Lunacy Me, Now You Don't

She smelled like cold cream and rosewater, and I leaned into the smell rolling off of her from the bus seat ahead of me. Dressed in white head coverings, she and five other people, family members I presume, hopped off the bus heading to Sunday morning worship. They were glowing. My mind brought me back to earlier days of Catholic Mass, when I was encouraged to wear a lace veil, praising under raised ceilings that echoed in such a manner that it was hard to believe that the entire town couldn’t hear our chants and hymnal responses. I won’t speak to the hardships of growing up in a devout Christian world, rather to the elements that have left a hole behind when they went.  I’m currently rehearsing a show called Love Sick , to be performed at Theater J , which is located inside the Edlavitch Jewish Community Center of DC. In a neighborhood brimming with churches, Sunday makes for quite the walk to work. Yesterday was at a high of 95, feeling like 102, and folks had every w...

The choreographer started class by repeating the words “progress, not perfection”, and additionally asked us to give ourselves grace, try not to hate on ourselves, and that she wished us a long and slow life of learning. What?! What is this? Again, she said-- progress , not perfection . What an easy thing to say in a class of grounded contemporary dancers who wear their hearts on their cropped t-shirts, dripping from the angles of their hinged movement. The burning sensation was almost immediate behind my skin, tearful tension building behind my eyes. This impostrous feeling that somehow I wasn’t meant to be in that room. Grace, Sarah, give yourself grace. This movement isn’t as familiar to your body, and that’s okay. Being uncomfortable is the first step of learning, in fact, as infuriating as that can be.  So, because this style of contemporary dance isn’t what I grew up with as my first dance language, I felt in over my head, but I was adamant about sticking it out wit...

Today I found squash in my bra. Then I found a grain of rice in my hair. And no, it was not because I passed out in my food again. I left work and drove away from the house containing an eighteen-month-old boy who is discovering what emotional spikes are, and as I reached in my shirt and picked out a piece of buttercup squash (yes, “cup”, not “nut”...less common, very delish)..once I picked out a piece of buttercup squash off my chest, I couldn’t help but recollect my own journey with anger and button pushing. My younger brothers can attest to the fact that I’ve always been easily, mm, let’s say “provoked”. Or, triggered, because this is, after all, a blog where we talk mental health. As far back as I can remember, I experienced sudden spikes of emotion. Teenagers are used to this, because at sixteen years old, a girl’s testosterone levels are at the highest they’ll ever be. Around that age? What a wild damn ride. And generally, we all experience these throughout our lives bec...