Dancing- My Lifelong Escape Hatch

I walk through the door at my dance school, hear the familiar fiddle music echoing from the studio room, lace up my tap shoes, and the worries in my head are forgotten.

I have danced since I was seven years old. It began innocently in response to a little girl's request to wear the black shiny shoes with the jingly taps. Coincidentally, step dance lessons were offered one block from my house, once a week. This involved no parental driving time, and the cost of equipment and registration did not involve remortgaging the family home. There were no grand visions of becoming a famous broadway dancer. At that time, extra curricular meant getting some exercise, having some fun, and appreciating that you were even given the opportunity to be wearing those shiny black shoes.

More than 35 years later, and I still love wearing my dance shoes, hearing the sounds of the taps, being able to make my feet move in ways that seem almost unnatural. The memories I have made and the friendships that have been cemented in place by the simple act of dancing are what keep me dancing. I have performed in front of crowds of thousands, as well as for the simple pleasure of my family and friends. I have tasted victory in competitions, but also learned how to lose graciously. I watched dance students experience the thrill of finally getting it, and have been so lucky to continue to experience that thrill myself.

Last week, the new year of dance lessons began. As I was sitting in the waiting room tightening the laces on my shoes, I noticed that there was a considerable age difference between myself and the other dancers. There were no unfamiliar faces in the room as I had danced with these young people for a few years and performed with them in many shows. However, in the past, our lessons had always been a combination of the "young teenagers", and the "older women". When our instructor opened the door to the dance studio, I quietly asked her "Did I get the time wrong?" With a big welcoming smile on her face, she reassured me that I was in the right class. I wasn't quite so sure. Determined not to embarrass myself or my instructor (who is also a very dear friend of mine), I emptied my head of all worries and all concerns that I had arrived with, and I focused on my feet and the music for the next two hours. When the shoes came off, I felt the familiar high of a grueling workout, as well as the pride of being able to do it. I had not given in to my fear of being the most experienced (read between the lines, and I really mean the oldest) dancer in the room. I had used that unwavering faith that my instructor has in my ability to once again surprise myself with another accomplishment.

Over the years, dancing has created some of my most unforgettable lifetime moments. One such experience was two years ago. After months of training and hundreds of hours of practice, a group of thirty advanced dancers were ready to perform at a national dance convention in Nashville, Tennessee. The honour of being asked to be part of this dance group still causes a swell of emotion to build inside of me. But, what makes the memory even more precious is that my oldest daughter performed on stage with me. At the time, she was fifteen, angry at the world about her parents' divorce and not really liking me at all. There were many tears and loud arguments during the rehearsals, and on the car rides to and from those practices. But as the trip to Nashville drew closer, there was a gradual thawing in the icy mood that hung between the two of us. The car rides became less confrontational and more conversational. The talk expanded beyond dancing, beyond her angry words, and became more about us and about where do we go from here. I hoped this mood would continue for our trip. When we arrived in Nashville, after a 14 hour bus ride, we were both grumpy and tired, feeling grimy from the overnight ride. There were still many practice hours to put in before the big show. I had no idea what would erupt between the two of us. It's amazing, however, what a few hours of sleep in a big, comfy bed, and a hot shower will do for any relationship. By the time we were dressed and ready to perform, Jessica threw her arm around me, and gave the camera a beaming "I'm ready" smile. Dressed in our matching red glitter tops, black pants, and shiny black tap shoes, we made our way back stage. It is difficult for me to put into words how I felt when I looked across the stage and saw my daughter dancing alongside me. At one time, I thought I had lost that mother/daughter relationship with her, or at least had seen it change to one that would never be what it once was. Dancing gave me a chance to build that with her again. Dancing put me one step closer to getting my daughter back.

The high of the big moments and the pleasure of just being able to dance keep my feet moving. This week I put my dance shoes on at school, and put on a small demonstration for my group of grade 2/3 students. The fact that I was able to do something more than just be a teacher was quite fascinating to my young audience. When I slipped on my shoes and then stood in front of these wide-eyed children, that familiar thrill of performing, of being able to dance coursed through me. It can be a crowded dance hall, or a simple classroom, the effect is still the same. The looks on their faces and the words from their mouths make it all worthwhile. "Mrs. Van Moorsel, how do you make your feet move so fast? You must be a professional." Oh, how I love to dance!

