A friend recently suggested that our sense of who we are is entirely dependent on what other people tell us we are. I was about to respond with some of what I've learned over the past four years as a counselling student, but then remembered something important.
As this was mentioned on social media, there was a lack of context. Taking a step back, questioning why I was eager to comment, and who that comment would have benefited, I decided to simply say that my answer would have been a long one (it would have - person-centred theory has a lot to say about who we are and from where our sense of self comes).
Recently, I've been looking at Buddhism or, more specifically, the Gelug school of Tibetan Buddhism. It was during some extra training connected with my work that I finally made the decision to look into this although, strangely, it had appeared on the periphery of my consciousness in various ways in the preceding weeks.
Some of the principles of Tibetan Buddhism have helped me to better deal with some challenges to my emotional health. The important thing here, however, is that looking into this system of belief was my choice. Given that I was raised in a family which was traditionally Roman Catholic, it also felt like an act of rebellion.
The things we choose to do teach us valuable lessons about ourselves, if only we have the wisdom to understand.
Last week, I attended a martial arts class that I've been attending for a number of weeks now. During that class, we had to perform a drill in pairs, in which one person would hold pads and shoot a left jab towards their training partner. In response to this jab, the other person would slip to the outside while countering with a left to the midsection, followed by a series of further punches.
I spent six years learning Wing Chun. I still practise the forms, though not as regularly as I once did. The point is, when I was expected to slip the jab and counter, I was trying so hard not to respond with Wing Chun that I froze and was hit a few times.
When I had finally managed to switch off my previously trained responses to the point where I could slip the jab, my training partner changed the jab to a chop to the side of the head. I complained about this, and the instructor replied that it was better for me to be hit in that situation than out on the street, where they wouldn't be so kind. "Out on the street", they wouldn't have had the luxury of knowing what I was going to do, so the argument wasn't valid. More importantly, my training partner had deviated from what we were supposed to do. I hadn't, but maybe I should have.
Had I responded with Wing Chun or something from elsewhere in my history of learning combat arts, this wouldn't have happened. The last time I did this, however, it led to a situation in which the instructor seemed to feel that he had something to prove. If I'm honest, the irritation I felt regarding my training partner's behaviour and the instructor's response said something of my own vulnerability to the machinations of the ego.
You may be wondering what lesson is to be drawn from all of this. Well, one requirement of the last counselling course on which I was a student was that each of us had the experience of being the client of a counsellor. During those sessions, the counsellor said something I didn't initially understand:
"You've learned to hide your power, because it makes others feel uncomfortable."
My training partner hadn't hidden his power. My experience of the instructor in the class, so far, has been that he's not the type to hide his power either. Both of them have been practising Jeet Kune Do for a long time. Where is my power in that environment? It's a Jeet Kune Do class and, though I have some previous knowledge of Jeet Kune Do, I don't have their experience of practising the principles and movements.
In trying to fit in with what they were doing, and actively suppressing my previous training, I was putting myself at a disadvantage - I was hiding my power. How often do we do this? In an attempt to be liked, accepted, or to gain approval, we take on the rules of our social environment to the point where we hide our individuality. We learn to wear various masks or personas, according to the situation. When we do this, are we valuing or respecting ourselves?
I forgot something important. Returning to martial arts, for me, wasn't about learning to fight. How easily I was dragged into valuing my experience on the terms of others! In that situation, all I had to do was avoid harm. Everything else was, as my recent exposure to Buddhism would suggest, a manifestation of the ego.
The condition of rigidly sticking to what has been taught is, I now see, unnecessary. It is imperative that we listen, observe and learn, but also that we respect and value our own experience. We are the sum of our experience, and so much more. Why, then, should we hide our power?
Monday, 29 October 2018
Friday, 19 October 2018
Resistance is useless
It's a strange irony. We may know the things which restore us - the things which make us strong - and yet we resist them. Usually, this is explained to us as a lack of motivation, and various "experts" line up to advise us on how to conquer this lack of motivation. Occasionally, however, this proves to be entirely the wrong approach, because a lack of motivation is not always at the root of this.
Each of us have our own beliefs, values and attitudes. To some extent (probably more than most of us would like to admit), these define who we are as a person, and anything that contradicts our beliefs, values or attitudes threatens, to a greater or lesser degree, our sense of who we are.
I went to my first big dance event in January, and felt at the time that it would be the last big dance event I would attend. The pass for the weekend had been won as a prize in a raffle, and I wanted to fully connect with the experience and enjoy it, but things didn't quite work out that way. The prize had actually been two passes for the weekend, and a number of ladies had thought that they might be the recipient of the second pass. For some, not getting that second pass caused some resentment.
Before the weekend even started, I'd decided to take part in some stretching classes which were an optional way to start each day. As a dancer of advancing years, I reasoned that it would probably be a good idea to get out of bed early in the morning to take part in these stretching classes.
