. And how I used to view pain. A lot has changed in just a few short weeks.

I don’t think pain will ever stop me from dancing. After all, pain is part of being physically active and to be perfectly honest there is nothing more satisfying or comforting than severely aching muscles. It means I have tried my hardest and pushed my boundaries. HOWEVER, I plan on dancing when I’m 90 as freely and inspired as I do now. No, I take that back, I plan on dancing MORE freely and MORE inspired when I am 90 than I do now. I want to dance through everything in my life. I want to do it for a living, I want to do it at my wedding, I want to dance around the world, I want to dance through pregnancy, and I want to dance at my 90th birthday party.

Because of this, my view of pain had to change…

The pain that I am going to discuss now is different from muscle soreness. It is ongoing pain that ebbs and flows and doesn’t respond very quickly to anything I do. This pain makes me angry. It makes me angry because it means I am no longer in control. It means the pain is calling the shots. The pain is demanding that I stop!

You see, if a bone bruise is not allowed to get better, it can go avascular and the bone can begin to die. You don’t have to be a doctor to know that things inside your body dying, is bad. I don’t have to be a doctor to know that dancing would be indefinitely put on hold. It would mean surgery, it might mean a prosthetic.

This is where my initial angry tantrum response to pain begins to change. It has not been an easy or a quick change, but the process is fully in swing by now. If the pain is the thing telling me to stop, warning me that if I keep going my dance career will be forever jeopardized, than the pain is actually on my side. It is looking out for the interest of my body. Who knew, the thing that makes me so angry is actually the thing that is protecting myself from me. So, in all this is turns out that I am the problem. It is me and my stubborn resistance to listening or being told what to do which could essentially destroy my ankle.

The body is an amazing thing. God truly did a fearful and wonderful work and I am newly amazed. We are structured to heal naturally simply by the forces that are present within us everyday. Our life source wants desperately to continue on, and not just continue on, but to continue on in the best, most healthful state possible. The body can survive incredible conditions and given the proper nutrition and rest (even bed rest if necessary), the body will thrive in a way that is simply impressive. In light of this, my body does know what is best for it. The ankle pain has told me to stop and rest until it gives me the go ahead. And considering God made it with defense mechanisms (sometimes against my stubbornness) efficiently in place, I think I had better listen. It is a fine art, learning to listen and effectively respond to pain.

I am not yet to the point of thanking the pain for protecting my ankle from me, but I’m getting there.

Imaginary Expectations

When I pictured myself as a college graduate, I assumed I’d be doing vigorous job hunting while taking dance classes and enjoying everything that a city has to offer, especially after the painfully small existence in little bitty Monmouth. I’ve always been a daydreamer. When I am expectant of big news, I build a picture of what it will look like in my head. People look a certain way, I act a certain way. And let me tell you, I always have it together. I’m always brilliant and active and influential in my imaginings and never prone to the slip-ups that happen in real life.

The problem is that the way I picture things in my head, the way people look, the way I act, is rarely how things actually turn out. This does not deter my imaginings in the least, but it does make the change a bit of a shock.

The picture I had built up in my head for post-graduation couldn’t be farther from what is has turned out to be. Three days before graduation, I was given news by the doctor that my chronic ankle injury would go on being chronic no more. As is turns out, a bone bruise is actually a pretty serious injury. While all my tendons, ligaments, and cartilage are perfectly healthy, I have been almost entirely restricted from the use of my foot. Obviously, this has had a drastic effect on my post-graduation expectations.

I thought I would be diligently looking for a job. What I am actually doing is tentatively looking for a job because the reality is that I won’t be much use to an employer since I can’t be on my feet for more than about a half an hour. Taking dance classes was also a big part of my plan, while what I am doing is as many floor exercises as I can think of so that I won’t lose all my conditioning and can still feel a bit like a dancer. And as far as taking in all the excitement a city has to offer, so far I have sat in a couple coffee shops to read and people watch, and I made one trip to the grocery store by myself on my bike. Even without all the details of my imaginary picture of success, the difference is horribly undeniable.

After four weeks spent almost entirely on the couch, I am finally coming out of my state of total gloom. Most of the work that I have done as a college graduate has been cognitive; I’m working to improve my outlook and mood in general to give my body the tools it needs to heal. Let me tell ya, its pretty difficult to remain positive when cable, internet, and solitaire are your constant companions. But I am improving and becoming a more self-sufficient person overall.

My boyfriend challenged me the other day to find something I’m passionate about in recovery. There are several things I’m passionate about. Obviously, dance is very near the top of my list. The difficulty of this challenge is finding something I’m passionate about that can be done while sitting and resting a bum foot. Most of the things I enjoy are physical activities, such as rock climbing, long boarding, and of course, dancing. I have been forced to abstract the message in order to find something applicable to my situation.

First of all, I am passionate about helping people. This presents an issue since most of the helping I picture in my mind includes leg work. The suggestions I have received have been knitting or croqueting garments for people in need. Upon questioning from my boyfriend, I admitted that I do knit, though not well. But certainly well enough to knit blankets for newborns or scarves for homeless people.

Secondly, I am passionate about writing. This seems an obvious one, since you have to sit still in order to write. But I have a personal problem with this particular activity since if it doesn’t come easily, I don’t do it. Fortunately, this links back to the improvement in my mood and being able to express myself because I feel good about myself. Evidently, I am writing now and bringing you this great piece of work from the comfort of the couch.

