Flavor #9 - Take a Pole Dancing Class

Take a Pole Dancing Class - Jason and Elizabeth, Chicago IL

It was pretty much like any other dance studio I've ever been in...except for the 7 poles planted in the middle of the room.

Jeanette, Kristine and I set down our things and each claimed one of the purple floor mats arranged in a circle. My eyes skimmed over the amber washed walls and came to rest on a sultry bench, heavily adorned with pillows. It mildly reminded me of what you'd see in a harem den. I scooped my knees under my chin and buried a giggle in my arm: my life over the past year has been anything but boring.

Our instructor took a relaxed pose in the middle of the circle. She looked like your average girl, about 5'2", long brown hair, medium build; not extremely curvy or athletic looking. With a pleasant, velvety voice she introduced herself as Italia. The taller, curvier, woman next to her, with a mane of smoldering red hair, was Diana, her assistant. After giving a brief history of her time with the company, Italia turned to the girl on her left and asked:

"So, why are you taking a Pole Dancing class?"

She continued this ritual all the way around the room. The answers ranged from, "My friend dragged me here" to, "I saw it on the Martha Stewart show." As she rotated from each girl to the next, I couldn't help but notice her energy. Her voice was soothing, but it was more than that; she spoke every word deliberately as if she really enjoyed talking. I don't mean that she enjoyed hearing herself speak; she actually sounded as though each consonant was a joy to pronounce. That sensuality trickled down into the rest of her presence, even the simple way she shifted from person to person, giving them her entire focus. I realized this girl was not average. She held a confidence that was unique and powerful, and I was mesmerized by it.

After Italia personally welcomed each student to the studio, she briefly narrated how Sheila Kelley, the actress who started the company, once attended a strip club to help prepare for a role in a film. She was intrigued by the confidence and control the dancers had over their bodies. A few years and a couple kids later, Sheila felt like a foreigner in her own body. Longing for how lean and confident she felt when she was using this uniquely feminine workout routine, she kicked her husband out of their home office and installed a pole. It wasn't long before her friends recognized a change in her and wanted to know her secret. That secret bloomed into a chain spanning 7 cities.
Italia went on to explain the portion of that secret we'd be experiencing. Because this was an intro class, a big chunk of our session would be a 50 minute workout that created the foundation for the more advanced movement. I must admit I was a tad disappointed that we wouldn't be playing jungle gym, but I understood the need for the basics. She called our attention to the fact that there were no mirrors. She explained that at S-Factor, they want the experience to be very personal and comfortable, so the sessions are done in the dark, with no mirrors, and only women: that way we wouldn't be as likely to judge ourselves or each other. Later I would realize how much I truly support this concept.
Diana dimmed the lights and Italia, along with the rest of the class, became a blackened silhouette. I knew Kristine was next to me, but that awareness faded with the music's escalating waves. The beat flooded my head, and spilled over onto my limbs.

My inner voice may have objected to the volume, but I couldn't hear it. At that moment, my only option was to feel.

Just above the music I could hear Italia's voice tugging me through a fusion of Yoga and Pilates techniques. Each exercise, while designed to and strengthen and lengthen, came with its own S-Factor twist. My favorite part of the workout was the upper and lower body rotations. Seated, we gracefully reached overhead to one side and continued the spinal rotation forward and around. As my hair cascaded about me, fingertips trailing across the floor, I couldn't help but appreciate the delicate femininity. We did a similar, slightly edgier, version with our hips, and I must say I didn't mind that movement either; it was such a physical example of a woman's quiet dignity combined with fierce pride: as though we were embracing the girl and woman all at once.
The Flirt:

Eventually our crunches and stretches evolved into more specific movements, one of those being, "The Flirt." Lying on our backs, Italia instructed us to raise our legs at a 90 degree angle, and take turns rubbing one foot up and down the other. This movement reminded me of the foot-warming ritual I practice on cold Chicago nights. Casually, I traced the inside of my high arch past my narrow ankle and just slightly up my calf: observing the smoothness of my recently shave legs, and noting with annoyance the prickly patch that I missed. The motion itself seemed quite simple, but I found that it triggered a kind of playfulness and wonder. Suddenly my feet, two slaves that I abuse constantly, were being glorified: red, chipped, toenails and all. I was allowing my body to admire and thank itself, instead of forcing it to do my every whim and punishing it when it doesn't react the way I want it to.

The S walk:

In Ancient Greek and Roman art, the "S Curve" refers to the act of settling one's center of gravity to one side, creating a flowing "S" shape. This concept is represented beautifully in the very famous Venus de Milo. The art of the "S Walk" was to step into the hip like you're holding a bag of groceries or a toddler, while slightly trailing the opposite foot behind you. Italia had us leave our mats behind to become moving manifestations of this term.

As we walked in a circle, I felt nothing like a Venus de Milo.

As a matter of fact, having a slight deficiency in the hip department, I would bet that my "Curve" is probably shaped more like a "7" or a "J."

I was grateful for the dimmed lights and the ability to embarrass myself in private.