It's my habit to turn up early for everything. The instructor found this a surprise, because her experience had been that dancers generally turned up for the last ten minutes of her classes at these events. Her experience was repeated on this occasion too, meaning that there were fifty minutes in which I essentially had a private lesson in how to stretch.
The instructor talked as we both held various poses, about how the weekend had been for her so far, and asked how I was finding the weekend. I felt something I hadn't felt for a long time - I felt at peace. The same was repeated the following morning and, when she asked if I would like to take part in a yoga class in the afternoon, I skipped a dance class so that it would be possible to be there.
Let's look again at our sense of who we are, and how that is often challenged by our experience. Just a few years ago, I wasn't a dancer. That wasn't something I saw as a part of my identity. That first dance class - modern jive, as it happens - wasn't something I would have chosen to do, although ultimately I did choose to go along. I'd been asked to accompany someone who felt uneasy about going alone and, against my expectations, found that I enjoyed partner dancing.
Salsa also felt like something I wouldn't do. The salsa scene had the reputation of being exclusionary and elitist. I'd like to be able to tell you that it's neither of those things, but I can't honestly do that. Let's say that there are people who are very accepting, and there are those who wish to exclude anyone who doesn't fit their idea of what a salsa dancer should be. Nevertheless, being a salsa dancer is now one component of my identity, however much certain individuals wish that wasn't the case. Apparently, I'm quite good, which further irritates those who think I shouldn't be there.
It's said that grief affects our relationships with others, but also our relationship with ourselves. That's another change to my sense of self over the past few years. Going for my first experience of counselling, as required by my course of study, added to this.
Going back to the things that restore us, the things that make us strong, all of the above has been a learning experience. As previously stated, we can have this tendency to reject the things which restore us and make us strong. We can tell ourselves that they are not an authentic part of our identity.
Attending martial arts classes again, as I've started to do recently, is an acknowledgement of the restorative effects of this activity for me. Taking a break from that was effectively denying a part of myself.
Most recently, a connection with Buddhism became the latest challenge to my sense of self. Yoga, salsa, Buddhism - these all say something about who I am, but they are saying something about a part of me I find it difficult to accept. That difficulty comes from the judgement of others - those values, beliefs and attitudes we unconsciously take on board and allow to shape our expression of our identity. Each in their own way, however, is a source of strength or, in the case of the challenging scene that surrounds salsa dancing as an activity, an opportunity to prove to myself that I'm capable of great inner strength.
I suppose the message in all of this is that our strength comes, ultimately, from being authentic, from shutting out all those voices which tell us that certain aspects of our identity are unacceptable.
Each of us have our own beliefs, values and attitudes. To some extent (probably more than most of us would like to admit), these define who we are as a person, and anything that contradicts our beliefs, values or attitudes threatens, to a greater or lesser degree, our sense of who we are.
I went to my first big dance event in January, and felt at the time that it would be the last big dance event I would attend. The pass for the weekend had been won as a prize in a raffle, and I wanted to fully connect with the experience and enjoy it, but things didn't quite work out that way. The prize had actually been two passes for the weekend, and a number of ladies had thought that they might be the recipient of the second pass. For some, not getting that second pass caused some resentment.
Before the weekend even started, I'd decided to take part in some stretching classes which were an optional way to start each day. As a dancer of advancing years, I reasoned that it would probably be a good idea to get out of bed early in the morning to take part in these stretching classes.
It's my habit to turn up early for everything. The instructor found this a surprise, because her experience had been that dancers generally turned up for the last ten minutes of her classes at these events. Her experience was repeated on this occasion too, meaning that there were fifty minutes in which I essentially had a private lesson in how to stretch.
The instructor talked as we both held various poses, about how the weekend had been for her so far, and asked how I was finding the weekend. I felt something I hadn't felt for a long time - I felt at peace. The same was repeated the following morning and, when she asked if I would like to take part in a yoga class in the afternoon, I skipped a dance class so that it would be possible to be there.
Let's look again at our sense of who we are, and how that is often challenged by our experience. Just a few years ago, I wasn't a dancer. That wasn't something I saw as a part of my identity. That first dance class - modern jive, as it happens - wasn't something I would have chosen to do, although ultimately I did choose to go along. I'd been asked to accompany someone who felt uneasy about going alone and, against my expectations, found that I enjoyed partner dancing.
Salsa also felt like something I wouldn't do. The salsa scene had the reputation of being exclusionary and elitist. I'd like to be able to tell you that it's neither of those things, but I can't honestly do that. Let's say that there are people who are very accepting, and there are those who wish to exclude anyone who doesn't fit their idea of what a salsa dancer should be. Nevertheless, being a salsa dancer is now one component of my identity, however much certain individuals wish that wasn't the case. Apparently, I'm quite good, which further irritates those who think I shouldn't be there.
It's said that grief affects our relationships with others, but also our relationship with ourselves. That's another change to my sense of self over the past few years. Going for my first experience of counselling, as required by my course of study, added to this.
Going back to the things that restore us, the things that make us strong, all of the above has been a learning experience. As previously stated, we can have this tendency to reject the things which restore us and make us strong. We can tell ourselves that they are not an authentic part of our identity.