Locate the Escape Hatch

I'm not sure what brings it on. I just know that when it starts to happen, I have to have a clear view of my escape hatch, to get out of my head, and out of my thinking.

For the past few weeks, my life has been a whirlwind. September is always filled with new beginnings and old routines. The structure of school is a welcome relief by the time summer holidays flicker away into our memories. The re-emergence of extra curricular activities fills the calendar to bursting capacity. The added excitement of my new job has increased the speed of the slipping away of the days and weeks of the month. Throw in one teenage daughter's wisdom tooth surgery, including a week of recovery (and zero pain tolerance!), another daughter's bout with strep throat, my son's insistence on joining every fall sport that school offers, kids' work schedules, and it's a wonder that there were even enough hours in September to accommodate the load.

The motive for my writing today, however, is not sympathy. It's not for pity. We are all parents with busy schedules and full lives. Today is about coping. It's about not letting the load become too heavy. I tend to let that happen, much too often. My head becomes so full of what I should be doing, what needs to be done, and what I happen to be doing at the moment, that it is easy to allow system meltdown and ultimately nothing getting done. This is when I need the escape hatch.

I need to escape to that place of being still. I need to remember exactly what makes me happy. I need to find those things that give me peace. Sometimes, it's as simple as going for a run. It could be reading a book, going to dance class, sitting in the sun on my back patio, talking to a friend on the phone, writing on my blog. Whatever it is, I don't have to explain why to anyone but me. I just do it.

I have to remember that although the big things give each of us those much-needed euphoric highs, it is how I walk through each day that really matters. As long as I know where the escape hatch is.

Note to self: When I am having trouble finding the handle on that escape hatch, don't watch Grey's Anatomy, mourning the loss of George; don't try to pay my bills; and don't attempt to finish my almost-due school long range plans.

Africa is Calling- My Dream

Last week I said Bon Voyage to a very dear friend. Although I will miss her over the next three months, I know that this is the fulfillment of a dream for her. She is, at this very moment, on the island of Zanzibar off the east coast of Africa. An organization called "Hands Across Borders" has welcomed her into their world. For many years, she has always wanted to become more culturally aware, teach and learn about tolerance of people beyond our own small worlds, in a way that she felt immersed in their world. She didn't want to portray herself as the affluent westerner that lacks the compassion or the desire to motivate the culture to learn. She wanted to teach them how to be healthy, how to become educated, how to build a self-sustained life that didn't involve exploitation of the poor masses. It had to be an experience that filled her with a feeling of purpose, a feeling of community, and a feeling of appreciation and peace with the world she left behind.

I researched the organization that she became involved with. It's hard not to fall in love with the beauty of the land, the willingness of the people to make a better life, the philosophy behind what these cultures are working towards. In reading the goals of Hands Across Borders (HABS), I can better understand how my friend was drawn to this small village of Jambiani- even the name is fun to say as it rolls off your tongue, and makes the speaker sound intelligently exotic.

"Hands Across Borders Society's goal can be divided into four main purposes as outlined in our constitution:

* To assist in alleviating poverty through Community Economic Development
(CED) initiatives
* To provide and advance education and health care
* To create international links between Canada and the developing world
* To involve and encourage active participation of youth"

As a nurse in the truest sense of the word, with her caring, compassionate character that transcends her work world, extending to her family, and her friends, this opportunity did seem like a perfect fit for the dream that she has carried within her for so many years.

The passion of her dream, combined with the balance in her mind that this was what she really wanted to do and needed to do, are both what gave her the courage to take action, apply, receive acceptance, then finally board the plane. I can't wait to hear about her adventures, listen to her stories, see the spark in her eye that made her new journey so worthwhile. This was her dream.

Watching her take this courageous step, in combination with the more frequent appearances of many other interesting people and events in my own life, now have me re-evaluating my own goals and dreams. I once had a passion to teach overseas. When I was younger, I admit, it was more the thrill of traveling and the adventure of it that caught my eye. After teaching for many years, resigning, and now opening up the world of teaching to myself again, I have a different perspective about my passion of teaching the underprivileged, whether it be Africa, Asia, Central America... the options are limitless.

