zumba

I have been leading Zumba classes at least six times each week for the last four months, after I randomly and reluctantly stumbled into my first class last July. 


Sometimes when I'm teaching, I'll catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror --  head held high, dripping hair pulled back in a colorful bandanna, a wide, white grin stretched across my dark, glistening face, studded bling sparkling from my earlobes, ZUMBA splashed in neon across my chest and bright pants hanging from my hips with just one pant leg cinched to my knee. "Who is that in my body and how in the world did she get here?!?" I wonder as I step and sway in a side salsa. 


"So, what exactly is Zumba?" I've been asked more than once. Feel the Music; Get Fit, Get Happy our wrist bands and tank tops tout. "It's a Latin-inspired dance fitness program blah, blah, blah..." I reflexively reply. But in my final class of the day yesterday, I saw and felt something happen that my auto-response fails to describe.  


When I think back to who and how I was six months ago, it blows my mind that I am doing what I am doing. I reached a bottom so low that the only thing that could get me out of bed for a while was food (ice cream, preferably) which I couldn't stop eating once I began. With a sore belly and a wounded spirit, I called my friend Joy one bleak morning last July. All I could do when Joy said hello was cry. She listened for a second, then confessed that she was heading out the door to the free Zumba class that would take place at her church 20 minutes later.  She invited me (again) to come. "There's free childcare too," she added. 


I went to Zumba that day, and a few days later, I went back. And I went back again. And again. And without retelling the whole sob story of the early days of last summer, June's clouds eventually lifted, the sun came out in July and something in me began to change. That something didn't happen overnight, and it certainly wasn't pretty. It's been sloppy and slow actually. 


I remember the day when I started to notice. I had moved from the back to the front of Allison's Zumba class, and I caught a glimpse of myself -- left arm extended across my body, fingers long and alive. I was abandoned and lost in music and movement. The sadness that threatened to swallow me was gone, and in that moment I felt free. I was dancing. 


For the last few months, I have had the good pleasure of coming alongside the persons who have attended my classes to see what this whole "Zumba Thing" is all about. I have been witness once again to beauty being birthed. Insecurities have crumbled as pounds have dropped, hips have loosened and smiles have returned. In this world, belly dancing shimmies have replaced baggy tops and sweat pants, and neon has become the new black. Individuals who were once straight-faced strangers have unabashedly uncovered what was hidden. "Look, Abi," one glowing woman in particular exclaimed as she lifted her shirt after class recently. "I have a WAIST!!" 


Yesterday night, I saw 13 women move in sync. Salsa, Samba, Reggaeton, Charleston, Foxtrot, Cumbia... harmony. Although I've taught classes quadruple the size, the energy and enthusiasm in the studio last night could have illuminated the entire state. Again, I felt that shift -- we were no longer thinking through steps and choreography, we were indeed feeling the music and the magic of that moment. This was not just an hour of intense, brightly colored group fitness, and for me it was much more than a job. It was a concert of confidence, commitment, beauty and joy. For 61 minutes we worked and shook and shimmied our asses off. And from start to finish, we were beaming. We were dancing.  

bowing out

"I am never proud to participate in violence, yet, I know that each of us must care enough for ourselves, that we can be ready and able to come to our own defense when and wherever needed."

~ Maya Angelou

friends on facebook

Cole and I walked into a living room of strangers and settled into a spot between two women I met earlier in the week. I accepted the invitation to the playgroup that morning in a half-hearted effort to make connections in our new town.

After brief introductions and a bit of coercion, Cole eventually left the circle and went to play with the children in another room. I was on my own to take up space and make my place amidst this group of young mothers. So dutifully, I inquired about names, about spouses, about pastimes and children, then leaned back against the couch, settled into my spot atop the cheerio-laden carpet and purposed to do what I do best: to listen and to learn.

The events that followed were unexpected, however. Nothing happened. Conversation ceased once I stopped talking, and save the soundtrack of our children playing in the distance, I sat amidst eight friends-of-one-another for 1 1/2 hours in virtual silence. It was a curious, confounding... and painfully awkward thing.

Every once in a while one woman would briefly speak into the chasm and the others would smile, nod or respond. Then, as quickly as it departed, the heavy hush would return. I began to welcome and to look forward to the frequent interruptions of snot-nosed toddlers with needs for snacks, affection, interjection and Kleenex. In all honesty, I couldn't wait to leave. To my shock, these women had nothing to say. They had already said it -- posted it, rather -- earlier that morning.

I was in the midst of friends on Facebook.

"Facebook is where it's at..." I've heard it countless times before. Now, more than ever. My increasingly conspicuous absence from this book of faces is neither philosophical, nor religious. It hasn't been a choice, really. You see, my life has felt full -- overflowing most days -- without Facebook, so honestly I haven't given it much thought. Until now.

Last night, Paul and I spoke about relationships and connections between people. Inevitably, Facebook made its way into our conversation. Paul loves the chase and making connections. He loves to network and loves Facebook for the access to all these things that it affords. I compartmentalize and over-analyze. I love the distinction between relationships in context and I value presence and quality of connection above all.