Attending martial arts classes again, as I've started to do recently, is an acknowledgement of the restorative effects of this activity for me. Taking a break from that was effectively denying a part of myself.
Most recently, a connection with Buddhism became the latest challenge to my sense of self. Yoga, salsa, Buddhism - these all say something about who I am, but they are saying something about a part of me I find it difficult to accept. That difficulty comes from the judgement of others - those values, beliefs and attitudes we unconsciously take on board and allow to shape our expression of our identity. Each in their own way, however, is a source of strength or, in the case of the challenging scene that surrounds salsa dancing as an activity, an opportunity to prove to myself that I'm capable of great inner strength.
I suppose the message in all of this is that our strength comes, ultimately, from being authentic, from shutting out all those voices which tell us that certain aspects of our identity are unacceptable.
Monday, 15 October 2018
Jeet Kune Do
I promised that I'd persevere until January, but let's say that my training in Jeet Kune Do isn't going well so far. A large part of that is due to a lack of fitness, and not having attended a martial arts class of any description for two years. Some of the hour is given to physical conditioning, as it should be, and the truth is that my physical condition is quite poor at the time of writing. I'll admit it - I'm struggling.
There's a more damaging component to my lack of motivation, however, and this may well see me looking elsewhere when January comes around. I wanted to train martial arts again for reasons other than learning how to fight, but this seems to be the focus of the instructor, and that's where it all falls down. See, I've been a martial artist for many years and, for reasons I can't go into from a legal perspective, I know how to adapt this stuff to a live combat situation. Unfortunately, Jeet Kune Do doesn't feel like it's how I want to fight. Put another way, as learning to fight is no longer my focus, it doesn't feel like how I want to move.
I've recently been using my experience as a martial artist, and a further knowledge of the principles of movement gained through dancing, to learn the basics of Muay Boran. I've no doubt that what I'm doing isn't absolutely correct, because I don't have the benefit of a qualified instructor. More likely, a lot of what I already know is getting in there, modifying the forms. The point is, it feels like an authentic expression of where I am as a martial artist; Jeet Kune Do does not feel that way.
There's the opportunity to switch to Muay Thai, which would be more in line with Muay Boran, but I promised to stick with Jeet Kune Do until January. I keep my promises. I'm also constantly examining my reasons for wanting to train martial arts again.
A video, in which I danced with a friend, came up in my memories on social media. Apparently, I posted it a year ago. This isn't as off-topic as it seems. As good a memory as it is, it also draws attention to how much I've changed in the year since. The change since I last set foot in a martial arts class is even more marked.
At an event in January, I took part in my first yoga class and, although my involvement with yoga is still limited, it feels like something I need to do. During training linked to my work, I heard some things about Tibetan Buddhism, and it was something that had been on my radar many times during the preceding week, so I decided to read about it. Some personal issues in the preceding years had changed how I saw the world around me, and also how I saw myself.
It's possible for me to do both. One of the students of the Jeet Kune Do class is also a Muay Thai practitioner. The feeling that Jeet Kune Do isn't an authentic expression of who I am remains, however. It's more likely that Muay Thai and Filipino martial arts would be the combination that I would go for - another possibility. Right now, I'm also deciding whether that will mark the point where dancing is no longer a part of my life. In January, there will be a lot of decisions to make.
There's a more damaging component to my lack of motivation, however, and this may well see me looking elsewhere when January comes around. I wanted to train martial arts again for reasons other than learning how to fight, but this seems to be the focus of the instructor, and that's where it all falls down. See, I've been a martial artist for many years and, for reasons I can't go into from a legal perspective, I know how to adapt this stuff to a live combat situation. Unfortunately, Jeet Kune Do doesn't feel like it's how I want to fight. Put another way, as learning to fight is no longer my focus, it doesn't feel like how I want to move.
I've recently been using my experience as a martial artist, and a further knowledge of the principles of movement gained through dancing, to learn the basics of Muay Boran. I've no doubt that what I'm doing isn't absolutely correct, because I don't have the benefit of a qualified instructor. More likely, a lot of what I already know is getting in there, modifying the forms. The point is, it feels like an authentic expression of where I am as a martial artist; Jeet Kune Do does not feel that way.
There's the opportunity to switch to Muay Thai, which would be more in line with Muay Boran, but I promised to stick with Jeet Kune Do until January. I keep my promises. I'm also constantly examining my reasons for wanting to train martial arts again.
A video, in which I danced with a friend, came up in my memories on social media. Apparently, I posted it a year ago. This isn't as off-topic as it seems. As good a memory as it is, it also draws attention to how much I've changed in the year since. The change since I last set foot in a martial arts class is even more marked.
At an event in January, I took part in my first yoga class and, although my involvement with yoga is still limited, it feels like something I need to do. During training linked to my work, I heard some things about Tibetan Buddhism, and it was something that had been on my radar many times during the preceding week, so I decided to read about it. Some personal issues in the preceding years had changed how I saw the world around me, and also how I saw myself.