While post-graduation is not what I expected or hoped for, I think it’s nothing more than a challenge to expand my own creativity. When I was in school I made the excuse that I didn’t have time for things because I was so busy. Now given the time, I make another set of excuses and just watch TV instead of getting things done. But with a long stretching summer in front of me, with no job and no dance, I am learning to embrace activities that I have always had excuses for. While this grows from necessity, it is nonetheless a great improvement.

Homeless State

I have always assumed that when I get somewhere else, out of school, away from Monmouth, truly out on my own, that I would be able to write again and see the ridiculous humor that abounds in life. Unfortunately, as with many things, things don't change just because things change. What I mean is that my self is not going to change because my surroundings or circumstances change. I will still be me. If I can't grasp the ridiculous side of life in sleepy little Monmouth, than I'm not trying hard enough or letting enough stuff simply be, which may seem like opposite approaches but there it is. Trust me when I assure you that ridiculous things happen to me wherever I am and if I can't embrace the humor in that, then I won't have an easier time writing anywhere but here and now. This is just my very lengthy intro into a story about the ridiculous and being able to laugh at myself even as I am sure you will laugh at me in turn.

As a new resident of Portland, I would say that my boyfriend is a little too laid back about locking his door. In the two weeks that he has been here I have seen him often leave without locking it at all, though my judgment came before I knew the secrets of the door. Working an early shift which required him to leave at 5am, he was gone long before I was up and about. When he said goodbye this morning, I mumbled something about locking the door to prevent my paranoia from coming to fruition. I assumed and trusted that he had done so and many hours after he'd gone I went about my morning, preparing to meet my roommates for the Saturday Market. I had finished my toiletries when I realized my Ipod was MIA and decided to retrieve it from my car. I grabbed my keys, leaving my phone and wallet behind. Oh fatal decision. How different my day would have been had I but grabbed those two simple items. When I opened the door, I rolled my eyes for my boyfriend who seemed to have forgotten to lock me in. Oh well, I seemed to be safe and so proceeded to my car. Alas, having not found my Ipod and having pulled the apartment door entirely closed, I returned to the house and a locked door. The door had a one sided locking mechanism that I had known nothing about. There was instant disbelief, then hope that I could somehow break in. However, the most obvious attempts proved futile and I was forced to consider more drastic measures. But really, I couldn't exercise my full working understanding of breaking and entering, such as the old credit card trick or a hair pin, because legally I have no right to be inside that house. I have no key, no written consent to be on the premises. And no phone to make any kind of phone call, though I don't know who I would have called anyway, as the boyfriend works 12 hours and I'm not allowed at his work place anyway. Mind you, this was at 11am, before I had made any concrete plans with the roommates of where and when we were to meet, who were going to call my locked up phone when they were ready with details, and 7 and a half hours before the boyfriend got off work. All I had was access to my car... No food, no bathroom; I began to feel like a vagrant. At least I had put on my warm coat, or else I would have frozen.

I kicked around several ideas including showing up a my aunt and uncle's doorstep in order to use the phone or breaking the front window of the apartment. But it boiled down to me not having my license, a means of direction, or a tool to conspicuously make the house available to me. So with 7 and a half hours of time to kill, I began to wonder. What would my roommates do when they couldn't get in contact with me? Would they call the boyfriend or report me as a missing person? Where would I go to the bathroom should the need become desperate enough? And what of the boyfriend's roommate who was supposed to be home from Seattle today? Believe me, after a couple hours stranded outside, I began to feel like a missing person... This of course must be the most fitting ironic end to an otherwise enjoyable weekend.

Once I had exhausted my ideas for getting back in the house, I walked a few blocks to see the sites (fortunately I was stranded in a very safe part of town). I then drove a few blocks without my license to see if I could find a free phone or bathroom. I was successful in the case of the latter and resolved not to drink anymore of my precious water store in the hopes of preventing further bathroom need. In other words, I went into survival mode. Despite the monetary success of finding a bathroom, I was stilled doomed to sitting in my car, which grew warmer the more I sat and breathed in it with nothing to do but wait... and wait... and wait some more...

Surprisingly, the minutes passed with relative quickness as I had no clock but the one in the car and I refrained from looking in order to save the battery. Four hours were gone before I could believe I was really locked out and I had but 3.5 to wait. And yet as I sat and waited, I decided some things that very likely would have remained undecided had I not been given 7 and a half hours of my own time today. I decided the reason I cannot write or see the humor in life is that I am always plugged in. I'm rarely alone and always have my phone or computer near by. As irritating as the ordeal was, there were moments when I rather enjoyed the nothingness that surrounded me. I had to come up with things to do for myself. I got to people watch without being tagged quiet or weird because nobody knew me. I got to see a guy farmer blow in the city and then act nonchalant while families walked their dogs and children and bicyclists abounded. However, the real decision I made was that since I want to write for a living, I need to carry a big notepad and unplug myself often. I also decided I need a smaller car if I'm going to live in Portland and that I'm comfortable in Portland because nobody questions the weird things we do. While these thoughts were lovely and deep, it soon became apparent that what I really wanted was to be back inside the house.

Finally, 5 solid hours into my estrangement from the interior of the house, the boyfriend's roommate returned from his travels to rescue me from my homeless state. The day has not turned out how I planned it to, but at least I am back in the house. And my realizations remain, even when brought about by a lame turn of evens.