The Firefly:

Diana the brightened the lights. To every one's joy, it was time for some pole dancing. Italia demonstrated how to do a little move called "The Firefly." Gripping with her dominant hand and hooking the heal of her opposite leg around around the pole, she sat back into her hips. From there, she let gravity swing her body towards the hooked leg, and as she spun around the pole, raised her standing leg to meet the other. When she came to rest, she planted both feet and gracefully rolled up through her spine to a standing position. She emphasized that even if the execution was poor, the finish must always be confident.
Kristine and I claimed a pole and made our first clunky attempts. We quickly came to appreciate the strength and grace that it takes to control the movement: while Italia's demonstration looked elegant and effortless, our version looked like a pair of awkward fireman. Gratefully, Diana came over to offer advice. She encouraged me to trust my strength and use my momentum to create some distance between my body and the pole. Finally, some pole burns and a few shin bruises later, I figured it out.
For the last portion of the class, Italia danced for us. The entire group piled onto the "Harem Bench" while Diana re dimmed the lights. Italia started out subtly, incorporating familiar moves from the workout we did earlier, then eventually worked into a full blown cyclone, whipping her hair and body around the pole in a continuous and thrilling motion. We cheered her on as she climbed fluidly to the top and then, with very little help from her hands, proceeded to descend, head first, to the ground. I remember shaking my head in awe and in that moment, being very proud to be a woman. Perhaps I had a little glimpse of what Sheila Kelly experienced.

On the bus ride home, I pondered what makes S-Factor such a success. The website reads, "You want to learn to pole dance...you don't think you can do it, but you want to try." I think that this statement is true to some extent. Although most women would judge someone who practices pole-dancing as a profession, some of them probably yearn for a small portion of that womanly confidence and power. Because sensual exploration is associated with negative things like strip clubs, it is stereotyped as bad; therefore those who are trying to be good, suffocate that nurturing part of their identity.

S-Factor's mission statement declares that it wants to dissolve that stereotype by helping women to "become comfortable with, able to express and own their wholesome sexuality." I found the term "wholesome sexuality" interesting. I do believe that putting women in touch with their sexuality in an empowering and non-exploitative way is a positive thing. Ironically; however, I think that most of the class's intrigue, is that you're flirting with something that isn't wholesome. I'll admit that part of the reason I chose this flavor was because I wanted to be a bit shocking, and I would bet most of the girls in the class found it a novelty to be a little naughty.

The very cool and unexpected thing is that I did come away from the class feeling happier and more connected with my womanly self: not just physically but emotionally as well. By facing and accepting my physical flaws, and celebrating my tiniest of strengths, I was nurturing the places within that usually echo, "You're not good enough."

I support S-Factor's mission, although I think it might take a while for Sheila Kelly to transform the world's view of pole dancing.

In the meantime, don't be surprised if you see me trying out the Firefly on a bus stop pole.

*This blog entry, I am grateful to be a woman: physically, intellectually and emotionally.

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Flavor #8 - Attend the Oprah Show

Attend the Oprah Show - Kristine Lorenzo, Chicago IL

"You and your party are all set for the 2/25 ‘A’ taping. Doors open at 6:30am, we ask that you arrive no later than 7am, our absolute cut off time is 7:30am. Plan to be with us until about 11am.

Thank you and see you soon! Teresa Audience Team"

I stared blankly at the computer screen. It seemed impossible. In the six years I had lived in Chicago, not once had I ever been able to get tickets, but this Thursday I was going to see the big "O" herself:

Oprah Winfrey

When my roommate, Kristine, suggested I attend the Oprah show for one of my 31 Flavors, it was really more of a joke. We both knew what a hassle it was to get tickets. Not that I had spent every waking moment trying to do so, but my friend Kara I had spent multiple days (ENTIRE days) during the reservation window, calling in. All of our attempts resulted in countless busy signals, and finally, after a couple years, we kind of gave up.

The only reason Kristine even suggested we go was because her boyfriend, Rob, had a friend on the staff, and it was Oprah's last season After some obnoxious begging, Rob made a quick call to this friend resulting in a tentative promise to get us on the show. About a month later, this "friend" who was actually more of an acquaintance, seemed to have forgotten the whole thing. Well, what had started out as Kristine's little joke was now on the list so I really couldn't turn back. I decided to take matters into my own hands and make a little visit to:

Oprah.com

The website was vibrant and buzzing with all of Oprah's latest endeavors. I located the "Be On The Show" section and was surprised to quite a few last minute reservation opportunities.

Perhaps I had been a little hasty in abandoning the Oprah quest.

I signed up for all of the topics, as well as the weekly emails, and crossed my fingers. Over the next couple weeks, after all of my submission were denied, I began to lose hope. Then, one day I received an email announcing that the show had extra tickets for three tapings. Right away, I replied, and about a week later, I received a curious looking message in my inbox. I clicked on the heading, expecting it to be another rejection, but instead it was a cheerful confirmation that three of my friends and I were reserved for the upcoming Thursday morning taping.

Three days later at 5:00 AM, Friends 1 and 2, my roommates Jeannette and Kristine, joined me on a brisk walk to the bus stop. Halsted, normally a rather lively street, was deserted. Eagerly we boarded the bus. What would the topic be? Would there be any celebrities? Would we get any free stuff? This enthusiasm greatly contrasted the other passengers, probably on their way to work. This energy didn't last long; a few cheese sticks and a granola bar later, our lively chatter dissolved into silence and each of us sleepily retreated into our thoughts.