But why? I want to share the world. I want to soak up as much information as I can and share it with the wonder-filled students that I teach. What better way than to live the reality of another culture. How are we expected to teach students about the world, if we rarely leave our own classrooms? How do we adequately explain the tastes of the food, the feel of the climate, the flamboyance of the culture, the arts, the talk, the traditions? How do we teach tolerance? How do we explain the perseverance and desire of these people to learn? In our over-indulged, desensitized society, many students are coming to school unwillingly, or with prejudgments about what school will be for them. The desire to learn and grow is a tough concept to break through the preconceived notions about traditional western school life. How do we motivate? How do we duplicate that desire of the students in Africa, in Afghanistan, in any underprivileged country? I don't have the answer to that.

My dream: To teach a classroom full of students with that look of wonder on their faces, grateful that they are even at school, learning to read and write; that they are even being given the chance to think about a dream of their own someday.

Tonight on my run, listening to my iPod, the song "Anyway" by Martina McBride started to play. The idea for tonight's blog was already rolling around in my mind when I was running, and the theme of "dreams" was prevalent in the blog-writing part of my brain. One line of that song repeated for me, and stayed the rest of my way home.

"You can chase a dream, that seems so out of reach, and you know it might not ever come your way. Dream it anyway."

Fate, coincidence, I don't know, but words to live by.

It Happened One Night- A Story of 3

The all-knowing "they" say that things happen in 3's. Last night, as I helped a step dancing friend celebrate her birthday, I discovered that it is not only emotional, negative events in our life that tend to happen in 3's...it can also refer to embarrassing, ridiculous events as well (in my case anyway). As I recall the details of the night and try to piece together each moment of embarrassment, I see a pattern emerging as to the cause. I have no one to blame, no chain of coincidental circumstances that I can see- it's me. It's my uncanny inability to take in all the important details of what is happening around me, and to think first before I react either verbally or dramatically.

Event #1: The restaurant/pub was packed. There was lots of action with the wait staff almost running to keep up. The noise level was, in my teacher terms, at an "outside voice" level, combined with the music, the breaking of glasses, the sports channels on the big screen tv's. In my defense, that is a lot to take in when you are trying to focus on the conversation of the person you are dining with, someone whose story had me totally enraptured with what she was saying as well. I vaguely remember a waiter setting some platters of food on the small round table pushed into the corner beside us. No one was sitting at this table. A few minutes later, two young men arrived at that small table, did not sit down, but proceeded to pick up the platters of food. Once again, in my defense, would anyone not just assume that these two men were waiters? It was at this precise moment that my friend needed a refill for her drink and had been unable to flag down our waitress. Being the helpful friend, I leaned over and politely asked one of the men picking up the food at the table next to us, if he could bring my friend another glass of red wine. His response wasn't openly rude, but loud enough that three tables of people could hear him. "Maybe you should ask somebody who actually works here." Left at that it would have been not too embarrassing, but of course, anyone who knows me well, knows that I tend to be quite dramatic. Thus, the over-exuberant apologizing followed, accompanied with the nervous laughter, and then the "omigosh I can't believe that I just did that" scene, resulting in at least three more tables of restaurant patrons joining in on the embarrassing incident. A few minutes later, with the red in my face slowly draining, a waiter (a real one) came to our table with a glass of red wine for my friend.
Waiter: "I heard from the band that you ladies needed a refill for your drinks."
I turned in the direction of where the band was set up, made eye contact with the drummer(the waiter in my mind a few minutes earlier), who then tipped his drumstick to his forehead, gave me a slight nod and a smile. My embarrassment was now complete.

To be honest, the cause of Events 2 & 3 may have been slightly influenced by the consumption of alcohol. I should have my own personal warning that extends beyond not operating a motorized vehicle after consuming alcohol, to also include, do not speak or move without thinking through the consequences of all of your actions.