It's possible for me to do both. One of the students of the Jeet Kune Do class is also a Muay Thai practitioner. The feeling that Jeet Kune Do isn't an authentic expression of who I am remains, however. It's more likely that Muay Thai and Filipino martial arts would be the combination that I would go for - another possibility. Right now, I'm also deciding whether that will mark the point where dancing is no longer a part of my life. In January, there will be a lot of decisions to make.
Saturday, 6 October 2018
Thought for the day: a sensitive soul
I'm still thinking about Thursday. It had been a tough day, and that's coming from someone who's had an awful lot of tough days. I decided to go out to eat that evening. Maybe that wasn't the best decision. Maybe it was poor self-care. As things turned out, eating alone would have been preferable.
I was the only customer for a while, so the restaurant owner decided to talk to me. In no time, she was talking about losing her grandmother over the weekend, and how she felt about it. Whatever it is that people see in me, which leads to them opening up, I wished for one moment where I could switch it off. I don't lack empathy. Seriously, I have empathy by the truckload, but sometimes it feels like a blade that anyone could plunge between my ribs, any time they wish. There are times when I'm carrying a heavy burden myself and sometimes, when people talk to me, it only leads to me feeling more lonely.
There are people who are just more sensitive than others. A part of that is being aware of things that often escape the attention of most people, and probably less aware of other stuff. Part of it is innate, and part of it is an adaptation to the environment in which we find ourselves in early life. You can spend a lifetime either pretending that things don't affect you, or developing defences against the machinations of those around you, but the truth is that you feel everything deeply, and it can overwhelm you. There are times when you need to shut down, isolate yourself or, if you're lucky enough to have one, spend time with that friend who somehow restores you by just being there. The loneliness is crushing, but is preferable to certain types of company.
You are prone to bouts of depression, and this saps your energy, meaning you have little to spare for dealing with other people, and then the self-enforced isolation bites, making you feel more depressed. No one seems to understand and, depending on the culture in which you live, your sensitivity will be seen as a gift or a curse. If you're male, then there are few places where any of this is accepted.
The funny thing is, you're strong. There's no way you could cope with all of this if you weren't, even though it can feel at times like you're not coping with it. There are ways to deal better with it, but others are more qualified to talk about that than I am. What I do know, however, is that learning to accept this part of who you are is powerful. You're a sensitive soul, and you're as deserving of love and compassion as anyone else. First, though, give it to yourself.
I was the only customer for a while, so the restaurant owner decided to talk to me. In no time, she was talking about losing her grandmother over the weekend, and how she felt about it. Whatever it is that people see in me, which leads to them opening up, I wished for one moment where I could switch it off. I don't lack empathy. Seriously, I have empathy by the truckload, but sometimes it feels like a blade that anyone could plunge between my ribs, any time they wish. There are times when I'm carrying a heavy burden myself and sometimes, when people talk to me, it only leads to me feeling more lonely.
There are people who are just more sensitive than others. A part of that is being aware of things that often escape the attention of most people, and probably less aware of other stuff. Part of it is innate, and part of it is an adaptation to the environment in which we find ourselves in early life. You can spend a lifetime either pretending that things don't affect you, or developing defences against the machinations of those around you, but the truth is that you feel everything deeply, and it can overwhelm you. There are times when you need to shut down, isolate yourself or, if you're lucky enough to have one, spend time with that friend who somehow restores you by just being there. The loneliness is crushing, but is preferable to certain types of company.
You are prone to bouts of depression, and this saps your energy, meaning you have little to spare for dealing with other people, and then the self-enforced isolation bites, making you feel more depressed. No one seems to understand and, depending on the culture in which you live, your sensitivity will be seen as a gift or a curse. If you're male, then there are few places where any of this is accepted.
The funny thing is, you're strong. There's no way you could cope with all of this if you weren't, even though it can feel at times like you're not coping with it. There are ways to deal better with it, but others are more qualified to talk about that than I am. What I do know, however, is that learning to accept this part of who you are is powerful. You're a sensitive soul, and you're as deserving of love and compassion as anyone else. First, though, give it to yourself.
Tuesday, 4 September 2018
Alone time
I feel like I've pushed it too far. Every so often, I need to spend time alone, and I don't think I've been doing enough of that. I never learn the lesson, though. By now, I should know that, when I don't know how best to deal with the people around me, it's a sign that I just don't want to deal with them.
We're talking about a fundamental part of my nature, rather than any personal issue with individuals, although any existing issues will be warped and magnified by how I'm currently feeling. The feeling I had when I first started learning to dance, from being in such a crowded room, was a message from within.
I need time alone. Sometimes I forget that.
We're talking about a fundamental part of my nature, rather than any personal issue with individuals, although any existing issues will be warped and magnified by how I'm currently feeling. The feeling I had when I first started learning to dance, from being in such a crowded room, was a message from within.
I need time alone. Sometimes I forget that.