The bus dropped us off on the empty streets of downtown Chicago and we walked west in the morning gray towards Harpo Studios. As we approached the oddly shaped building boasting a very large "O," we could see there was already a long line wrapping around the corner. Gratefully the line was indoors. We met Kara, Friend 3, at the tail end of that line and crammed our way in out of the Chicago cold. Inside you could hear little clips of Oprah-inspired prattle, everything from free cars to Oprah's weight. I wondered what it would be like to have this many people on a daily basis discussing your weaknesses and strengths.

I'll bet Oprah's nose itches a lot.

Once the doors opened, the line moved quickly, and after we checked everything, including my camera (There are very few pictures this blog entry), with security we were filed upstairs to wait. And wait we did! After signing some forms and the optional "No Phone Zone Pledge," there wasn't much to do but sit and people watch.

It was apparent that some of these ladies were taking the Oprah Experience very seriously. Two women in particular caught our eye; from the color of their hot pink and sky blue suits, that's exactly what they intended. They could have been a set of barbies; same height, build and long golden hair. I sized up our group; we couldn't be more different from each other. Kristine was very sleek yet edgy; Jeannette, tussled and spunky; and Kara, as always, very composed and classy. We were four friends in a room full of women of all shapes and sizes, backgrounds and passions, yet all of us had at least one shared interest: Seeing Lady O.

Finally they called our numbers and we filed back downstairs into the studio. I was surprised at how large it actually was. After looking about, I realized the camera only shoots the lower level of seating closest to Oprah, but apart from that section there were at least 250 seats divided into four other sections. Our group was directed to the house left section about 5 rows up. The studio was fantastic. Kristine mentioned how the lighting made everyone look pretty. Fascinated, my eyes explored the studio from the lights and cameras to the people. My eyes came to rest on a blond girl that looked really familiar. After some deliberation with Kara we concluded it was the actress who played Chloe on Smallville, and the brunette sitting next to her: Lana Lane. For a brief moment we excitedly fantasized that maybe Oprah was interviewing "Clark Kent" himself, but then realized that Chloe and Lana probably just wanted to see Oprah too.

Some upbeat music began to play and a delightfully energetic woman, who seemed to be in charge of the pre show warm up, got us on our feet. She pulled some obviously devoted fans from the audience for a brief dance party and some mini interviews downstage. After the thrilled bunch returned to their seats, she opened up the interview to the entire audience, asking if anyone had a story about survival. Several raised their hands and shared intimate stories about surviving diseases and natural disasters. She used used this little gear change to transition into the show topic: last year's NFL boating tragedy. Immediately my mind flashed back to a picture of a lone man in an orange jacket clinging to the rutter of a capsized fishing boat. I could vaguely remember reading that three others, including 2 NFL players had been lost at sea. Oprah would be interviewing Nick Schuyler, the sole survivor, and discussing his book, "Not Without Hope."

I may have been a tad disappointed that she wasn't interviewing Colin Firth, but my curiosity was piqued.

Before Oprah's grand entrance, our pre show host attempted to lighten the mood by asking if anyone had any good news to share. Jeannette and I shot up our hands and were a little shocked when she called on us. Jeannette elbowed me with her eyes, and I stood in front of Oprah's entire studio audience to boast a little about my 31 Flavors project and the unexpected success of pulling off #8, "Attend the Oprah Show."

Not long after my mini speech, an excited buzzing started, signaling Oprah was near. She entered into a flood of applause and a very appropriate standing "O." I was amused to see that she was barefoot, high heels in hand. Women ecstatically poured over the railing at an attempt to touch the Queen of Talk, and Oprah graciously stopped to shake their hands.

As she settled into her chair, she encouraged the audience to do the same. She put on her heels, remarking that they were only "sitting-down heels," not "walking heels." Oprah seemed extremely at home. You could tell that this was HER studio, and that she'd been doing this for years. She greeted the audience and made a few comments about her dogs, cracking jokes about their potty habits. These rather ordinary comments were rewarded with adoring laughter. I wondered how it felt to be surrounded by hundreds of fans lapping up, no pun intended, your every word. Being a performer, I've often been the center of attention (of course on a much smaller scale), but I was a character in a fictional story, speaking written lines. Oprah wasn't playing a character, she was playing herself, and she did it very well.

After a mini conference with who looked to be the producer or main cameraman, she welcomed Nick to the stage. Nick was your typical college jock: good looking, clean cut, and built. Looking at him you wouldn't think that he was about to relive the worst hours of his life. Oprah switched into a very focused mode, signaling we were about to embark. All of the crew manned their stations, the audience hushed, and the producer gave her the green light.

Oprah set the stage, churning images of a fishing trip turned tragic after the reckless decision to tie a lodged anchor to back of a fishing boat led to the fateful capsizing. Nick described how the four went from an almost amused shock that they had flipped the boat to unsettling worry when they couldn't flip it back over. When the night fell and the water turned violent, that worry evolved into horror. As the waves constantly crashed against them, they did their best to hang onto the boat and their hope, often speaking of their loved ones and regrets.

