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.

Compassion through acceptance

A great Buddhist teacher said that we can feel compassion for others through understanding. Compassion for those who have wronged us, he continued, can be achieved by understanding that the other person suffers too.

I don't consider myself to have any particular wisdom, but it strikes me that the aim is acceptance, possibly without first understanding. How can we truly understand another? We're subject to our own frame of reference, and see others through the lens of our experience. We project the things we find unacceptable in ourselves onto others, and see them as failings of that person's character. We transfer feelings we had for someone in our past onto someone in our present, simply because they are in some way similar.

Our understanding of others is limited, especially when we make assumptions rather than asking the questions which might correct our initial impression. Yes, we can achieve some level of understanding through putting aside our preconceived notions of who that person may be, but there's a point where we have to accept what we don't understand.

The inability to accept what we don't understand has real consequences. It troubles me to hear the way in which people from other lands are described by our print and broadcast media, and discussed on various platforms on the internet. I see fear, hatred and anger, rather than the compassion that our Buddhist friend rightly advocates.

How fully can we understand the experience of someone from another land, another culture, with values, beliefs and attitudes which may vary greatly from our own? Our understanding is likely to be limited, so we may ask them about their experience, their way of seeing the world around them. How likely are they to be open, though, if we don't first offer acceptance? How likely are we to listen, if we don't first offer acceptance?

Mold

I'm glad that I went to Theatr Clwyd (not a typing error - it's the Welsh spelling). It took more courage than usual to get me into the place, but one thing I've started to recognise is that I don't lack courage. I'm glad I was there, because it stripped away any illusion that I have friends within the Salsa community.

At another table, the group who were trying to eject me from the dance scene were enjoying their popularity, as bullies often do. I'd gone there with the intention of showing no reaction to this, because I'm old enough to know how these things work, and for once I also had an agenda that was separate from just being there to dance. I wanted to confirm things I'd long suspected.

I watched as ladies who knew about the bullying, and who was responsible, spent a lot of time in friendly conversation with the bullies, while I sat alone for most of my time there. I reflected that they were part of the problem, and had been responsible in no small way for the ease with which I'd been ejected from what was once my regular Salsa class. These same ladies later asked me to dance - some of them intercepting me on the dance floor before I was able to get back to my seat. I counted seven dances without a break, most of them to faster tracks, before I stopped counting.

You'd think it would be good to be so popular. You'd think it would be appreciated. My legs disagreed with that sentiment: after a while, they stopped working correctly. The requests for dances reduced in number, because I was no longer useful. This changed when I got up to leave. Twice I put on my jacket, and twice I removed it, as ladies asked me for one more dance.

Again, you'd think I'd be flattered. You'd think it would reinforce that thing which is said so often about me being a good lead. No. None of the above. Even now, I can't shake the feeling that it was no longer about dancing with me. Remember, the requests for dances had reduced in number, until I wanted to leave.

It was about control.

I'm not in the habit of refusing dances. It's not in my nature. I also know what it's like to be refused a dance, and it's an awful feeling. On this particular Saturday evening, however, this firmly held principle became a medium for self-sacrifice. So, I now see accepting or refusing a dance as a boundary issue. I still hope that I don't feel the need to refuse a dance, but it's no longer a given that I'll accept.

Actually, Mold reminded me of the realities of being a man in the dance scene. I'm not the first man about whom rumours have been spread within the community but, like all those others, there's nothing I can do about it. If you're a man, and a woman is saying that you're a despicable human being, then you are, simply because you're a man and she's a woman. You will get asked to dance, if you're any good, but you have no worth other than that.

There's likely to be a time where I grow so tired of it all that I leave it behind me. I've been there a number of times already, but I'm stubborn enough to tell myself that no one's ejecting me from the scene, forcing me to give up doing something I love.

Enabling the bully, and then stopping me taking a break from dancing until I'm exhausted? That feels like abuse.

Maybe I'm being unfair. Maybe the dark place in which I'm currently residing, mentally and emotionally, is affecting my view of things. The alternative is that I'm just seeing things how they are, and going to Theatr Clwyd removed the blind spots. Maybe I need to take a break, or I'll start to feel enough contempt for the scene that I'll leave and never come back.

Thought for the day - devaluing ourselves

When we devalue ourselves, we make it so much easier for others to do the same.

There are times when we find ourselves vulnerable, either due to sustained emotional distress from external factors or, more commonly, through neglecting some aspect of our physical, mental, emotional or spiritual health. The mention of the last of those often provokes much eye-rolling, as it is linked by so many to the notion of religious belief. Some express their spirituality within a religious tradition, but to me it seems to be something bigger than, and often separate from, those traditions.

The point I'm trying to make is that we often devalue ourselves by neglecting ourselves, and then we search for something that has always been within us by finding fragments of it within other people. When they also devalue us, we question our own worth. We might be better employed asking ourselves what is really missing, and where we might find it.

Maybe we search for kindness and compassion, and desperately cling to any sign that we are receiving these things. Maybe we do this because we haven't been offering these things to ourselves. Maybe we give freely of ourselves, to people who give just enough back to ensure that we keep giving. What clearer example could there be that we are failing to see our own value?

There's little more to say. If we feel that our relationship with others is unequal, and very much to our detriment, then maybe we invited a lack of respect by first refusing to acknowledge our value, or the value of our time and presence. If we don't see what these are worth, how do we expect others to see it?

I'll leave you with a thought about depression, and it comes from my own experience of the illness. Some of us continue to give a whole lot of love to the world, but direct a whole lot of anger and loathing towards ourselves. The effects of this imbalance are catastrophic, and the truth is that our anger would be more usefully directed towards another target, whereas our love and compassion would be more usefully directed toward ourselves.