Thursday, 30 August 2018
Bowing out
On Saturday, it's my favourite monthly dance event, and it feels like the right time to take a bow, thank everyone for the dances and leave the stage, as it were. Maybe I'll take photos with a few friends, for the sake of having a few good memories, but it feels like it's all coming to an end.
I can't honestly say that the break is definitely permanent, however. The conflicting feelings are between a love for dancing and a deep-seated contempt for some aspects of the scene and a number of the personalities within it.
Maybe, somewhere within, it's always troubled me that learning to dance was never really my decision. I accompanied a lady to that first Modern Jive class at her request, not because I particularly wanted to go. I actually felt that I wouldn't enjoy the whole thing, but I turned out to be wrong. Things started to go wrong almost immediately, though, in the way other dancers perceived our interactions.
One of the few friends I made during that time dared me to give Salsa classes a go. The deal was that I had to go for at least six weeks, and if I was to quit before then, the consequences would be humiliating. Obviously, I stayed much longer.
At this point, I don't feel that I have anything left to prove to myself. The old adage about teaching an old dog new tricks always got to me, and kept me there, when I sometimes wanted to give up or felt like I'd never get it. There's a piece on the internet somewhere, within which the author states that many male dancers give up, just as their rate of improvement is about to pick up.
It could be that I'm just feeling particularly low right now. Earlier in the week, I got to talk with someone who is partly responsible for my development in my work, about everything that's going on, and has gone on, to make me feel the way I'm feeling. The response I heard was that the people who have the level of inner strength I possess are few and far between. It was nice to hear that, but I think I'm tired of being strong. Maybe it's not about being strong any more: maybe I'm just tired.
It would be remiss of me to not point out something else, as I'm bowing out, taking a break, or whatever this turns out to be. A relatively new dancer asked if there was anything I could tell him about the dance scene. I said that he shouldn't listen to ladies who have never learned to lead, when they tell him during a lesson that he's doing something wrong. It sounds silly, but it happens far too often, and I've seen far too many men leave dancing behind because they wrongly believed that they were terrible dancers and would never get it right. A few of these ladies, I've observed, use this tactic to eject men from the scene who don't meet with their warped ideas of what they'd like a Salsa dancer to be.
For me, the issue is that I'm a sensitive soul. There's a social aspect to dancing, and for some, that's their focus. For some, there's a sense of competition with other dancers. I'm just there to feel the music, dance to it, and enjoy a few moments in the company of others who want the same. Anything I ever had to prove was to myself only. The sensitivity I spoke about comes across in the way I dance, but it's also why I need time out, and may extend that indefinitely.
A friend once spoke about what dancing does for me and, more specifically, about what side of me it connects with. As stated, dancing connects with the sensitive, emotional side of my personality. Connecting with a dance partner isn't always a comfortable feeling for someone so introverted, but it's something that someone this empathic and intuitive achieves without much effort. "You're a good lead," some say. "You're a great lead," fewer people say. Both have been said enough that I have to accept the premise of those statements, but I know from where that quality comes, and I have to question what it costs me to connect in that way with the music, with a dance partner, and with how it feels to dance.
At a dance event in January, I got to take part in a Yoga class. I felt great during and after the class, but especially after. I suppose that, internally, I was contrasting the way I felt after that class with the way I felt when I danced. Sometimes we get these messages from within. That weekend happened to be one where it felt like everything was crowding in on me. It was a weekend which led to me doubting the motives of someone I'd come to think of as a close friend. It was a weekend that changed the way I saw a number of things.
The normal reaction, when people hear that I dance, is laughter. Perhaps they know what should be staring me in the face - I'm not meant to be a dancer. I've decided to join a martial arts class again, to go in a direction in which life seemed to be pulling me for a long time, but I resisted. Our days, our weeks, months, years, and our lives have a flow, and it's my belief that our suffering is caused by resisting this flow. I'm a martial artist, first and foremost. That's what I am, and that's what I have to be.
Am I a dancer too? It doesn't feel that way right now. Some time ago, I had the idea that I had to be both. I practised martial arts for a long time, and somehow it seemed to help me deal with being this sensitive, emotional being. I took a break, and it's possible that I needed to do that, in order to see what being a martial artist really meant to me.
I have to accept that none of this may make sense to anyone reading it. I'm okay with that. I know that the event on Saturday could turn out to be such a positive experience that I hang in there for a while longer - that has happened a number of times before. It could be that I just need time out.
I'm a martial artist. I accept that as a part of who I am. Can I say that I'm a dancer? Is that still something I can accept as a part of who I am? We'll see. One thing is certain, however - it will be my decision.
I can't honestly say that the break is definitely permanent, however. The conflicting feelings are between a love for dancing and a deep-seated contempt for some aspects of the scene and a number of the personalities within it.
Maybe, somewhere within, it's always troubled me that learning to dance was never really my decision. I accompanied a lady to that first Modern Jive class at her request, not because I particularly wanted to go. I actually felt that I wouldn't enjoy the whole thing, but I turned out to be wrong. Things started to go wrong almost immediately, though, in the way other dancers perceived our interactions.