Oprah expertly crafted the interview, asking very broad questions, then whittling the story down to specifics. She was a master in that she didn't force him down a certain path, but created a space for him to unload his story in a thoughtful and sequencial way. That story turned grim as Nick described how hypothermia took hold of Marquis Cooper and actually turned his own mind against him. Solemnly he described the struggle to keep Marquis from removing his lifejacket, the moment Marquis stopped struggling, the awful acceptance that he was dead, and the sobering realization that Corey Smith was starting to show the same symptoms. Although I knew how the story ended, I kept hoping that they would get rescued, but one by one Corey Smith and eventually Will Bleakley, Nick's best friend, slipped away.

At times, Oprah really had to work to extract the story because Nick had removed himself to some extent. The only time he came close to breaking was when he spoke of Will, who he credited with saving his life. As we weaved through this intense timeline, I couldn't help but remove myself as well. Spending a big chunk of my life in the theatre, I was intrigued by the inner workings of the show. From where I was sitting I could see the main camera and how the producer expertly edited the different shots of Oprah, Nick, and tearstained audience members, together to create his masterpiece on the back screen. I also loved the fake commercial breaks and the process of switching from recorded footage to the interview. The entire crew, Oprah included, conducted all of this flawlessly. Lady O was a pro.

As the interview slowly came to a close, Oprah guided Nick through the hours he spent completely alone and wondering when his sanity would start to resemble his ragged body. He recounted the desire to live and the act of finding strength when he was sure he had none, the indescribable relief when he was finally rescued, and the long road to recover what was lost during those 43 hours at sea. Oprah didn't shy away from bringing up some of the controversy surrounding his book including the bad blood it has created between he and some of the families of those who had died. Nick admitted his relationship with Marquis' family was not where he wanted it to be because he had never found the words to explain in person what had happened. Oprah then said something that really struck me. She said,

"For everybody, there comes a moment when things need to be said and everybody always wants to know the answer to the question, 'Why?' ... Particularly when somebody dies or there's an awkward situation. You don't know what to say, so you end up saying nothing. And then that nothing ends up creating really bad feelings because somebody should have said something." She continued, "If you can, just say, 'I don't know what to say."

Oprah wrapped up the show and after chatting with us for a bit, bid us farewell. The stage came alive, and the crew started to set up for the next taping. It occurred to me as we made our way down the aisles, that although Nick had survived the accident, he would be surviving that dreadful experience for the rest of his life. The family members of those who died are surviving losing a son, brother and husband. I looked around once more at the variety of people I had just shared an audience with; everyone leaving that studio was a survivor of something tragic, the loss of loved ones, dreams, health. My aunt refers to us as "The Walking Wounded," meaning that everyone has some heartache that we can't see on the outside.

I find myself wondering how Oprah survives being Oprah? We see a rather glamorous version of her life, but I'm sure has her low days, just like everyone else . What kind of price does she pay in giving so many people access to herself? This studio wasn't an arena; I was on one of the back rows and I was probably only about 20 feet from her. She does that every day...sometimes twice a day. So, how does she find the strength to share her failures as well as her triumphs. How do any of us?

I looked at my diverse and delightful friends and it became very clear to me. When I'm lost and feel as though my sanity will crack, I find shelter in my friends and family. I'm so grateful for the love that makes the good times better and that same love that helps me survive the rest.

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Flavor #7 - Learn German and Visit Germany

Learn German and Visit Germany - Me

"Why German?" This is the question most people ask when I tell them about my latest Flavor. I suppose most of them are wondering why I don't pick a language more widely used in America, like Spanish; or why I wouldn't want to learn a language that was more pleasant on the eardrum, like French.

The answer is not a very simple one, because truthfully, I'm not even sure why. For some reason over the years I've developed a fascination with the country's history and formed deep connections with those who either grew up there, or by some twist in life, lived there for a time. It seems that my path constantly intersects with opportunities to know more about Deutchland, so when I was picking a language for my 31 Flavors list, it seemed very natural to:

Learn German and Visit Germany.

My opinion of Germany wasn't always as romantic as it is now. When I was young, it seemed that whenever I saw Germans in a movie, they were usually Nazis and the language was being barked in some harsh way; Indiana Jones was always fighting them, and the VanTrap family barely escaped from them to the Swiss Alps. Even when I was older, if there happened to be good Germans in a film, I almost forgot they were German because they usually didn't have the German dialect.

Subconsciously I'm sure that I thought of the language as angry, and the people who spoke it as "the bad guys."

Studying the Holocaust in junior high didn't help much. I remember the Diary of Ann Frank, as well as other stories of the concentration camps, chilling me to my bones. I vividly recall a nightmare where I was frantically searching for my younger sisters only to hear that they had been taken to the gas chambers. I awoke in an awful panic and stumbled through my sleepy fog to their bedroom to make sure they were safely asleep in their beds. I remember being so relieved that it was a dream, and going back to bed thoroughly convinced that things like that only happen in bad countries.

My first year of college, it finally occurred to me America wasn't the center of the universe. I began dabbling in foreign cinema, and became quite fond of British and French films. I wasn't until I returned home for the summer, that I watched my first German movie: "Run Lola, Run." My younger sisters and I were were sucked into Lola's 20 minute race to save her irresponsible boyfriend from desperately holding up a grocery store. The movie literally is a race because Lola very rarely stops running the entire 70 minutes. The movie is full of fun quirks, like an animated Lola charging up and down flights of stairs, brief encounters with strangers unravelling a flood of foreshadowing snapshots, and three different endings. The action is underscored by a pulsing beat with lyrics like, "I wish I was a Person with Unlimited Breath; I wish I was a Heartbeat that Never Comes to Rest," and only stops for a couple brief scenes, including flashbacks with Lola and Manni. It was during one of these flashbacks, with Lola and Manni lying in each other's arms, whispering intimate insecurities about love, that I remember thinking, "Wow, this language is beautiful."

