So my original intention during Field Ed was to blog at least once a week. Well, it has been over a week since I started and I still haven’t blogged, go figure. Anyway, here are my reflections and some high-lights of what I’ve experienced. I’m going to take a note out of the amazing Miss Lindsey Baynham’s blog and number them.
1.Tabernacle UMC
2.Merna (and Luke and Blue)
3.Hope Valley
4.Tea-Time
1.Tabernacle UMC –When I first got my placement email, I once again got on Google and looked up the church. Once again, there was no website. Ahh! Another church that wanted to keep me from discovering it! (I kid, really). However, I soon learned that my good friend Jennifer had worked at the church the previous summer and was uber excited for me to be placed there. In calling my supervisor, Mark, I discovered that he was in the process of earning a Doctorate in Ministry (D.Min) from Wesley Theological in DC and was doing so on their Theology and the Arts track. If you know me (and I’m guess you do since you’re reading this) you know how exciting this was for me. When I interviewed with Field Ed, I told Susan (Pendleton Jones, hence forth to be known as SPJ) that I really felt called to drama ministry and worship arts and would love to be placed in a church (ideally, not realistically) as a sort of drama intern. This of course is not something easy to find in rural North Carolina, but with Mark as my supervisor, I will definitely be doing some worship arts stuff. Mark and I have talked about designing a sort of variety show (if you want to come visit me and star in it, let me know) with different acts and possibly a hymn sing. It’s really great for both of us because it gives me the experience in the field that I’m interested in, and Mark can use it for his doctoral work.
2. Merna –Merna is my host mom for the summer. She’s wonderful and silly. Her “boys” Luke and Blue are adorable and sweet dogs. Luke is a sandy colored fluffy terrier mix, but he is not terrier sized, more like golden retriever size. Blue, who she took in after his original owner, her uncle, died, is a Siberian husky. They are really great companions and are incredibly well-behaved. Until moving here in 2006, Merna had spent the previous 20 some odd years in Tidewater, so we have plenty to talk about. It’s always nice to be able to tell some crazy story about where I went college and actually have someone know where it is (and part of the reason why it was crazy). Although she lives only about two miles north of the church and on the same road, her property is actually in Virginia. That’s right, folks, this Virginia girl has come home for the summer! I was really excited to find that out, and still get excited every day when I cross the border back into Virginia. And even though I have Virginia tags, I don’t get funny looks from people in North Carolina when they pass by me. I guess they just assume I’m a local. Most of the people in this area shop in North Carolina because it’s closer than any larger area in Virginia, so I guess for the most part I’m really still living in North Carolina. So I still feel like a bit of an outsider when I go into Henderson to shop, I wonder if that’s how the West Virginian’s feel when they come to Winchester? Hmm. Anyways, moving on.
3.Hope Valley –Hope Valley is the local elementary school that serves Townsville and this part of Vance County. (I guess the kids who live in this part of VA have to travel through NC back up to VA to go to Mecklenburg County Schools). It is a severely under-funded school. There is no money for an art or music program and there isn’t even a gym. They have a gym teacher, but he can only work with the kids outside, on rainy days he has to lead them on walks through the halls. The church has had a good relationship with the school in the past, and while I don’t know all the details, has done various projects with the school. The most recent one however, was really cool, and I got to witness part of it. This spring, the church did a six-week art class for the two 5th grade classes. Wayne Miller, a wonderfully interesting man that I can’t wait to get to know better, is a painter and he led the kids in the class teaching them painting tactics and drawing skills. Some of these kids had never held a paint brush and others had no idea how colors mixed. Although the class had finished, the school asked for the church to come back during my first week and let the kids paint as a celebration for finishing the EOGs. (the SOL tests of North Carolina). Watching the kids paint was a neat experience, it brought me back to my elementary school days with Ms. Easter (later Adams). I can’t remember everything I did in her class throughout the years, but I always loved it. It’s sad that this was the first opportunity for these kids to really experience art, some of them were really good. On Friday, we held a celebration at the church that the kids, their families, the teachers, and the church were all invited to. We had a meal, and then went into the sanctuary to hear some of the kids speak about the experience. All of the children received certificates for completing the course and their work was on display in the fellowship hall. Afterwards the kids were able to take their art home with them. On mother was overheard saying to her child, “Honey, I knew you were good, but I had no idea you were so talented!” I hope that that child is able to continue to experience art and grow in their creative journey.
4.Tea-Time –This was a fun experience. On Saturday, Merna, myself, and some other ladies of the church were invited to participate in a tea that was hosted by Brenda, Wayne’s wife. At first I was slightly apprehensive, I’ve never been to a tea before, and I know how fancy they can be, so I was a little nervous about how I was supposed to act. Turns out that Brenda’s teas are really more educational experiences. She realizes that most of us don’t know much of anything about tea-time, and it’s something that she really enjoys and knows a lot about. She enjoys sharing her knowledge with others. It was really cool. We went through how tea is processed, how you should properly brew it, what different kinds of food you serve, how to properly serve tea. All the fine details. I was fascinated by it.