One of the few friends I made during that time dared me to give Salsa classes a go. The deal was that I had to go for at least six weeks, and if I was to quit before then, the consequences would be humiliating. Obviously, I stayed much longer.
At this point, I don't feel that I have anything left to prove to myself. The old adage about teaching an old dog new tricks always got to me, and kept me there, when I sometimes wanted to give up or felt like I'd never get it. There's a piece on the internet somewhere, within which the author states that many male dancers give up, just as their rate of improvement is about to pick up.
It could be that I'm just feeling particularly low right now. Earlier in the week, I got to talk with someone who is partly responsible for my development in my work, about everything that's going on, and has gone on, to make me feel the way I'm feeling. The response I heard was that the people who have the level of inner strength I possess are few and far between. It was nice to hear that, but I think I'm tired of being strong. Maybe it's not about being strong any more: maybe I'm just tired.
It would be remiss of me to not point out something else, as I'm bowing out, taking a break, or whatever this turns out to be. A relatively new dancer asked if there was anything I could tell him about the dance scene. I said that he shouldn't listen to ladies who have never learned to lead, when they tell him during a lesson that he's doing something wrong. It sounds silly, but it happens far too often, and I've seen far too many men leave dancing behind because they wrongly believed that they were terrible dancers and would never get it right. A few of these ladies, I've observed, use this tactic to eject men from the scene who don't meet with their warped ideas of what they'd like a Salsa dancer to be.
For me, the issue is that I'm a sensitive soul. There's a social aspect to dancing, and for some, that's their focus. For some, there's a sense of competition with other dancers. I'm just there to feel the music, dance to it, and enjoy a few moments in the company of others who want the same. Anything I ever had to prove was to myself only. The sensitivity I spoke about comes across in the way I dance, but it's also why I need time out, and may extend that indefinitely.
A friend once spoke about what dancing does for me and, more specifically, about what side of me it connects with. As stated, dancing connects with the sensitive, emotional side of my personality. Connecting with a dance partner isn't always a comfortable feeling for someone so introverted, but it's something that someone this empathic and intuitive achieves without much effort. "You're a good lead," some say. "You're a great lead," fewer people say. Both have been said enough that I have to accept the premise of those statements, but I know from where that quality comes, and I have to question what it costs me to connect in that way with the music, with a dance partner, and with how it feels to dance.
At a dance event in January, I got to take part in a Yoga class. I felt great during and after the class, but especially after. I suppose that, internally, I was contrasting the way I felt after that class with the way I felt when I danced. Sometimes we get these messages from within. That weekend happened to be one where it felt like everything was crowding in on me. It was a weekend which led to me doubting the motives of someone I'd come to think of as a close friend. It was a weekend that changed the way I saw a number of things.
The normal reaction, when people hear that I dance, is laughter. Perhaps they know what should be staring me in the face - I'm not meant to be a dancer. I've decided to join a martial arts class again, to go in a direction in which life seemed to be pulling me for a long time, but I resisted. Our days, our weeks, months, years, and our lives have a flow, and it's my belief that our suffering is caused by resisting this flow. I'm a martial artist, first and foremost. That's what I am, and that's what I have to be.
Am I a dancer too? It doesn't feel that way right now. Some time ago, I had the idea that I had to be both. I practised martial arts for a long time, and somehow it seemed to help me deal with being this sensitive, emotional being. I took a break, and it's possible that I needed to do that, in order to see what being a martial artist really meant to me.
I have to accept that none of this may make sense to anyone reading it. I'm okay with that. I know that the event on Saturday could turn out to be such a positive experience that I hang in there for a while longer - that has happened a number of times before. It could be that I just need time out.
I'm a martial artist. I accept that as a part of who I am. Can I say that I'm a dancer? Is that still something I can accept as a part of who I am? We'll see. One thing is certain, however - it will be my decision.
Friday, 27 July 2018
Is it worth it?
There's a dance on tonight. The evening will start with a lesson in Bachata, and I love Bachata. The lesson is being taught by someone for whom I have a great deal of respect. All the proceeds of the evening will go to a worthy cause. I would be in the company of friends and...
I probably won't go.
If I go, it's a show of strength. A Bachata lesson means close contact with the ladies present, and one of those females (I can't use "lady" in her case) is someone with whom close contact feels like being smeared with faeces.
We were friends at one time. That was my first mistake. I told her that my sister was dying. That was mistake number two. There was an assumption that I would be in a vulnerable state, and my feelings could be manipulated. There was an assumption that, with my fiancée on the other side of the world, I'd be open to physical intimacy with another woman. That was HER first mistake, but one which would lead her to make a series of others.
I gave her the benefit of the doubt, and tried to fix things. This was more than a mistake - it was a fatal error. What this did was to make me appear weak, and give some legitimacy to her behaviour. Manipulation became coercion. The incessant compliments became accusations of fundamental character flaws. Drunken, abusive phone calls were made.