A few years later, I left my roots to explore the Chicago stage. I remember the first time I met Katherine. I was the new girl at church, sitting quietly by myself, when a tall, beaming face approached me. She was charmingly inquisitive and I liked her almost instantly. Quickly I learned that she grew up in Germany; her parents were both American and had moved there after they were married so that her father could pursue his career as an opera singer. Katherine had recently left her roots behind to move closer to her older sister, Elizabeth, who was tutoring in Chicago, and to study acting at DePaul University. The fact that we were both actors gave Katherine and I an unspoken understanding and we quickly became friends. Her English was so flawless that I would often forget she had spent her whole life in a foreign country; until she'd say something about the cereal she had as a child, or break out into German while talking on her cell phone.

It was around this time that I took a more mature interest in the Holocaust. I poured over books like "Schindler's List," and "A Man's Search for Meaning" as well as documentaries and movies on the subject. These heavy stories, inspired many emotional phone calls to my family where I tried to express how much I loved and appreciated them. I seemed incurably fastened on the injustice and grief, and the thousands whose lives had been torn apart. Then somehow, in the middle of all my horror with this country's history, my intrigue switched to the country itself. I wondered about the German people, the individuals living there, and how they felt about this black mark on their country's history. My childhood was filled with 4th of July fireworks and the Pledge of Allegiance. When September 11th happened, millions of windows all over America proudly displayed the stars and stripes. Katherine told me that growing up, she had never experienced that sort of pride.

I felt sorrow for the horrible things that had happened there, but I also felt sorrow for this country that seemed to still be repenting of its past.

Over the next few years I formed other friendships with German ties including a brief long-distance relationship with Jason, a structural engineer living in Philadelphia, who had served an LDS mission in Germany. Sometimes in our late-night conversations I would request he speak to me in German. As the complex vowels and consonants tottered off his tongue, I could visualize Lola and Manni whispering to each other in the dark.

My relationship with Katherine and her family grew as well. I have lovely memories of choreographing silly skits, bawking Christmas carols, and listening to her father's beautiful bass voice cascading over my church congregation.

When Katherine moved away from Chicago, I became very close to her sister Elizabeth, the wonderful woman I've talked into taking this trip with me.

It was through these amazing people that Germany became more to me than the place where the Holocaust happened or the Berlin Wall came down. It became Katherine and Elizabeth's home. It became Jason's treasured two years abroad. I can feel how much they all love Germany, and my love for them has translated into love for their country as well. I'm excited to learn this language and visit this place so dear to their hearts.

Flavor #6 -Take a class at The Actor's Gymnasium

Take a class at the Actor's Gymnasium - Blair Robertson, NYC

February 12, 2010

I've never known how it feels to be tall. Being 5'4", I've done a lot of standing on my tiptoes, whether it be to reach something on the top shelf, to hug someone, or to see over a crowd of people. Today, however, I got a taste what it feels like to look down on everyone--literally.

Stilts:

As I sat on a pile of gym mats, Ginger and Jane busily applying straps to my feet, ankles, and calves, I reflected on my limited experience with stilts. I was very young and my dad had brought a homemade pair to a family get-together. These particular stilts were made out of wood with holds that stretched from your toes to your shoulders. I remember my dad and uncles walking quite successfully as well as some of the older cousins. I, however, could barely balance on the narrow wooden ledges, let alone walk.

The tingling sensation in my calves and feet signaled they were done. I looked down at my newly applied extensions. The boards only came up to my knees and were bound so tight, they resembled splints. Nate came over to inspect the work of my cohorts. Once he verified the straps were applied correctly, he extended his hand. With him on my right, and Ginger on my left, I shakily rose and left the mats behind.

Nate instructed me to keep my supportive leg straight and only bend the knee of the stepping leg. I tried not to think about the fact that I was now over 7 feet tall, and enthusiastically attempted to comply. The result was very similar to a baby giraffe learning to walk. After some quick correction, however, I was making shorter, more stable steps.

It wasn't long before Nate started to test my balance. His arm subtly moved from my elbow to my wrist, until eventually he had moved to the front and Ginger had trailed away. The next moment reminded me of learning how to ride a bike, and the first time realizing my dad had let go of the seat. Nate was holding both my hands; I was attempting to look ahead as he instructed, and then suddenly he wasn't there anymore. I actually took a few steps solo, before my mind figured it out, then began to fall. Nate was right there to catch me. This outcome was much less painful than the rose bush that broke my bicycle fall. After a moment of gathering my balance, I tried again. I was amazed at how quickly my body adapted to the movement.

After a I had made a couple turns about the room all by myself, Nate requested I try to take longer strides. This required a lot more control and grace. Each time I lost my balance, and wanted to go stiff, Nate encouraged me to make short, quick steps to get back on track. The elevated floor gave each step a little spring, almost as if I was part human, part pogo stick. As I swished my long legs through the air, I couldn't help but feel like one of the mystical creatures

in a Jim Hensen movie.