Event #2: The birthday celebration changed venues throughout the evening as we moved from the restaurant to a dance bar across town. When we arrived, I wasn't sure how many people I would actually know at my friend's birthday party as we usually moved in different social circles. There were a few familiar faces, not close friends, but at least people that I recognized. As we moved deeper into the room, scanning the crowd, I saw the husband of one of my very close friends sitting on a stool at the bar across the room. Once again, tunnel vision kicked into high gear as I made my way over to where he was sitting, to say hello. In my world, public greetings of my close friends are not formal, polite, etiquettely-correct (is that a word?) kiss, kiss greetings. It begins with a bit of a squeal, followed by the name of the person in the same high-pitched tone, and then a dramatic hug that would seem as though this was a long-lost friend returning from the dead. My friend's husband has known me for years, and being quite accustomed to such scenes, willingly played along. It was just as I reached my arms up to give him my hug that the moment changed from a greeting to another embarrassing event. It was dark in the bar. It was crowded too. I didn't even notice the waitress trying to squeeze between me and the table beside where I was standing. I also didn't notice her tray of full drinks...at least not until my elbow made contact with it and the whole thing went crashing on the floor. Once again, my exuberant apologizing, my nervous laughter, and my assistance with the clean-up only proved to draw more attention to the whole situation. My friend's husband, having witnessed many similar scenes involving myself, his wife, and the rest of our group of silly friends over the years, merely shook his head and then added the cost of the drinks to his bar tab. Thanks Charlie!

Event #3: The final event of the evening is something that I'm sure has happened to many other people. It caused no harm to anyone, no damage was done, and it could have been easily kept between the three people involved in the conversation, if I could just manage to control my reactions.
Mingling through the crowd, I ran into a woman who I hadn't seen in a number of years. We used to be in the same dance class, and I had only ever known her by her first name. I chatted with her and the man that was with her for a while, reminiscing about our time together in dance, how she missed it, how she had danced for many years- all things I hadn't really known about her before. I was surprised to learn how involved she had been with dance for such a long period of time. Within a few minutes, this was all going to make more sense to me. Having exhausted the only topic that we seemed to have in common, I asked her about the birthday party that we were both celebrating.

Joanne: You are here tonight for Kristina's birthday?

Mary Lou (with a puzzled look on her face): Yes...

Joanne: How do you know Kristina? Have you known her for long?

Mary Lou (with a look of "are you for real" on her face now): Joanne, I'm Kristina's mom.

Just how many dim-witted things can one person say or do in one night? Once again, the dramatic shock on my face, the "omigod, I never knew you were Kristina's mom!", the "why won't I just stop talking" reaction I gave her must have prompted her to want to share the humour. She got the attention of everyone who was sitting with Kristina- aunts, uncles, cousins, friends- and asked quite loudly "Kristina, how long have I known you?", then proceeded to retell our conversation to the entire group. Fortunately, I am one of those people who finds it difficult not to laugh along with everyone else when they get to witness some of my stories in real life.

The night came full circle when, at last call, the band from the restaurant at the beginning of my night wandered into the bar. It's funny how well-remembered a person is for the ridiculous moments as two of the band members walked past me, stopped, and made some kind of comment to me about serving drinks. I kept walking, out the door, and directly into a cab. It was definitely time for me to go home.

Mother Bears

There is a unique relationship between a mother and her offspring. In the animal world, the protective nature of the mother bear towards her cubs is renowned and feared. If mama senses danger, her instinct is to defend her babies.

"Mother black bears are notoriously protective of their cubs..." (National Geographic)

"They [brown bears] can be dangerous to humans, particularly if surprised or if a person gets between a mother bear and her cubs." (National Geographic)

"Females [polar bears] aggressively protect their young..." (National Geographic)

My own children are my cubs, and I am their mother bear. I, too, will aggressively protect my children if I sense that they are in danger, or if they have been hurt. Unlike bears, however, my claws will also come out when I know that my children are suffering emotionally or mentally, especially when I know that this suffering has been caused by another human.

I make no excuses for being impolite, socially improper, or openly rude if the person who I am throwing this attitude towards has been the cause of my child's tears, and the cause of preventable anguish. I will not play the game of social pretense. I will not be your friend. I will, however, always be the mother bear for my cubs.

