Wow! OMG I can’t believe I haven’t written in 30 days.  Today is Friday the 13th and my 96th day of rising before the sun.  My only reason for not writing is overwhelm, a result of growing pains.  When I began this process 96 days ago, and asked for expansion and growth, I forgot that sometimes it can be confronting and a wee bit painful, emotionally.  Couple this with the darkest time of the year and we have the makings of emotional soup.

I am currently doing things which have pushed me out my comfort zone and stretched me in the most uncomfortable places.  My capacity has indeed grown. Things are moving swiftly in my life.  These changes are a blessing so I will continue on my sadhana journey and endure the temporary discomfort.

This time of year, the darkest days, are perfect for doing introspective work.  After all, it is not hard to notice our shadow side when the sun sinks lower in the horizon each day and the thermometer dips.  The cold compresses us, forcing any and all sadness and discontent up to the surface.  It dawned on me that this is another place where we get to practice surrender to the darker side of life – death.  We experience mini deaths all the time, any time something comes to an end.

This is an opportunity to make peace with endings.  Without endings there are no beginnings; and, if you wish for something to change in your life you must first end something before there is room for the new.  Like cleaning out a too-full closet.  Before it is cleaned out there is little space for new purchases.  Experiences are like closets.  One needs to be cleared out before a new, updated version can show up.

 

 

Today I wanted to talk about Death. Yup, the ‘D’ word.  For so many of us death looms out there, somewhere in our future.  Some people hurtle themselves at it, time and time again, through extreme sports or extreme living.  Perhaps this is the hero’s response to this unseen foe; an attempt to conquer the invanquishable.  Others deal with death by controlling every detail of their lives.  They are trying to out manuever and outpace this stealthy predator.

For the yogi, death is the exciting doorway to self and only marks the end of their purposeful, physical journey of life.  Death is not seen as an event to fear but an event to embrace.  How do we embrace death while alive?  By practicing.

Getting up in the wee hours of the morning before the sun shoots its first rays of light into the blackness is one of the ways of embracing this shapeless enemy. Little by little we begin to welcome the dark and we begin to remember that the expansive darkness is the place of our origin- where we begin and end.  I noticed around day 55 that I no longer faced the dark with the feelings of dread or subtle fear.  It now feels like the place of possibilities, the womb of my desires, the blank black chalkboard of creation.  As I reflect on this sensation now, I can feel the tiny bubbles of anticipation for my future.  From deep within me is springing the excitment of something awesome brewing.

There are only a few religions and esoteric practices which give you this most sacred knowledge – How to die.  I believe even Dan Brown in his newest book, The Lost Symbol, touches on this somewhat taboo subject.  (I only read 35 pages so far so I’m not sure how deep he goes).  What I am going to tell you is that it is more simple than you think.

You need only practice thinking expanded thoughts about G-O-D, the universe, the Divine, etc.  Yogi Bhajan gave this teaching and I had the privilege to study it this past weekend at a Level II Kundalini Yoga Teacher Training- Life Styles and Life Cycles. Utilizing breathing and visualization techniques is a safe way to give you a mock experience of dying.  Please do not harm yourself to get this experience it will most likely have an adverse effect.

Confront your fear of death with baby steps and you will find that your life begins to feel more joyful.

Well today, day 59, was my worst sadhana day.  I woke at a little before 4 am and watched my husband walk out the door to lead Sadhana at our studio.  Me? I rolled over in bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.  I slept for another hour until my commitment prodded me into rising.  I turned on the ipod and selected the Aquarian mantra cd. After setting up my pillows to meditate in bed, I ‘tuned in,’ chanting Ong Namo Guru Dev Namo.  This had the same effect as ‘Calgon Take Me Away’ or ‘Beam me up Scottie’.  I could hardly keep my eyes focused and my head upright.  You see, we just finished leading yoga teacher training for the second weekend in a row.  I was exhausted.  After the second mantra I slipped beneath the covers and merely listened while completely horizontal, and very cozy, I might add.

Interestingly enough, I did not fall asleep.  I allowed the sounds and music to wash over me. My cells relaxed, my bones hummed.  This weekend Gurudass Kaur, our lead trainer, spoke about the power of mantra and how chanting the ancient sounds is like strumming the strings of our body system.  The mantra begins to play us.  We chant day after day, week after week, and something magical happens. Actually it’s not really that magical, it is merely an effect which predictably follows the laws of physics and the properties of sound vibration.  By chanting we begin to change our vibration – we change our tune – literally.