Poi:

Reluctantly I said goodbye to the stilts. They were the first thing I felt mildly good at.

Next, Nate pulled out a carton of brightly colored Poi. Each of us took two. I smirked at how closely they resembled some of the socks that I pull out of the drier, when one sock gets lodged inside the other.

Following Nate's example, each of us laced our pointer and ring fingers through the loops and clasped them together with our thumbs. The hold was important; otherwise, your thumb could snag on the material, or interfere with the angle of the spin.

Elbows tucked and palms up, he started us out with a basic circular motion. Almost all the movement came from a steady rotation in the wrist. From there he moved on to the more complex, figure eight pattern. I found that switching from the basic movement into the figure eight was pretty easy, but switching back could be very intimidating . That's because the timing was everything. It felt very similar to jumping rope; you had to feel when the moment was right and go for it.

We ended with some circling in front and overhead. This movement felt pretty natural with my left hand, but my right had a hard time. The trick was to lead the Poi in the direction I wanted without disrupting the momentum. Of course, with spinning slingshots, that's easier said than done.

Nate had mentioned that originally Poi was used as a weapon. After accidentally clobbering myself a couple times, I could envision it.

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February 5, 2010

I had missed my train, so I was a good 15 minutes late. Quickly, I scampered down the stairs of the station, over the snow covered yard, toward the golden light that was the Actor's Gym. As I approached the entrance, I threw a quick glance at the frosty windows. I could make out some of my fellow students practicing their juggling.

After changing from business casual into "very casual," I slipped inside. I noticed that we had a newcomer; a spunky redhead named Ginger. To my joy and relief, it looked as though Ginger was on the same level of juggling as I. I could have hugged her.

Juggling Clubs:

Not long after I arrived, Nate announced that we were going to juggle clubs. Stifling a groan, I collected two clubs from the bin and proceeded to distance myself from everyone else. I had a hard enough time juggling two balls; all I needed was to smack one of the other students in the head with a large bowling pin. First, Nate showed us how to flip a single club from one hand to the other. Surprisingly, the grip should be closer to the body of the club, rather than the knob, so that you have more control over the flip. After practicing this for a while, we moved on to holding two clubs, crossed in one hand, then flipping the top club to the other hand. And that's about as far as I got. Overall, the concept was the same as juggling balls: the placement of the hands, the arch of movement. Just, instead of juggling of smooshy, beanbags, you're juggling hard, miniature bats.

FYI: clubs hurt.

The Unicycle:

To my delight, Nate put the clubs away and brought out 4 or 5 unicycles. I had been looking forward this. Not that I thought I'd be any good at it, but my curiosity was thoroughly piqued!

Nate climbed onto this one-wheeled bronco and it seemed to jerk to life. As he demonstrated the movement, he stressed the importance of giving the seat your full weight and engaging the core while leaning slightly forward. From the looks of it, there seemed to be a delicate balance between leaning forward and falling forward onto your face.

While Nate and Jennifer helped spot Ginger, I attempted to find that balance.

Using the railing of the risers I propped myself onto the bike. I found that pressing down on one pedal actually propelled me onto the seat, while the other did the complete opposite. Once in the saddle, I just sat there, rocking back and forth, attempting to find some shred of control. When I finally accepted there wasn't any, I slowly inched forward, grabbing at the wall, the garbage can, anything within reach. Although I was very persistant, this effort did little to prepare me for the real thing.

When I finally started working with Nate, I was able to fully grasp the fun, yet terrifying, exhilaration of it all. Once again, I was completely in the moment, trying to balance, pedal, and take direction all at the same time. During all this chaos, for a surreal moment I could feel exactly where my body needed to be, but then gravity would literally jerk me back, or forward, into reality. Thank goodness for my spotters! Another great thing about this class; it forces you to put your trust, literally at times, in the hands of others.

The Tightrope:

We only had about 10 minutes or so to try out the tightrope. I've done a bit of slack-lining, so the fact that the tightrope stayed in place, instead of swaying and sinking beneath my weight, was big plus. From the moment I took my first step, my toes started to cramp up as though they had looked down and were instantly paralyzed. The tightrope we were using was only about 5 feet off the ground. I couldn't imagine performing in the circus and experiencing toe cramps, sixty feet in the air.

After my toes relaxed a little, I was able to balance for a few seconds on each foot. I think with a lot of practice, and a little more potassium, I'll be able to have some fun with that one.

I think what I like most about this class is that I have to turn off the analytical side of my brain, and rely on my instincts. As someone who often thinks too much about things, this is good for me.

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January 29, 2010

The tag line on the Actor's Gymnasium website reads, "Learn to Fly." Fitting, considering the company is best known for its circus and aerial arts classes. The beginning aerial arts class features such skills as Silks, Spanish web, trapeze, lyra and straps. For those of you who don't know what most of those are, all of them have the potentiality of breaking my neck. It was this slight concern that inspired me to register for the Circus Ground Skills class. This way I could keep close to the, well, ground.

The gym was not unlike a Black Box Theatre. There were risers about 5 rows high, and a raised floor stretching forth like a grand proscenium stage. The room's large wooden pillars drew my eyes upward to a web of curtain rods, lighting beams and other exposed piping. As my gaze returned to the ground I noticed that there were large windows where the stage left wall should have been. It looked as though we were going to be exposed a little as well.