The point where it all came to a head was when, as I was trying one last time to make things right, I was accused of being controlling, manipulative and a narcissist. Recognising classic Freudian projection when I see it, and adding up the number of friends I'd lost in the time I'd known her, due to her manipulations and machinations, I knew that I had to pull the plug on this "friendship".
If you've dealt with a narcissist before, it won't surprise you to hear that, sensing trouble, she pulled the plug first.
The anger I feel about all of this - and, believe me, I've left out a lot - is largely directed at myself. I should never have become friends with her in the first place but, as that did happen, I should have pulled the plug sooner. I didn't do any of that and, as a result, my continued involvement with the dance scene is under threat.
The assertion that I was a great dancer, and would get better, was replaced by accusations that I was so bad that I was hurting her during lessons. In those lessons, she'd "instruct", stubbornly holding her limbs in the wrong positions so that she could tell me I was doing everything wrong and make further accusations of mistreatment. On the dance floor, she guided men to a space next to me and whoever I was dancing with, so that she could turn each turn, spin and flourish into a collision with me or my dance partner.
Off the dance floor, she had manipulated the people who ran the class into practically worshipping her and the entourage she had built by that time. From there, she targetted the few remaining friends I had, convincing them that I was a despicable human being.
In the end, I turned my back on Modern Jive. I wanted to learn Salsa but, knowing that she frequented the nearest class, I decided that one further from home might be a less hostile environment. I was there for over a year before she decided that it would become her regular class too - accusing me, in that first class, of hurting her again.
I thought that informing the people who ran the club of what had happened, and was continuing to happen, might change things. It didn't. Instead, it fell on deaf ears. I later heard that rumours were being spread, where I was the one at fault. As I've heard from many men within the scene, once the women start spreading rumours about you, those rumours are accepted as true, and you're essentially powerless.
A few members of the committee of that club, I discovered later, were actively involved in perpetuating the rumours. I left, due to the atmosphere becoming decidedly uncomfortable.
As an aside, the question about the smaller number of men in the dance community is often asked. Even as I started to learn Salsa, some of the ladies in the beginners' class were asked if they'd learn to lead - some of them did but, to my knowledge, none of them continued for very long. Still, I hear that "women just pick this stuff up more quickly than men."
Oh, you mean those women who have often learned to dance in some form from an early age? Those women? Do you mean the women who get to dance with leads of various abilities, while men are pretty much stuck with what they know at any given time? Isn't that the nature of a partner dance, where one leads and one follows? You mean the women who, from the start, are told that any mistakes are the responsibility of the lead? The women who move out of the beginners' class long before they have even mastered the basics, because they believe the rubbish they're told?
"I know the ladies were all perfect, but ladies, how did the men do?" - I've heard this one too. Imagine standing there, hearing that, while a lady with whom practising the moves felt like wrestling a bull pulls apart "some of the men" because she can't take ownership of her incompetence as a dancer. More than likely, she was one of the ladies who thought that focusing on the basics was unnecessarily holding her back.
Other men have spoken to me about this. One - a dancer of many years - said that a number of the women joining dance classes now feel a sense of competitiveness against the other lady dancers that is stronger than it was before. It has always existed, apparently, but the extent to which he sees it in a number of the new dancers is, for him, an unwelcome development. He concluded that this was at the root of many of the issues that are starting to plague the scene, and that he may soon give up something he's loved for a long time because of the unpleasant atmosphere that accompanies this competitiveness.
I got sidetracked, but all of this adds to what I said about my nemesis within the dance community, and the people she has managed to co-opt into her scheme to eject me. I don't doubt that, if I were to leave, she would continue to attack, and possibly be further encouraged by her success to do so. Messages that were sent by her to someone I love left me in no doubt about any of that.
So, if I go, I'm going into an environment that is largely hostile - so many people from my former club, where the bully took root and successfully ejected me, will be there. A number of them were actively involved in helping the bully, or at least making her feel welcome enough to push forward with her plan. She'll be there too, and a Bachata class involves close contact with the ladies present.
If I don't go, it's simply an acknowledgement that I may not be able to sufficiently push down my anger.
I drive a little further for Salsa lessons now. The standard of instruction is orders of magnitude greater. I'd like to say that's not a shot fired against a club that screwed me over when I asked them for help - a club which enabled a serial bully who is now, as I have heard and seen for myself, "instructing" any man who is relatively new to the scene and doesn't meet with her vision of how she'd like the scene to be. I have to be honest with myself, and admit that I take great pleasure in being able to honestly say that I'm getting better instruction. That's my victory against the bully, and I'm taking it.
I probably won't go.
If I go, it's a show of strength. A Bachata lesson means close contact with the ladies present, and one of those females (I can't use "lady" in her case) is someone with whom close contact feels like being smeared with faeces.
We were friends at one time. That was my first mistake. I told her that my sister was dying. That was mistake number two. There was an assumption that I would be in a vulnerable state, and my feelings could be manipulated. There was an assumption that, with my fiancée on the other side of the world, I'd be open to physical intimacy with another woman. That was HER first mistake, but one which would lead her to make a series of others.