So that’s all that comes to mind right now. I plan on being better about this and writing more frequently so these posts won’t be as long, since I’m very good at going into details and such. I’m really excited about what I’m doing in the church so far, and I can’t wait to share more with you! (I’ve already got stuff brewing for the next post!) Blessings!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Moving Forward
I was recently cleaning out my gmail inbox (went from 3000 to 300 emails!) and discovered this.
"Dear Rachel,
"Dear Rachel,
I’m sorry to have to tell you that you did not pass OT 12 this semester. As I think you already suspected, your final exam really bombed. Nathan and I worked and reworked all of the math for your various assignments, but we were unable to bring up your average to a passing grade.
What this will mean for you is that you’ll need to retake OT 12 at some point—most likely next year.
I’m sorry about this, but it does happen. I hope that you won’t be too discouraged, and that, in the end, spending some additional time with the Old Testament will be a good thing for you.
Stephen Chapman"
I received this email a year ago today. It was the first of multiple emails that told me of my academic stumblings at Duke Divinity that spring. While I knew that my grades had not been excellent in that class, and I had kind of been praying for a miracle, it still came as a shock that I had completely bombed the class, especially the final. It was even more of a knife in the stomach to find that I had also not received a passing grade in my CH14 class. For a few hours I thought my Div school career was over, and that I would have to return to Winchester a failure. It was heart-wrenching, and I remember doing a lot of crying. I was ashamed, I'd never out-right failed a class before, teacher's kids just don't do that.
That email turned my life upside down. But what I didn't realize was that it had already been turning upside down very slowly. Faltering relationships, lack of direction in my call, and a lack of recovery from previous school-burnout was preventing me from giving school my full attention, and my grades suffered horribly from it. I didn't want to be in school, but I knew it was where I was supposed to be.
It was a very painful time in my life.
But I look back now and realize that sometimes, the only way to be built up, is to be torn down first.
Over the past few weeks, I've had quite a few first years tell me how impressed they are that I was able to push forward. While ashamed to admit my failings to those that I know, I somehow had no problem telling it to complete strangers that I had just met. I've been very open with the first year class about the fact that I was re-taking CH14 with them, more open than I have been with people that I've known much longer.
But my reasoning behind why that is isn't why I'm writing this.
The comments from my peers in the first year class have intrigued me, because what else would I have done? Are they thinking that if it had been them, they would have just given up? Seen that as not following God's call and walked away? I don't know, but I know that I didn't know what else to do with my life, but continue on the path that I was already on, no matter how much longer it took me. Duke and Durham was where I was supposed to be.
Looking back, it's been quite a year. But I can see where I've grown. I know that I can't do it alone, and while I'm still learning how to ask for help, I can say that I've been working on my pride. Instead of being stubbornly proud to do everything myself, I can take pride in the fact that I've improved my grades with the help of the writing center and my peers. I've gone back on medication to treat my ADD. Talk about taking my pride down a couple of notches.
But I'm a better person for it. I no longer want to just "get by." I want to succeed. I want to get As on my papers, and I'm disappointed when I don't, rather than just accepting the grade that I got. I might still sing "C is for clergy, that's good enough for me" to my peers, but in reality, I want more than that. I don't want to hide amongst my classmates anymore, as tempting and as safe as it feels, I know that I need to stand out. Want to stand out.
While discernment hasn't been easy, I've been lifted up and affirmed in my call by my church and my family. It was probably the best Christmas break I've ever had. The only sad thing was that my parents didn't buy one of those ridiculous giant bows from the Lexus commercials to put on my car. Which is a shame because we probably could have got it on clearance since we bought the car after Christmas. But I got to preach at my home church, after having been unanimously approved by my Charge Conference the previous month to go before my District Board for certification for ordained ministry. I love how much Braddock Street supports me, and how Jim and Sara try to involve me in worship as much as possible when I'm home. I've wanted to preach there for years, and really hope I get to do it again. My grandparents also asked to pay my tuition. Woah. And not in a "well we can afford it and you're the only grandkid, and the grandkitties already all have their PhD.s in napping, so they won't be jealous" but in a "we feel that God is calling us to do this so that you can fulfill God's call in your life and that this is our way to serve God." Big woah. God has given me reasons to want to succeed and to want to follow God's call.