Nate, our instructor, was tall and athletic with curly hair and glasses. I took the fact that he was barefoot as an invitation to remove my own shoes. The floor was surprisingly springy and the plush carpet felt cushy beneath my feet. I resisted the urge to leap and twirl, and sat in a circle with the rest of the group.

As we introduced ourselves we discovered that most of us, including Nate, were actors looking to add to our bag of tricks. Nate explained that the first few weeks would be a brief introduction to a variety of ground skills, and the rest of the sessions would be open to experimentation on what we had learned and focusing on our individual goals.

After a quick warm-up, we played a game of catch to help learn each other's names. As we tossed the beach balls of all colors and sizes, Nate stressed the importance of rhythm and the importance of a good toss. At the time, this exercise seemed a tad elementary. Little did I know how much those basics would come into play.

Juggling:

Nate dragged out a carton of juggling balls. I picked out one ball and began practicing the arch from one hand to the other. So far so good. Optomistic, I took a quick glance around the room. To my astonishment, and mild irritation, everyone else in the group already knew how to juggle three balls. The only student with less experience than me was Richard, the twelve-year-old visitor from the younger class!

Feeling about the same age, I continued my pathetic tossing. Pretty soon, Nate brought over another ball. Although I protested, he assured me that I was ready to add another to the mix. Turns out juggling can be pretty good workout when you're bad at it!I was dropping a ball pretty much every other toss, so I basically did squats and lunges for a full twenty minutes. I really had to fight the urge to hold onto the remaining ball until the tossed ball was safely in the other hand, but eventually, with the help of my audible chant, "Throw, throw, catch, catch," I was able to release at the appropriate time.

To my horror, Nate decided to pair us up. I immediately felt pity for my partner. Luckily, I was paired up with Jennifer, a juggling instructor for another gym. Nate instructed us to stand across from each other, place the opposite arm behind our back, and with our free hand, juggle three balls between each other. Nate was right; The throw was everything, and my throws were a complete disaster. But eventually they improved and I think that this exercise forced me to progress at a faster rate because I was trying to match Jennifer's speed and precision.

Afterwards, Jennifer gave me some instruction. She said that my hands should stay relatively in place, like I was holding a tray. She also recommended I practice serving with both hands. Crazily enough, with these pointers, I started to develop a rhythm. Granted, I couldn't catch anything without my chant, but I definitely felt better by the end of the half hour.

The Globe:

I was very happy to find that everyone was on the same level when it came to the Globe. With Nate spotting, each of us too k our turn clambering up the ball and trying to balance. I was lucky number 2. It seemed that as soon as I mounted this blue, oversized marble, it was determined to buck me off. The thing was completely solid and reacted to every step that I made, so my reaction was to cling to Nate and go stiff as a board. Surprisingly this approach didn't go over so well. The correct method was to constantly move your feet, lightly and with a slight rocking motion. When falling, you needed to move your feet even more to get back on track. This contradicted everything gymnastics and dance had ever taught me about balance. I couldn't see how walking like I was on hot coals, could keep me upright.

Everyone's second try went a little smoother. Nate's main advice for me was to look out in front instead of at my feet. I actually balanced for a marvelous three seconds, but probably more of a fluke, because I still have know idea how the movement and the balance are connected.

The beautiful thing about juggling balls and balancing on a globe is that you are forced to be completely in the moment. There is no time to think about anything but catching that incoming ball or not falling on your face. It makes me realize how rare it is that I am completely in the present, and how much I'm looking forward to the next time.

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Sprinkle #2 - On December 31, give 31 dollar bills to 31 individuals less fortunate than you

On December 31, take 31 dollar bills and give them to 31 individuals less fortunate than you - Jan Hillman, Sacramento CA

I quietly stamped my feet to keep warm. The air was thick and frosty, and as I peeked out from under my hat, I could see the tops of the buildings dissolving into the soupy sky. The light turned green. With a grumpy shiver, I buried my chin deeper in my scarf and crossed the street, 11 one dollar bills clenched tight in my wool-covered hand. Eleven dollars isn't much, still it could pay for my portion of the electric bill or even tomorrow's lunch. However this New Year's Eve I was planning on giving it all away--to complete strangers.

Earlier that day, I had tweaked the rules a bit and donated $20 to Interfaith House Chicago, an organization that helps ill or injured homeless adults get back on their feet. Not that I didn't appreciate the cleverness of the idea, and not that it would be very difficult to find 31 people in need, especially in downtown Chicago, but I wasn't positive that giving out dollar bills was the best way to help. So I had silently made a deal that I would give out whatever I had in my wallet, and donate the rest to a charity. I chose Interfaith because earlier this year I suffered a kidney stone and though I had medical attention and friends to ease the burden, I felt more helpless than I ever had in my life. It gave me comfort to know that there was a place in Chicago that cared for and inspired those truly without help.

So there I was, armed with $11, searching, in bone-chilling weather, for someone in need. As my eyes darted from face to face, I reflected on my first year in Chicago, and the pity I used to feel at the sight of an outstretched palm. Six years and hundreds of palms later, that pity can turn to indifference, even resentment. Just as you layer on the clothes to shut out the cold, eventually you layer on the cold to shut out the people.