Instant access, limitless resource, one more way to fill up free time and more "friends" than one can count are just a few of the compelling reasons to frequent Facebook. For me, however, these are a few of the reasons I've opted out. I'm not on Facebook for the same reason I don't wear a watch, forget my cell phone, infrequent Trader Joe's and Target, abstain from Costco and have not returned to that playgroup: way too much, yet not nearly enough.

I am not a Facebook-hater (neither Costco-, TJ's-, nor Target-). I have never tried it, so I can't in good conscience knock it. I can only speak from my own experience and observation. But it's become harder to see. I have observed haze, fuzz and interference. Hard lines have been crossed and become blurred. Meaning has been obscured.

The things is, Facebook is not friendship. This, I think, bears repeating. In the same way that the Bible is not faith, a calculator is not mathematics, the internet is not knowledge, Christmas gifts are not love, and marriage cannot make perfect strangers a family, Facebook is not friendship.

In my opinion, its lines have been smudged and it is sometimes misused. How can I deny what an amazing resource it has been for so many? But the operative word here is resource. Facebook -- like the bible, a calculator, the internet, a gift and a marriage -- is a tool. It is a means by which to connect, to understand, to end or to begin. To become rapt with the pen and to miss that which was penned is a tragedy.

I don't know the words that were exchanged on Facebook the morning before that playgroup, and I can't judge the quality of the relationships of the mommas I shared that morning with. I can say, however, that something was missing.

For me, the beauty of friendship and of faith is the present, the face-to-face and the conversation that comes from lives intertwined; connection is everything. I live and ache for it. To me, that morning and those women seemed disconnected. In that moment, it was as if creation -- a reflection of something so much bigger, sweeter -- took over and was all there was. It wasn't enough.

I don't have any friends on Facebook, and it's more than enough.

!!!!!

it's SNOWING!!!!!

com panis

For several days, I’ve had bread on my mind.

I haven’t been eating much of it lately -- an obvious reason to ponder it, I suppose. But honestly, I think the substance of these thoughts resides in more than just bread’s absence in my life of late. Actually, it’s the choice that’s been on my mind. With bread, I am almost always forced to choose.

This ubiquitous staple, with its varieties and complexities, is so often boiled down to a choice. But clarity, context, character and color can be compromised when I am asked to decide between white and wheat.

For me it’s not that simple.

It’s not that I wish to consider every variety on every occasion. There are far too many options for me (and especially for the poor guy in line behind me) to choose from: oat, corn, multigrain, sourdough, pumpernickel, rye… whole grain, seven grain, sprouted grain… quick breads, slow breads, French breads, German breads… loaves, rolls, biscuits, baguettes, croissants, bagels, matzos, pitas, tortillas, focaccias, challahs, naans, chapattis… some mysterious, foil-clad, holiday loaves bound by fruits, nuts, seeds and spices… still others free of salt, high-fructose corn syrup, flavor… oh, and gluten.

For heaven’s sake, it’s BREAD, right?! And there’s not much to bread, really. It’s just water, flour and energy.

Perhaps.

But as I've been searching my heart this week -- trying to understand and to make sense of some things and some folks -- I've settled my mind at the counter of a proverbial bakery. A particular loaf of bread has commanded my thoughts enough for them to become words this afternoon. I get this bread. Hell, I am this bread.

This bread has heart, texture and depth; it is not easy. It is dark, rich, and it requires time – to chew and to digest. Its substance and sweetness are subtle; its flavor, strong and distinct. In contrast to its smooth, saccharin, carefree and easily-digestible counterparts, it can be overlooked or overpowered. But when the tenderness beneath its crisp crust is experienced and well-paired – with creativity, care and intention – this bread is far more than flour and water.

But is there really a choice?

Let's face it: as long as long as we live in a world with school lunches and Thanksgiving, Wonder Bread and Pillsbury Crescent Rolls will take the enriched-white-flour cake. Further, when faced with a simple choice, kiddos and carnivores worldwide will opt for either of the latter over the earthy alternative twenty times over. My bread will never make the same kind of dinner roll... ever.

So why exhaust any more energy baking hearty, wholesome holiday rolls? Perhaps it's time to let wheat be wheat, to let white be white, and for me to be true to my bread nevertheless. For today, I'll just ponder the wonder of bread.

I think bread is a wonderful thing, indeed. I am consuming it less, valuing it more and discriminating about the company it keeps. This has made a difference.

happy hour

Do you hear that?

Neither do I.

My belly rumbled; the fridge hummed. A fly buzzed by. The leaves beyond the open doors rustled, and someone -- something -- in the distance was singing a happy song.The keys beneath my fingers went tap, tap, tap, and then it ceased. For a moment, all of it ceased.

SILENCE.

This morning, after THREE MONTHS of summer vacation, my children returned to school. Cole is now in Kindergarten, Maya is in first grade, and I am in heaven. The sun is shining, fall is in the air, and save the rumbles, hums, buzzes and taps, my house is quiet. REALLY quiet.

Any minute, Paul and the kids will return home with stories, lunch pails, jackets and volume. I will welcome them, and I will be mostly glad. But until then, I fully intend to quietly sip this moment from the lap of my chair.

Bright light from outside fills the room and warms my face. I hear nothing but my tapping, and I can feel that I am beaming. There goes that fly again.

Ahhhh.