After awhile the mantras pop into our minds, spontaneously, unbidden.  There’s a term called Anahat, which refers to the experience of hearing the mantra when there is no other sound around.  This is the goal of many yogis. To reach a state of mind which is dispassionate, neutral, and insusceptible to the seductions of the negative mind.  While this sounds rather dull to those of us who enjoy much of our human condition, it is also a state of an expanded heart. Anahata (just adding an ‘a’) is the sanskrit word for the heart.

From my brief experience at this extended daily practice I would say that my heart is expanding. Slowly. I would equate the size of my heart to the first expansion pictured so vividly in the How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss.  I can hardly wait for my heart to grow so big it breaks out of the frame in which it is held. I wonder if it is even possible…

Last Wednesday I hit the 40 day mark.  Forty day cycles paced the calendars of the ancients who tracked Solar cycles instead of our modern day system which tracks the Lunar cycles (sort of).  In the old days there would have been 9 such cycles within each year.  The number forty signifies the time it takes to make a significant spiritual or mental shift while the number 9 represents mastery. Moses spent 40 years wandering in the desert, Jesus 40 days, while Noah floated on flood waters as it rained 40 days and 40 nights – enough time for a cleansing and total transformation of humanity.  These stories are repeated in most of our world religions with similar themes and main characters.

Okay, so what does all this mean in terms of practicing yoga and meditation today?  The yogis believe personal transformation can and does occur within a forty day period of time.  This transformation may even be more powerful if an intention is attached to the original commitment or goal.

In my case I only want to experience the possibilities of what may happen to my mind, body and spirit as a result of practicing continuously for one year.  Already I feel more neutral minded, calmer, and I am slightly thinner.  My diet has improved as well.

Each day my Sadhana practice varies from as much as 50 minutes of yoga, and 60 minutes of meditation, to one minute of yawning and stretching for my yoga, and curling up in bed for the last mantra of the series.  Still I feel the benefits of a steadier nervous system.  And, the most amazing part for me, is that I have done all of this before the sun begins to brighten the sky.  I am someone who for years thought I needed 10 hours of consecutive sleep each night.  Anything is possible…

Prologue
West Point, New York, USA
1980

They called us plebes. Freshman at West Point were the lowest of the low.  There was no loitering in any public place. No hanging around catching up with friends.  No sharing gossip near the library or mess hall.  To call the mess hall a cafeteria would be a transgression worthy of a green slip – a demerit. There was no pausing to take in the scenery. No sauntering along the numerous hallways. All movement needed to be linear, purposeful, and regimented.  We were trained to walk everywhere briskly, eyes pointing straight ahead. When we walked up or down stairs we needed to hold our forearms at a 45-degree angle from our body.  When we traveled down a hallway we were taught to walk as close, arms brushing, to the wall as possible. Crystals of watches, scraped against brick walls, of eleven hundred plebes each year, bore the marks of adhering to this rule.

I thought about these and one thousand other things that afternoon as I stepped into the corner stairwell of Grant Barracks. I was on my way to my first Russian class.  I wanted to be a spy and a biomedical engineer, but first I needed to get through my freshman year.  I thought my challenge, as a woman, would have been keeping up with the men, physically. However, this was not the case. My biggest challenge was my mind. I woke that morning with my stomach tied in knots. A disquieting feeling hummed just beneath my breast-bone.

Several stories high, made of large roughly cut gray granite block, this stairway more closely resembled the tower of a castle than an access way to classrooms. As I descended each step, the disquieting feeling became stronger–something felt out of place. Though it was late August, cold seeped out of the walls and slid icy fingers down my spine. I forced myself to focus at the hem of my gray uniform slacks. Shiny black military lace up shoes peeked out beneath the hem and made tapping noises on each tread.

My slacks morphed into a natural fiber cloth, heavy linen. Soft-soled leather boots covered slightly smaller feet.  The feel of cold stone through the thin leather sent a paralyzing chill through my legs and the fine blond hairs on my arms stood alert.  The square stairwell transformed into antiquated rounded castle walls. I put my hand on my chest and let out an audible gasp.

Shuffling footfalls echoed in my head, while my heart beat out a more rapid rhythm with each downward step.  I grabbed hold of the handrail to steady myself; I was in two locations at once, a palimpsest. The impressions, of a time long gone, bled through into this time.  Only this place felt like another country altogether. Split, in mind and spirit.  Some unseen hand tethered me to a dark, fearful scene in the past, familiar yet paralyzing, terrifying. Death hovered quietly by my side, waiting. My belly tied in knots as I gasped for air. The scent of burning wood reached my nostrils.

