Lunacy Me, Now You Don't

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...

“Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we should dance.” -unknown This quote is floofy as heck, but it resonated with me this morning as I compare the self of 5 years ago to the woman sitting here writing this. I’ve found a coffee roaster and cafe in Vienna, Virginia, because I’m like a hound dog and can sniff out local coffee holes from leagues away. It’s a special skill. I started a nannying job last week, a two-month gig where you work long hours and go hard until the next job crops up. It happens to be quite a commute away and I am not hating the sunrise scenes and podcast time in the car each day. But, man, am I exhausted. I am a fill-in for their “main” nanny, and it’s all consuming, with childcare as a portion of the duties. In two weeks I feel like I’ve become a part of the family, and I sing nursery rhymes in my sleep. No lie, I woke up this morning singing “three little kittens have lost their mittens, and they began to cry…”...I could do ...

Picture yourself as a kid, and you’ve experienced a really great weekend, like a family reunion, or something? All your cousins were there, everyone running around, laughing, and eating food off the grill. Maybe you were the family that hosted it that year, and finally the time comes for everyone to pack into their cars and drive back to their respective homes. Maybe it’s only a short drive away, but the last car pulls out of the drive and you get a feeling like a gut punch. You don’t understand the waves of emotion rolling over your tiny mind. You were just in heaven not three hours ago! Is it melancholy? Is it loneliness? Is it the first realization that all good things must come to an end? Maybe you cry, hug your mom, and wonder when the feeling of sadness will go away (give it 30 minutes and a VHS tape). You were surrounded not too long ago, and now the dust is settling and it’s just you and your immediate family again. Everything is quiet and you are left. You.  I...

My first sip of coffee each morning is done looking through the window over the sink in the kitchen. It doesn’t matter which house, because most homes I’ve lived in, save for one, have had a window directly over or next to the kitchen sink. I did this while living in our rented farmhouse last year surrounded by fields and cows. There was a trailer park next door, where we got to know the most wonderful dog named Jericho, and his owner. One of the RV’s constantly called an ambulance, like every two weeks, but the workers seemed calm, as if it were a time-honored tradition (against their will). Another trailer housed two black labradors and an owner who warned other dogs not to get too close, even when crossing through your yard (property’s a construct anyway). The trailer behind that had a wooden fence that echoed the sounds of premature teenage fits from a 9-year-old boy, directed at his mother in regards to playing or retiring for the evening.  This morning tradition of taki...