Flash Mob Victoria Station

Connie Stetson mixes it up with inspiration, perspiration and dizzy dancing feet.

Dear readers, we have become so close now, I feel I can tell you anything. I know you won’t judge me harshly when I confess to you how very much I love the “reality” game show. The contestants, the competition, the prize—the whole format, well, it’s all just so darn much fun.

I love Survivor, The Amazing Race, American Idol, The Bachelorette, Top Chef, Project Runway and even the great American cheese-fest, Dancing With the Stars. But by far and away, I love So You Think You Can Dance. Partly because at one time I did think could dance, and partly because I now wish I could dance as well as I once thought I could. Watching these beautiful, talented, athletic young dancers sends me into a pulse-pounding frenzy of vicarious joy; and I am with them every soaring step and heart stopping stumble along the way. I am hooked and I am also impressed.

In 2009, producer Nigel Lythgoe, actress Katie Holmes, dancer/choreographer Debbie Allen, and a host others, began The Dizzy Feet Foundation . Its mission is to support, improve and increase dance education in the United States, provide scholarships, set standards for dance education and insure that disadvantaged children have access to dance. The Dizzy Feet Foundation has also declared Saturday July 31st, National Dance Day. View the cool choreography that Napoleon and Tabitha have created to get America off our collective asses and onto the dance floor. They have made it easy enough for anyone to learn and I’m getting down right now with my very bad, very funky self.

To encourage my community to participate in this wonderful day I, along with a few others, are planning a spontaneous outburst (ever notice how deftly spontaneous outbursts must be organized?) a guerilla Conga dance down Hwy 140, the Main Street of our town. Several of us will be milling about casually, then we’ll crank up the music, bust out the Conga line like a mini flash mob, and see if we can get people to just jump in. I’ve cleared it with the sheriff and he said as long as the local merchants don’t mind, it’s okay— and he’s out of town then anyway. So it’s a GO.

Thanks SYTYCD, for reacquainting me with my younger, lighter, stronger, more lithesome self. The self that didn’t really believe in gravity or bad knees—the self that still lives in the dance classes in my head. And thank you, too, brave new dancers for not being self-absorbed snots, but grateful and dedicated and self-sacrificing young artists on the brink. You are dazzling and inspiring.

And so everyone—move to the groove, shake your booty, put on your boogie shoes, Disco, Salsa, Hip-Hop, or Bunny Hop if that’s all you can do, but get up off that thang and dance so you can feel better on National Dance Day, Saturday July 31st. YIPPEE!!!!!!

I am above the clouds at 37,000 feet, coming back from a trip to peer into my future which, in an odd twist of fate, actually might take place in a place I thought was my past.

A week or so ago someone dear said to me, “I never thought my life would look like this at 54.” Some days later I heard myself echoing the sentiment to someone else adjusting the age down by a year.

I don’t have any idea why I said that though because I don’t recall ever imagining the age of 53 at all. In fact I don’t think it ever occurred to me to think about what life would be like at the age of 53. When my mother was 53, I was 30 and I have some sense that at that time I was still kind of thinking life was about to happen, or rather thinking that whatever I was doing, and wherever I was couldn’t really be it.

It is easier to recall what I know I would not have imagined; I would not have thought that by now my best friend would already be dead. I never would have believed that someone I respected, trusted and looked to for inspiration would let me work for him and then simply not pay the thousands of dollars owed to me. A scenario in which the person I loved with my life betraying me and humiliating me even as I celebrated her, would not have flickered in my imagination. I could not have imagined then that a “bad hair day” now would entail more worry that my hair looks “middle-aged” rather than simply out of control.

Last week a butterscotch colored kitten died in my arms, even as I pleaded with her not to die, holding her in one arm and driving to the vet with the other. Despite the refrain of apologies uttered on behalf of my dog who, had only been attending to her very nature when the kitten was hurt, that cat went ahead and died. I was forced to recognize between my sobs that in my need for her to live I was desperate for a good outcome. In that moment this small being was made responsible for my hope. A good outcome in this case would be anything, anything at all that looked like living. This small being cradled in my left arm wrapped in a Sponge Bob beach towel, continuing to breathe would mean redemption, forgiveness, do-over’s for mistakes made, a few more years to accomplish the unaccomplished, belief made out of nothing. Her breath and life would somehow look like the life at 53 that I never imagined in the first place. How could such a one even have a chance with so much weight placed on her struggle?

When she died I would not believe it, and rushed her into the vet in a panic anyway. When the young woman I passed the kitten off to came back a few minutes later, her look was so kind, so tender in the harsh reality she came to communicate that words were not necessary and right there in the waiting room, in front of a number of complete strangers I broke down and sobbed out loud. Those people were all there with animals so they were kind and supportive as one might expect, murmuring their own apologies in the background, never daring to enter into my private grief space, never imagining how much more was there than the death of the kitten.

At 37,000 feet, thoughts fling themselves at me at the same speed of the passing clouds.

I think I never would have known how pure the pleasure and delight of one red poppy blooming on the morning of my recent birthday could be. Nor could I have understood the reward of a conversation with someone long admired now a friend becoming. In the taxi before dawn this morning, the driver was playing Sanskrit mantras. When we got to the airport I asked him about the mantras, at which point he looked at me and then cast his eyes down and said simply, “Morning Prayers”. “Yes” I said, “Thank you for the morning prayers”. The driver looked at me again, smiled and turned to go back to work.