I had parted the delicate fabric of time, awakened the spirit of an event long passed, and peered into a ghastly event.  Voices swam in my head of another place, a different language.  Movement around me, hands pulled me.  Tired, hungry, and discouraged, I wanted to slump down, give up.  Far off cheering made my ears ring. Oh, Dearest God, Help me! Thoughts and fears from another overwhelmed my senses.

Forcing my weakened legs to move, I tore myself away from the horror and let the curtain fall.  With each step, history faded and the present stairway felt more solid under my patent leather shoes.  Instead of holding my forearms parallel with earth, as all plebes should, I slid my shaking hand down the metal rail allowing the cool steel to ground and steady my nerves.  The disconcerting vision departed by the time I reached a small landing, though the threat of death lingered. Somehow, it slipped through time and stayed with me.  “Go back,” I whispered into the empty stairwell.  My high-pitched feminine voice hung in the air like ashes caught on a breeze. I pivoted and ran down the last flight, tears stung at the corners of my eyes and panic rose from my chest constricting my throat.

What’s wrong with me?

Reaching the final landing, I punched the door’s horizontal handle downward, stepped into the fresh air, and let out my breath. Adjusting the white cap with its black brim on my head, I tentatively surveyed the area.  Everything appeared normal. I glanced down at my perfectly shined shoes and felt only slightly relieved. A shimmer of the shadow remained with me as I strode across the macadam towards Steve’s barracks. Cutting through the ‘Quad,’ a paved area surrounded by four six-story buildings topped with ramparts, it occurred to me just how much this whole complex resembled a castle and courtyard. West Point was built just like a fortified town, a walled city sitting on the steep banks of the majestic Hudson River.

The mere two hundred yards distance seemed to have lengthened since I walked this path two days ago. I tried to outpace the shadow, but it remained. It seemed affixed to my heels.  Entering Eisenhower Barracks on my left, I took the stairs two at a time to the third floor.  The panic feeling lingered as I burst into my friend’s room without knocking.  He jumped up from his desk.

“Oh it’s you,” he said, his face softening.  “What’s up?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His olive complexion gleamed, showing off his black eyes set in a narrow face. We shared the same home state, New Hampshire, only he was an upperclassman.  Technically, we should not be talking.  Another rule forbid fraternization, friendship and dating between upperclassmen and plebes.

“Oh my God, Steve, something weird just happened!”  I blurted out as I sat next to him on the edge of the bed with its perfect military corners.  The wool of the gray blanket felt soft and comforting. I wondered if he could feel the dark shadow behind me.

“Why don’t you take a breath? You look alright…shaken, but alright.”  Steve said, sitting down next to me he patted my thigh in a brotherly way.  “They didn’t haze you again, did they?”  he asked, drawing his dark brows together, his voice deepening in my defense.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” I replied my voice tight with fear.  “I was just walking down the corner stairs of the tower in Grant Barracks, you know the ones that feel like you’re in the tower of a medieval castle?”
Steve nodded.  “Yeah, it does feel kind of …“

I always feel awful there, but this time I felt something ominous, a horrible premonition, if I stay here I’m going to die.  I’m too young… just eighteen,” tears pooled in the corners of my eyes. I fought them back for fear that Steve would think I was crazy and stop being my friend.  “I need to leave here,” I said flatly in an effort to sound convincing.

“But…you made it all through Beast Barracks. You can’t leave now. What makes you think you’re going to die?” he stood, crossed his arms over his broad chest, and stared at me.  “That’s ridiculous!”

“I know!  I sound nuts,” I paced around the small room.  “But somehow… I just know.”

Rouen, France
Old Market, May 30, 1431

Saumur Castle, France

“What news do you have, Brother?”  I asked the young monk known as Brother Jean Toutmoille.  Small beads of sweat dotted his partially shaved pink head. By the way he squeezed his smooth chubby hands, and the way his entire face seemed to droop, I sensed the news would not be good. I felt nervous and picked at the scabs on my wrists.  For five months the iron chains chaffed at my skin and caused perpetual, angry sores.