You're worth something. You have value. You deserve love and compassion. Please remember that.

There is only perception

I exist in the light,
and in the darkness too.
There is beauty in the world,
but also things that are ugly,
and yet there is nothing.
There is only perception of these things.

I carry anger, and I carry peace.
I am the quiet one sat in the corner,
but inside I scream at the volume
of a thousand claps of thunder.
Beneath a dispassionate indifference
is a great passion.

Beneath my mistrust
is a need to place my trust in someone.
There's a fire burning within,
but the surface is much calmer and cooler
than the raging inferno.
There is only perception of these things.

T.R.G.

How does it feel?

I have a serious weakness as a dancer. Well, I have more than one, but let's focus on what gives me the most trouble. I've been trying to think of a way to explain it, and I think I finally have it.

I know very few moves, or at least I can't remember many. If I take part in a class, I'll struggle to remember a sequence that's being taught, and embarrassingly, I often get a little extra attention from the instructor. So, I'm weak as a dancer but, strangely, it's also in some ways a strength.

If you were to ask me about a very basic Salsa move, for example - let's use Kentucky - I would struggle to explain it to you. I know I go into it from guapea, and that I wrap the lady to my right side initially. I think I have to keep the left hand high and the right hand low at that point, but from there I'm lost. Ask me to demonstrate the move, though, and I'll show you. Ah yeah, I'll say to you, that's Kentucky - that's how it feels.

When I'm watching an instructor demonstrate, I'm trying to absorb what I'm being shown. Was that turn clockwise or anti-clockwise? Where are the instructors hands and elbows? What about the footwork? Whoa! Wait a minute! I'm not actually getting a lot of this stuff.

I'll try to mimic the movement, slowly, and eventually I'll know how it feels. Yeah. Remember that feeling, and recreate it. Then, one of the ladies will stubbornly hold her arm in the wrong position or turn the wrong way, and I've lost any sense of how the move should feel. Back to square one, with the minutes ticking away.

One of the ladies, who developed a good measure of contempt towards me, recognised this weakness after a while, and exploited it. She would stubbornly and deliberately react in entirely the wrong way during a class - Modern Jive at first, and then she started showing up at the Salsa club I frequented. It was easy to get me to leave two dance clubs, just by making sure my progress as a dancer came to a screaming halt.

I mentioned it could be a strength, didn't I? Well, if I've practised something enough times to know how it should feel when done correctly, or at least my version of doing it correctly, then it just comes naturally. I may not dance with a high level of technical competence, but I dance with feeling, because I'm constantly using how everything feels as a reference.

I blame Tai Chi. What I realised during my practise of Tai Chi was that the movements were performed slowly for a reason. At every position in the three dimensional space around me that a movement travelled through, my brain picked up how that movement felt. Something about the soft, flowing nature of Tai Chi also transferred to my dancing.

If other dancers had seen how I trained the basic footwork of Salsa, they might have found it strange. No music - just me counting, and counting slowly as I moved equally slowly. Actually, I was placing my left foot forward, stepping in place with my right and so on, at the speed of a Tai Chi form and with the same flow.

What I'm describing is an example of the Zen concept of mushin. Literally translated, it means "no mind", but it actually means to have practised something so many times, and have become so proficient, that we are barely aware of any conscious effort. We simply do the thing. I've found that this state requires a certain level of confidence, and a certain level of relaxation.

Anyway, that's it. I dance with feeling, literally. That's good with something I've practised hundreds, or even thousands of times. With something I've learned over the course of an hour? The feeling isn't so deeply embedded in my memory. I'm a good dancer, I'm told, but a bad learner. I accept that.

Pushing against a door labelled "pull"

A friend said recently that I'd changed in the time she'd known me. I wanted to deny this, and say it was simply her perception of me that had changed, or that I had only stopped hiding so much of myself. She was correct, though. I have changed, or at least become more fully myself.

Dancing connects with my emotional side, somehow. I don't know whether it's the music, the movement or being so close to another person, but the sensitivity I've spent most of my life trying to hide is no longer hidden. To be honest, I don't know if I was ever really that successful at hiding it. My way of dealing with that part of my character was simply staying away from other people as much as possible, so I wasn't vulnerable.

When someone I work with heard that I was learning to dance, she laughed at first. A lot of people laugh at first. After a few minutes, however, she said she thought it was wonderful that I was connecting with my inner passion. Hmm.

Suffering as much loss, dealing with as much change, and having to cope with the amount of uncertainty I've encountered over the past few years has meant that I've had to change. Even now, I think that I still need to find other ways to cope. As a part of my training, I had to go for personal counselling, and it brought things into focus I would rather have continued to push to the back of my mind, so to speak. It took a long time for the counsellor to understand me, so maybe we didn't cover things as fully as we could.

I'm starting to think I should go for more counselling. There are so many things that are unresolved. If you know anything about the process, you know that we work most on our issues in the time between sessions, and also in the time after the sessions have come to an end. There are things I know I have to talk about, and yet a large part of my reluctance to return to counselling is being afraid to talk about them.

I've started practising martial arts again. I'm learning some Muay Boran sets. As usual, I'm not rushing my learning, because I want to understand everything thoroughly - to gain better understanding and to refine the movements. To be honest, I'm doing it mainly because it feels good to move this way again. It feels like an antidote to the emotional pot being stirred by dancing, or at least enables me to better deal with it.

So, yeah, I'm changing. I hate using this phrase, but I suppose I'm finding myself. I'm aware that every time I've been through difficult times, I've started practising martial arts again. There's something in that.