My Last "First Day of School"

When my oldest daughter started kindergarten, I was the typical young mother standing at the end of the laneway waiting for the bus to arrive, camera in hand, son hanging off the other hand (to keep him from chasing the cars on the highway), baby daughter on hip. Jessica stood proudly with her bright white running shoes, brand new clothes, Barbie backpack and matching lunchbox. Grade 8 graduation seemed a lifetime away; grade 12 even longer.

This past Monday night, the night before school started, she was gathering all of her school stuff...trendy bag, funky coloured binders, fashion smart first day of school outfit. It was no different from any other September night before school begins...until she said it. One sentence out of her mouth, and it hit me so unexpectedly, like a burst of adrenaline in the midst of the calm of my mind.

"Hey mom, tomorrow is going to be my last first day of school!"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, I could tell by the look on her face that she was regretting having said it out loud. My face must have been an obvious mirror into the workings of my mind.

"Mom, don't start crying!" (heavy emphasis on the word "don't")

Too late, the floodgates had opened. It wasn't a tidal wave of instantaneous tears. I was trying to stay composed. But, until that very moment, I hadn't even thought about the significance of the next day for her. This was her last year of high school. This was her last year at home. How could I, the mother who was sentimental about my daughter leaving the cottage one day earlier than the rest of us, have forgotten the "last first day of school"?

Now that the thought had been made public by her innocent statement, I couldn't stop the onslaught of memories, combined with the musings about her future. What would it be like next year when she was at university, walking out the door on her first day of classes in a strange city, with room mates instead of family, with the exuberant optimism and "I can take on the world" attitude of youth? Part of me wanted to be excited with her. She is ready. I know she is. This is what the past 17 years of training have all been for. But, part of me also wanted to remind myself to take in the moments of this last year at home, take nothing for granted. If thirteen years of school can go by in the blink of an eye, then the next 365 days are soon to be a cloud of dust behind us.

It seemed quite coincidental, or maybe fateful, that it was this past weekend that I chose to read the book "The Last Lecture" by Randy Pausch. It has been gathering dust on my end table for over a year now, and for some unexplained reason, it was this weekend that it was finally opened, and then read cover to cover. A brief synopsis of the book appears inside the front cover:

"When Randy Pausch, a computer science professor at Carnegie Mellon, was asked to give such a lecture, he didn't have to imagine it as his last, since he had recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer. But the lecture he gave- "Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams"- wasn't about dying. It was about the importance of overcoming obstacles, of enabling the dreams of others, of seizing every moment (because "time is all you have...and you may find one day that you have less than you think")."

There were so many life lessons throughout this book, so many ideas and thoughts that could apply to every single person, that could make each one of us think more carefully about the life that we really want to lead. It made me not want to waste a second. It made me want to hold each person who means anything to me and tell them every day how lucky I am to have them in my life. You see, this book wasn't about an old grey-haired professor who had lived a full life. This was about a 47 year old man with a beautiful wife, and three young children. This was about a man who was more afraid of his kids growing up without a father than worrying about what he would miss. "I'm focused more on what they're going to lose than on what I'm going to lose."

Throughout my mental anguish of my daughter's last first day of school, I was pulling quotes and ideas from this book into the forefront of my mind. How lucky am I to even be here with her today! I should be rejoicing... and I am. I want Jessica to fulfill her dreams, whatever they happen to be. I want her to know that her dreams are important, that they are achievable. I read a passage of the book to her on the night of that first day of school. After one day at school her mind was already filling with selecting universities, choosing a course path, worries and anxieties. I know it's part of the process for her, and I know that the decision ultimately has to be hers. I couldn't find the right words, so I pulled out the book, opened it up to one of the many pages that I had folded over for future reference.

"Because I've been so vocal about the power of childhood dreams, some people have been asking lately about the dreams I have for my own children.
...As I see it, a parent's job is to encourage kids to develop a joy for life and a great urge to follow their own dreams. The best we can do is to help them develop a personal set of tools for the task.
So my dreams for my kids are very exact. I want them to find their own path to fulfillment. And given that I won't be there, I want to make this clear: Kids, don't try to figure out what I wanted you to become. I want you to become what you want to become."

I plan on being there!