Then I recalled how at the beginning of this trip I saw the sunrise in my rearview mirror which is somewhat counterintuitive, but is in and of itself a morning prayer, and I know that when I leave this place which is not working for me, that still I will cry and wear a t-shirt with its name on it. This is life in action, the life at 53 I never could have imagined.

Christie explores a modern dilemma: is time saved actually time well spent?

The whole idea started when I was standing at my kitchen sink washing a badly blistered finger and cursing enough to make Snoop Dog blush. I had spent 30 minutes yanking the pull rope on my gas mower. The grass grew another half-inch while I over-exerted myself, sweat stinging my eyes and puffs of blue-reeking smoke burning my lungs. Enough! Gas mowers are supposed to save you time and effort. I dragged the dying beast to the curb, wrote “FREE” on a piece of cardboard and went inside to clean my wounds. The truck pulled up while I was at the sink. Sayonara El Toro.

I was not quite prepared for the clothes dryer to give a screech and die. Shall I buy another? Or shall I try and do without another time-saving machine of post-modern living?

It was about this time that friends passed along a wonderful read, Drinking The Rain written by Alix Kates Shulman. Ms. Shulman writes about her life and of her self-imposed exile to an extremely basic Maine Coast cabin. After a particularly stressful and difficult visit to the local store for food supplies she muses on “saving time/time-saving.” Her muse visited me. If I am saving time, who and what am I saving it for? Can time actually be saved? If you have been following the progression of quantum physics from string to membrane (or brane) theory to parallel universes you know we could go a lot of places with these questions.

Here’s what I have come to; time cannot be saved, it can only be spent. Brilliant!

I bought a pretty little push-mower. It is bright green and makes a throaty purring sound—like the noise when you stuck a plastic disc in your bike wheels. I can now spend my time mowing, morning, noon or night, without disturbing my neighbours. It is more labour intensive, but people passing by stop to ask about my natty little mower and I spend time responding enthusiastically to these enquiries.

I am hanging my clothes out to dry. They smell amazing and I am ridiculously happy spending time carefully folding sheets and towels into neat colourful piles. I make the time to take my rugs outside and give them a good beating on the deck. They look a lot cleaner than after vacuuming. And, I have a bicycle that can transport me to the local stores with ease. Oh, the wonder of the space-time continuum.

I am spending my time lavishly and extravagantly too; visiting friends old and new whenever the budget or opportunity permits. Gives whole new meaning to time well spent.

So to all my Big Spender friends who live miles away I say, “How about spending a little time with me?” The door is open, the spare bed is made-up, it’s time for a visit.

Cathy ponders the question, “What did you wish you had been told when you were 12 years old?”

Lovely Lily, my best friend Leslie’s daughter, turns 12 and becomes a Bat Mitzvah this weekend. The Bat Mitzvah (Bar Mitzvah for boys) is a Jewish rite of passage. The classic joke goes something like this: A Bar Mitzvah boy stands at the podium having just recited a passage from the Torah, he begins his speech, “Today I’m a man. Tomorrow I go back to the 8th grade.”

To paraphrase the description from Temple Bet Alef:
The Bar and Bat Mitzvah represents a coming of age for a Jewish young person. On a physical level, it represents the age when young bodies become capable of reproduction and young people need to become responsible in a fuller way for their behavior in the world. On a mental and emotional level, it reflects entering the transition period between childhood and adulthood. On a spiritual level, the young person begins to reflect on the Torah’s teachings in regards to their own identity and journey.

To celebrate Lily’s milestone, I have been invited to partake in a tradition new to me, but grounded in ancient ritual—the “Women’s Circle”. Comprised of Lily’s mother’s friends and relatives, the discussion zeros in on this one question:

“What did you wish you had been told when you were 12 years old?”

The adults talk to one another, and the student is invited to listen and ask questions. A candle burns throughout the ceremony, symbolizing the Light of Awareness, the Light of Life. At the conclusion, everyone hugs the Bat Mitzvah girl, gives an enthusiastic “Mazel Tov” and it’s time for a snack! (But, of course… what’s a Jewish occasion without food?)

This beautiful idea, the women’s circle, has me thinking: What do I wish I had been told back then, when hormones were starting to percolate and Barbie dolls were making way for making out? To get in the mood, I thought back to the 6th grade. Someone wise once said, everything you need to know you learned in kindergarten, well, I added a few years (circa 1968) and here’s what I recall.

When I was 12, I knew…

That playing, reading, dancing, singing and loving The Monkees (especially Davey Jones) was more joyful than just about anything else.

That kissing a boy was fun and going steady was exciting, but not that much fun.

That stealing was wrong, but slipping quarters out of mom’s purse wasn’t quite as wrong. (Penny candy on me!)

That the day I got my braces, I would stop sucking my thumb.

That rushing to grow up was truly a waste of time.

And this I knew for sure…that 12-years-old was…old!

What did I wish I had been told when I was 12 years old? What might I tell Lily?

That love is the most important thing of all.

That putting yourself in someone’s shoes means compassion, and kindness and compassion are priceless.

That girls and women need to stand up and be smart, loud and proud!

That magazines and advertisements use airbrushing; no one’s body is perfect.

That listening to your inner voice will become easier over time.

That you’ll be thankful if you wash your face daily, use sunscreen and stay active.

That life can be difficult, but we make it through.

I clearly remember being told by an elderly neighbor, sitting on her front porch, “Smile when you say hello.” That simple bit of advice has served me well, and philosophers like Thich Nhat Hanh agree. Hopefully Lily will be smiling as we share our woman’s “wisdom” with her.

I ask you, dear reader, to choose a line from my list above or answer the question in your own words:

What would you tell your 12-year-old self?

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