“Jehanne, before I relay the news, I must tell you,” he leaned down and whispered in my ear.  “I believe you are sent by God, and that God and God alone is and has been your only inspiration.  It causes me tremendous pain to see you treated thusly.  I bow to your courage and chastity. You, indeed, are the bravest woman I ever encountered.”   The last word encountered left his mouth as a gasp.  He ran out of breath, he spoke so quickly. Straightening upright, he wiped a tear trailing down his ruddy, round face with the brown sleeve of his robe.

“Merci,” I whispered back, tears filled my own eyes.  “God will surely reward your soul. He waits for you with open arms in his Kingdom in Heaven.”

“It is with great heaviness of heart…I have come to take you to confession …the judges have ordained that you will be burned at the Old Market, today.”

“Et alors! Burned? They treat me horrendously, cruelly.  This is my worst fear that my young body must be consumed and reduced to ashes!  Ah! I’d rather be beheaded seven times than burned at the stake.”  A shudder ran through my thin body, I pleaded with my eyes for the good Brother to do something.

“Come, we must see the Bishop. He’s waiting for you now, downstairs,” the Brother pulled me to standing and led me down the circular tower steps.  Twice I slumped to the cold stone dizzy with fear and twice he gently pulled me up. Chains at my hands and feet restricted my movement.  I could hear the raspy voice of Bishop Cauchon waiting for me on the ground floor.  I wished God would take me now so I would not have to be subjected to the pyre. Please God! I pleaded silently.

“Bishop I die by you.” I said glaring at his red face upon reaching the landing.  His steel blue, blood shot eyes opened wide with anxiety. Waves of fear almost knocked me off my feet.  I could feel my mind slipping sideways – fear turning into a certain giddiness.

“Jehanne, be realistic, you die because you held not to what you promised and have returned to your first evil-doing by wearing men’s clothing,” his lipless mouth formed into a cruel sneer.

“If you had put me in the prisons of the court of the English, or the convent to be guarded by nuns, instead of this military prison…I appeal against you before God.”  I wanted to spit in his face for clearly overstepping his bounds and sentencing me unfairly.  It should have been the job of the secular judges to decide my punishment.

Jehanne, be still!  We are with you.  If you allow it, you will be filled with divine grace to strengthen you for your death.  Remember, you are a beloved daughter of God! My voices from heaven reassured me. Calm began to spread throughout my entire body, settling down the fear, softening the harsh reality of my impending death. My body expanded as my soul began coaxing me upwards.

Not yet, Jehanne.  Soon…

The Bishop and two devoted brothers led me outside to the cobbled street where a cart sat waiting.  The Bishop climbed up to sit next to the driver while the good brothers lifted me, and my chains, onto the back.  The brothers climbed up and sat on either side of me on the weathered wooden seat.  At that moment, a heavenly spring wind blew through the castle’s courtyard and I remembered what it felt like to be free.

As the wheels of the cart crunched over the well-worn stones, I filled my lungs with gulps of fresh air, my strength returned. Sun streamed between the buildings, creating deep shadows and stripes of honey colored light on the rutted road. Soldiers, dressed in the colors of England, lined the streets. Drinking in the all but forgotten sunlight as it fell across my face and shaved head reminded me of the joyful days of independence, fighting for my King, on horseback. It had been a year since I rode freely welcomed by the cheering crowds in every town in France.  The presence of my heavenly counsel floated gently around me and lifted my spirits, nourished, and invigorated me.
Welcoming the familiar surge of courage I took a breath to speak, thinking this my last chance to get a private word with the Bishop.

My voice rang loud and clear in the spring air, “Bishop, no matter how high you build the pyre, no matter how hot the flames rage, you will not be able to consume the joy within me.” I lifted my chin proudly and continued,  “You see it is the joy of following the path where God and I converge – my own heart. Do you understand that there is no earthly power strong enough? Whether it be the advancing army of my enemies, the unjust treatment of my guards, a trial by sixty bishops or one thousand men, or a witch’s stake, you can’t touch my joy and my love for the people of France.”

The cart lurched over debris in the road sending us all wobbling.  My short speech weakened me but I had more to say. I took a breath and with great effort I continued,  “Hope has returned.  It is in the air now and no one can obliterate it, no one can wipe it away.” The wind help to carry my words, strong and full of conviction, to the ear of the Bishop, “You may try.  In the process you will only make yourself and others miserable as you have done already.”

His face turned crimson and he clenched his fists but he did not speak, so I persisted,  “You don’t have to take my word… as a child of God yourself, you will one day understand what you have put me through.  Your name will live on, but not in the way you think and, you will die in fear.”