I gave her the benefit of the doubt, and tried to fix things. This was more than a mistake - it was a fatal error. What this did was to make me appear weak, and give some legitimacy to her behaviour. Manipulation became coercion. The incessant compliments became accusations of fundamental character flaws. Drunken, abusive phone calls were made.
The point where it all came to a head was when, as I was trying one last time to make things right, I was accused of being controlling, manipulative and a narcissist. Recognising classic Freudian projection when I see it, and adding up the number of friends I'd lost in the time I'd known her, due to her manipulations and machinations, I knew that I had to pull the plug on this "friendship".
If you've dealt with a narcissist before, it won't surprise you to hear that, sensing trouble, she pulled the plug first.
The anger I feel about all of this - and, believe me, I've left out a lot - is largely directed at myself. I should never have become friends with her in the first place but, as that did happen, I should have pulled the plug sooner. I didn't do any of that and, as a result, my continued involvement with the dance scene is under threat.
The assertion that I was a great dancer, and would get better, was replaced by accusations that I was so bad that I was hurting her during lessons. In those lessons, she'd "instruct", stubbornly holding her limbs in the wrong positions so that she could tell me I was doing everything wrong and make further accusations of mistreatment. On the dance floor, she guided men to a space next to me and whoever I was dancing with, so that she could turn each turn, spin and flourish into a collision with me or my dance partner.
Off the dance floor, she had manipulated the people who ran the class into practically worshipping her and the entourage she had built by that time. From there, she targetted the few remaining friends I had, convincing them that I was a despicable human being.
In the end, I turned my back on Modern Jive. I wanted to learn Salsa but, knowing that she frequented the nearest class, I decided that one further from home might be a less hostile environment. I was there for over a year before she decided that it would become her regular class too - accusing me, in that first class, of hurting her again.
I thought that informing the people who ran the club of what had happened, and was continuing to happen, might change things. It didn't. Instead, it fell on deaf ears. I later heard that rumours were being spread, where I was the one at fault. As I've heard from many men within the scene, once the women start spreading rumours about you, those rumours are accepted as true, and you're essentially powerless.
A few members of the committee of that club, I discovered later, were actively involved in perpetuating the rumours. I left, due to the atmosphere becoming decidedly uncomfortable.
As an aside, the question about the smaller number of men in the dance community is often asked. Even as I started to learn Salsa, some of the ladies in the beginners' class were asked if they'd learn to lead - some of them did but, to my knowledge, none of them continued for very long. Still, I hear that "women just pick this stuff up more quickly than men."
Oh, you mean those women who have often learned to dance in some form from an early age? Those women? Do you mean the women who get to dance with leads of various abilities, while men are pretty much stuck with what they know at any given time? Isn't that the nature of a partner dance, where one leads and one follows? You mean the women who, from the start, are told that any mistakes are the responsibility of the lead? The women who move out of the beginners' class long before they have even mastered the basics, because they believe the rubbish they're told?
"I know the ladies were all perfect, but ladies, how did the men do?" - I've heard this one too. Imagine standing there, hearing that, while a lady with whom practising the moves felt like wrestling a bull pulls apart "some of the men" because she can't take ownership of her incompetence as a dancer. More than likely, she was one of the ladies who thought that focusing on the basics was unnecessarily holding her back.
Other men have spoken to me about this. One - a dancer of many years - said that a number of the women joining dance classes now feel a sense of competitiveness against the other lady dancers that is stronger than it was before. It has always existed, apparently, but the extent to which he sees it in a number of the new dancers is, for him, an unwelcome development. He concluded that this was at the root of many of the issues that are starting to plague the scene, and that he may soon give up something he's loved for a long time because of the unpleasant atmosphere that accompanies this competitiveness.
I got sidetracked, but all of this adds to what I said about my nemesis within the dance community, and the people she has managed to co-opt into her scheme to eject me. I don't doubt that, if I were to leave, she would continue to attack, and possibly be further encouraged by her success to do so. Messages that were sent by her to someone I love left me in no doubt about any of that.
So, if I go, I'm going into an environment that is largely hostile - so many people from my former club, where the bully took root and successfully ejected me, will be there. A number of them were actively involved in helping the bully, or at least making her feel welcome enough to push forward with her plan. She'll be there too, and a Bachata class involves close contact with the ladies present.
If I don't go, it's simply an acknowledgement that I may not be able to sufficiently push down my anger.
I drive a little further for Salsa lessons now. The standard of instruction is orders of magnitude greater. I'd like to say that's not a shot fired against a club that screwed me over when I asked them for help - a club which enabled a serial bully who is now, as I have heard and seen for myself, "instructing" any man who is relatively new to the scene and doesn't meet with her vision of how she'd like the scene to be. I have to be honest with myself, and admit that I take great pleasure in being able to honestly say that I'm getting better instruction. That's my victory against the bully, and I'm taking it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)