I had to be to my friend's house at 6:30, meaning that I had to find eleven people, run an errand, and be on the train in an hour. I found it ironic that when I was actually willing to give, I couldn't find a soul.

As I neared State street all of that changed.

There was a man standing on the corner, sucking what he could out of a tiny cigarette butt. It was actually a relief to hear him asking for change. I don't remember much about him, but I do remember that his shoes were held together with duck tape and that he didn't have any gloves. The gloves, I remember, because for a brief moment, while transferring the dollar from my hand to his, our exposed fingers made contact. I almost recoiled, and instantly felt ashamed. A simple touch, an action that happens all the time, suddenly felt too personal. I realized in that moment that I had already judged this man that I knew nothing about.

As I walked on, I made a promise that at least for the next brief ten dollars, I would try to truly remove all judgement from my heart.

Just then I passed a McDonald"s. Through the window, I could see a man haggard and heaped in one of the stalls. Quickly I slipped inside, grateful to be out of the cold for a moment. As I approached his table I could see the limited remains of a coffee and burger. With a bit of nervousness, I slid a single Washington next to his untamed fingernails. He looked up surprised and questioning, then nodded an appreciative "Thank you." Shyly, I nodded back and made my way back into the cold.

Soon I was at the corner of Randolph and State: the Shopping District. The streets were cheerfully alive with people shopping the post Christmas sales and getting ready for their New Year's Eve activities. A young man, who hardly looked needy, asked if I had a dollar. Normally this would annoy me, but without hesitation, I flashed him a bill, and he flashed me a surprised smile. I found myself smiling as well. It was a nice feeling, this willingness to give so freely.

As I crossed the other side of State Street I heard a familiar, pleading voice. I cringed. It was That Guy. He'd worked this corner for over a year, and I'm ashamed to say that I probably judged him most of all. Maybe it was because he was my age, and I was skeptical that he couldn't find some other way of earning money. The particular way that he whined, didn't help much. Begrudgingly, I reached into my pocket and forced my heart to soften. What did I truly know about this person? He could need that dollar more than anyone. I'd always had parents to bail me out of my unwise decisions. Maybe he didn't have that option. Humbled, I handed him the dollar. He paused to thank me, and then continued his standard howl. I hurried away before my heart hardened again.

Barely 10 paces away, I came upon a woman sifting through the garbage can for food. As I approached she looked up, her hands still buried deep in the trash. Her face was hollowed and her hair was gray, but I doubt that she was much older than forty. As I handed her the dollar, I couldn't help but ask myself,

"How did she get here? Was anybody looking for her? Did she have any children?"

Speaking of children; a few steps away the Bucket Boys were drumming away on their white pails. I had a fondness for these boys. Their intricate rhythms were as familiar to downtown, as the Chicago Theatre sign. For all I knew, they were more fortunate than me, still I placed four dollars, one for each of them, in their collection. As I walked away, infused by the beat, I breathed a quick prayer that the money would be used for good.

2 more dollars and 2 more people to go. I continued south on State Street. The lights and Christmas cheer seemed such a contrast to this world that I was experiencing. Days earlier, I had spent Christmas with my family. Those days were filled with gifts, an obscene amount of food and people I care about, who care about me. Life is sometimes hard for me despite the love of my friends and family. I can't imagine what happens to you when you believe that nobody cares about you.

If anyone had been following me, I'm sure they'd be mystified by the odd girl playing Robin Hood on New Year's Eve. I was starting to feel really good about myself, being so charitable and all. Maybe that's why, though I try my hardest, I can't seem to remember the last two people I gave to. I was so caught up in applauding myself, that I can't even be sure what gender each of them was. One thing I do remember is that one of them, I believe a man, said "God bless you." This blessing humbled me a bit, and as I wished him the same, I realized that I truly meant it.

And that was it. My pocket was empty. I had completed my mission, and all within 2 blocks.

Briskly, I crossed the street to the warm promise of H&M. I was returning a sweater that I didn't care for. Nobody questioned me as I walked into the store. I had a right to be there, however I'm sure most of the people I just gave money to, would not be allowed inside. The line at the register was overflowing with people buying outfits for their New Year's party. I couldn't help but recognize that this sweater would be considered a luxury to some of the people I'd approached tonight.

I could afford this luxury because my belly was full.

As I walked to the train, I silently hoped that no one would approach me. The bills I had designated were gone; I had done my part! I was slipping back into that indifferent state, already forgetting that while I was at this party, there were people out there who still needed to find a meal, or a place to sleep.

Now as I sit in my drafty, but warm apartment, I realize just how good I am at forgetting unpleasant things. All of the people downtown, me included, were partaking in the glow of Christmas, while people suffered right under our noses. Christmas is more than turkey and presents. It's a celebration of the birth of One who cared for the sick and gave shelter to the weary. If we believe in Christmas, doesn't that mean that we believe in taking care of each other? I know that it's a lot more complicated than handing out dollars on the street, but maybe we all could strip off a layer of judgement and be more of a shepherd to those in need.

*This blog entry, I'm grateful for the homeless man who asked God to bless me. He still believes in God, though he probably has every reason not to. I hope that those going through hard times can have faith that even though at times it may seem that the entire world has forgotten them, God has not, and never will.

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