Jehanne, look around you notice how spring has brought everything back to life.

Tearing my attention away from the Bishop I took in the scene around me.  The air sparkled, crisp, electric, and smelled like ours fields back home after a lightening storm. Spring showed herself in full glory, blossoming trees dotted the courtyard while bright pink hyacinth and red geraniums danced with the breeze in window boxes of the split-beam, Tudor style buildings bordering the square.  The brilliant, clear blue, canopy overhead reminded me how vast we were.

However, my serenity and strength dissipated with each turn of the wheels as we approached the square.  Sounds of a large crowd rumbled in my ears and my stomach lurched when we came into view of the platform holding the stake to which they would tie me.  The square teemed with what seemed like a thousand people, men at arms, priests, royals, and common folk.  Murmurs rippled through the crowd as they caught sight of our procession. Men at arms, walked along side the cart, their hands poised on the hilt of their sheathed swords.

I can’t believe it will all end like this…my death at nineteen years of age.

Jeannette, come …  the wind beckoned, sounding like my mother’s voice calling me by my childhood name and I remembered how it all began.

There are those who know as early as high school their path in life, and they move straight as an ash-shafted arrow through event after event.  Then there are those like me, whose paths meander like the Amazon River, through deep forests, taking sudden turns, only to plummet like a cascading waterfall hundreds of feet below.  I didn’t mind the meandering and found I could hang on as tight as the best of them. I thought if I stayed the course long enough, kept paddling my life’s canoe hard enough, I’d arrive at the place and know it to be home.  The promised bliss of this elusive place kept me moving.

Initially, my journey took me to West Point where I helped carve a new path for women. The Army only began allowing women to attend the academy a few years prior. Leaving West Point early, felt like one of the cascading waterfall moments.  I knew it was the right move, however terrifying.  After college, I meandered through banking, where I worked as a branch manager and a loan officer.

My path veered suddenly with the breathtaking experience of motherhood– twice.  Changing direction again, to accommodate small children, I embarked on an interior design business I ran from home.  Then divorce– another churning, jaw dropping, waterfall.  This catapulted me around a wide bend, a new man, and inspired me to teach yoga and meditation.  I traveled to Costa Rica (with my new husband and our business partner) and together we saved 150 acres of rainforest.  Stopping only briefly, to try fire walking, sweat lodges, and other kinds of meditation, I continued onward. A trip to India gave me a tiny glimpse of the ever-elusive bliss and served to inspire me to open, with the help of my husband, Franklin Yoga & Wellness.

While each experience fulfilled me in some way, I knew I had not yet arrived at the place of ‘promised bliss.’  This desire continued to keep me moving, searching.

Until, it did not.  At one point, in 2007, it seemed like the river stopped flowing.  I ceased to move forward.  Feelings of angst and anxiety settled in and my energy ebbed away.  My good friend, Pamela, recognized the symptoms of my slump and said to me, “You aren’t creating, are you?”

She was right.  I knew exactly what I was not doing – writing.  So, I started the Julia Cameron way, with ‘artists’ pages,’ three hand-written, stream of consciousness pages, every morning.  I began to feel better. Little by little my canoe began to move.  I felt my energy return and along with my desire to follow the elusive promise of bliss once again.  I embarked on writing a memoir and gave four chapters to my writing coach, Lisa Tener.  On June 21, 2008, Summer Solstice, she pointed out that what was chapter two in my memoir could be an entire novel, and a more compelling story.

“That’s it!” My internal GPS signaled, “You have arrived at your destination.”

My book was to be about Joan of Arc, told through the window of my brief experience at West Point.  Joan wanted me to share her journey of unwavering courage and faith, her love of her people and country, and illustrate the potential of feminine power when balanced with the male.  I realized she traveled with me all along, only I could not see her.  I was too close. It was as if I stood, my nose touching the arrow in a billboard pointing ‘this way.’  When I stepped back I could discern the image, the words, and finally her message.

The process of writing Joan’s incredible story has brought me a surprising amount of joy.  As I travel this short distance with her, I find energy, bubbles of happiness and, the not so, elusive feelings of bliss visit me regularly. My path is straightening out, settling down. For now, the river is deep but calm, the scenery a little scary, but beautiful, and my heart is finally at ease. My soul can rest.  I am sure circumstances will change but that is okay with me.  I know I can brave the rapids and survive the dry spells only to arrive at another oasis of creativity in the future—as long as I keep my eyes open, have faith in my journey and continue to paddle.

