I hop onto class just a second late and am immediately surprised by the teacher’s movements. He doesn’t move with the Batsheva aesthetic I'm used to seeing. His movements feel… more pedestrian. More accessible. I feel more freedom to explore class from a more pedestrian approach, without the pressure to create elaborate movements. Today, I've decided to research these ideas at face value, as if removing the dancer part of me. It isn’t easy, and the research to find these ideas in my body still takes time. I do notice a difference, though, from what I normally experience. My head feels more open. I am conscious of my movements without being inside myself.
We play with waves traveling through us and describing curves. “Feel like someone has a hold of your pelvis and is lifting it. Drop it into movement and admit the weight of your pelvis.” I focus too hard on my pelvis and my upper body becomes stuck. I just need to let the waves travel through. While we continue this ball movement in our hips, we shift our weight to one foot. Tension involuntarily creeps over me, and worries about toppling over flood my mind. I have the worst balance, and being on carpet doesn’t help either. I'm already on the verge of falling when the teacher tells everyone, “Grab your ribs and lift them. Let the movement from your pelvis travel through your body.” It seems counterintuitive to think about my ribs when my feet are attached to the floor, but somehow, it helps me stabilize. I hadn't realized that my weight was pouring into my leg before, spilling down.
“Clasp your arms and try to separate them, but don’t let go with your hands. Now bring your hands apart. Move your arms from your heart, from deep in you.” The bind of my elbows helps me find the engines in my back, and when I let go, my arms feel so light. They move from deep in me, from my stomach. I stop being so conscious of what my fingers are doing and let myself just feel the energy tracing through them.
“Bring a small quake to your body. Feel like you’re being shaken by an external force, like you’re traveling on a bumpy country road.” I haven’t heard a teacher say to quake in so long. I can sense more echoes of this quake travel through my body than with a shake. The road is bumpy, and my bones are buckling in and out of place.
I smile a little as he introduces this idea. It’s one of my favorites ideas to research, but I haven’t had a teacher do it in so long. I revel in the contrasting sensations and fully commit to experiencing both as one.
“Now write your name delicately and notice how the quake echoes in your arm as you’re writing.” To find the delicacy in my arms, I had to block it off from the rest of my body so that the quake wouldn't echo. As the teacher tells us to now pay attention to this echo, I unlock my arm. It immediately begins to flail, out of my control. There’s no way my name would be legible if I actually tried to write it right now.
I can't seem to find my explosive power today. I feel cautious and reluctant to reach too far. Maybe because I’m tired from working out earlier, but it’s okay. I can find it another day.
Today's class is the first where I felt how utterly incomparable online Gaga is to Gaga in person. Not bad, just different. Sometimes, I can convince myself that Zoom is almost like being in person, but right now is not one of those times. I'm taking a step back and see my computer for what it is: a little dancing man on the screen, completely lacking the physical energy and 3-dimensional presence of an actual person. Gaga, for me, is becoming much more of an individual experience and less about seeing and feeling others. I miss people.