It is spring; a time of transformation, especially for the Divine Feminine. It’s been thousands of years since women have come this close to truly embodying the divine feminine/goddess.  During patriarchal rule, the archetype of the feminine fell to an all time low. She was lost in dusty caverns, hidden like the Dead Sea scrolls. Many women are angry at the global injustices to the feminine.

We have been held down, silenced, tortured, murdered, jailed in our own homes and worst of all, our role as sacred vessels for birth was made shameful.  Our bodies, once revered as temples, were made unclean and the temptation of the devil.  Our worth, wisdom and power was whittled away.

Collectively, we have been clawing our way back from the underworld; like Persephone in winter, relegated to the darkness of Hades.  Blinded by the dark, we lost our sight, our grace and our way.  Our voices were silenced from endlessly crying out.  Finally, when almost all hope was gone, Divine Mother, like Demeter, journeyed down to the underworld to find us, unlock our prison doors and set us free to find our true selves and connect us with our feminine power once again.

We journeyed far, and learned much from the darkness. We have learned to see in the black and we have become intimate with our own darkest corners. We have discovered our mystical powers and gained the knowledge and wisdom to use these gifts, gently and carefully, knowing the power we possess.  Our time has come. Our soft voices can be heard once again. The pendulum has swung, and the polarities are adjusting.  We are allowed to walk with slow dignity back into the light, feeling the transformational breezes of forward movement.  Mother has returned to the den to nurture and watch over her brood.

As we lovingly begin to take back our own reins, it would be helpful for us to remain open minded.  Men have learned much as well.  Men are beginning to understand that power out of balance creates disharmony.  Male rule without the balance of the feminine disregards the sacredness of all life. The feminine power indeed needs to rise up but she needs to bring the male with her.  She must create and allow for a balance of power for her own health and that of the earth.  The feminine aspect needs to be restored in the hearts of both men and women in order to bring about harmony in all of the forces upon the earth.

Yes, men have done horrible things to women. This is true. There isn’t much they haven’t done to our physical forms.  But here we are, in the 21st century, our spirits are unscathed.

It’s time to forgive.

In strong, united voices, we may pledge, “I choose to forgive, to turn the other cheek.  I choose to change the disparity between the sexes to mutual admiration and cooperation.  I no longer want to perpetuate the legacy of animosity towards my life partner.  I choose to make him my ally instead of my enemy.”

We have the option to take the hardened faces of our men between our soft hands, look them in the eyes and kindly, lovingly say, “On behalf of all women I forgive you, who represent all men, for all of your crimes and injustices against women.”  We may even need to be willing to reciprocate, and ask for forgiveness, for we are not completely innocent of negative behavior.

Persephone’s freedom allows spring, new life, and a new way to burst forth.  Each one of us has the option to free our captive feminine and watch with awe and wonder as growth blossoms in our hearts, our homes and our communities.

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Dancing invites an awakening.  As a teacher, sometimes in the middle of dancing, I will look around at my students, and they are so blissful- smiling, beaming, sometimes crying at the sheer joy of coming home to themselves through movement.   When we dance, we engage the whole body- our feet are firmly planted, the core is strong, the heart is open; the  palms of our hands connect to Earth, then our arms float upward to spirit, creating a flow through the whole body.  As we move energy through our bodies in this way, we open the chakras and create a flow, a dynamic ease.  We step into earth and spirit and experience the body as  the vessel in between.    Before we had language, dance was the first form of worship.  So no matter what form of dance we are doing, somewhere embedded in the experience is a joyous sensation of celebration, ritual, and spiritual connection.  Emphasis is on structure and body mechanics but also on body awareness and internal sensation.  It’s not a

bout how good you look, it’s about how you feel in your body as you move.  My experience from teaching is that on the first day often students are in their sweat pants, big tee shirts, all covered up.  After three or four  classes, they show up in something more form fitting or flowy- not because they want to show off  or see themselves in the mirror (there are no mirrors in most of the places I teach) – they are excited about their experience in their bodies and want to wear something that expresses how beautiful they feel as they move.  In Nia we use a phrase- dancing through life- because when you move your body, you move your life.   The creative flow that you ignite through the

whole body dance experience energizes you in all other areas of your life.  Your renewed connection to yourself inspires confidence and ease.” by Pamela McIntyre

My first published story will appear in Chicken Soup for the Soul-Power Moms to be released in March 2009.  The link will take you to one of the editor’s webpage, Wendy Walker.