I don't have all the answers. I'm still trying to figure stuff out, but I'm beginning to like what I see and I'm learning to love myself for who I am and not for who I want people to see me as. I knew that coming to Duke would transform me, and I was scared of it, because I liked who I was, and didn't want to stop being her. So instead that change was forced on me, but now that it's started to happen, I've realized that it's not so bad after all. Parts of who I used to be are still there, but there are other parts that are new, parts that are even better than what I was before. I could have never have walked away from Duke because then I would have been running away from the transformation that deep down, I knew had to take place.
I'm not sure who I am yet, but I know I'm damn proud to be her, rather than the girl I was last year. And at this point, I think that's good enough.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Dear Biofit
Dear Biofit,
I'm not quite sure how to start this letter to you, perhaps a compliment is therefore best. You, Biofit, are the most comfortable bra I have ever worn in my life. You fit my body perfectly, never leaving marks on my skin or irritating it like other bras that I've worn before you have. You are smooth and I love how I can wear you for hours on end and be completely comfortable.
But Biofit, you are also bad for me. Despite the fact that you were on sale (always a good deal in my book), and are the most comfortable thing ever, you have corrupted me. You have made it impossible for me to wear other bras.
Because Biofit, you are a push up bra.
A long time ago, Biofit, I owned some sisters of yours. They weren't as comfortable, but they were still push-up bras. You see, I am a small person, and I was not blessed with much of anything up top. So in my younger days, I was insecure; weren't we all when we were in high school? So when I purchased a dress that required me to wear more than a regular bra, I bought a push up bra. And then I couldn't stop wearing it. I bought more. And it became the bra I wore on a regular basis. Suddenly, I didn't feel as abnormal. Boys might actually notice me and find me pretty, oh wait, no, my acne was still too bad for that.
You see how messed up that was, Biofit?
After a while, I got tired of the bras, but I didn't want to stop wearing them, for fear that people would notice that all of the sudden I'd shrunk. But when I got to college, things changed. Here I was in a place where no one else had previously known me. I could wear a normal bra, and no one would be any wiser.
So I did, and it was liberating.
Sure, I looked smaller, but it was okay because no one knew what I had previously looked like. They couldn't sit there an judge me, and laugh that I had tried to make myself look like something I wasn't and failed. I became more comfortable with myself, and was starting to be able to love myself for who I was, and not who I was pretending to be.
Things in my life changed. I stopped taking medication that suppressed my appetite, I was dating a former football player, consequently I was exposed to more food and was eating more, and I gained weight, which at that point in my life was still an exciting thing. Suddenly, I had cleavage. It was amazing, and I had confidence.
Then, Biofit, the Semi-Annual Sale came along and I found you.
It started out innocent enough. I liked how you made me look, so I purchased you. I rotated you out with other regular bras, but then I realized how much more comfortable I was when I wore you, not just in looks but in general physical comfort as well. I felt great.
Then, things changed again, and not for the better.
I lost weight, and with it, my extra cleavage, and now, Biofit, I find myself in the exact same predicament that I was in while in high school. Once more I'm attached to wearing push-up bras, and don't feel comfortable wearing a regular bra. I feel too small, and not good enough. Biofit, you have warped my body image. I remember when I started taking dance classes again, I changed in the bathroom, and I looked at myself in the mirror, wearing a sports bra, tights and a tank top and I said to myself "I'm so small." I felt so tiny, so skinny, so unhealthy. And I thought this isn't good, this isn't right, I shouldn't feel this way about myself.
And then I think, how many other people feel the same way?
What has our culture done to us?
Why can't I, and others like myself, love ourselves for who we are, why do we have to depend on things like you Biofit? Why do we have to spend thousands on plastic surgery, laser hair removal, and expensive medications to make us look like movie stars. Why do we want to look like movie stars?
Biofit, I wish I knew how to quit you.
I'm not quite sure how to start this letter to you, perhaps a compliment is therefore best. You, Biofit, are the most comfortable bra I have ever worn in my life. You fit my body perfectly, never leaving marks on my skin or irritating it like other bras that I've worn before you have. You are smooth and I love how I can wear you for hours on end and be completely comfortable.
But Biofit, you are also bad for me. Despite the fact that you were on sale (always a good deal in my book), and are the most comfortable thing ever, you have corrupted me. You have made it impossible for me to wear other bras.
Because Biofit, you are a push up bra.
A long time ago, Biofit, I owned some sisters of yours. They weren't as comfortable, but they were still push-up bras. You see, I am a small person, and I was not blessed with much of anything up top. So in my younger days, I was insecure; weren't we all when we were in high school? So when I purchased a dress that required me to wear more than a regular bra, I bought a push up bra. And then I couldn't stop wearing it. I bought more. And it became the bra I wore on a regular basis. Suddenly, I didn't feel as abnormal. Boys might actually notice me and find me pretty, oh wait, no, my acne was still too bad for that.
You see how messed up that was, Biofit?
After a while, I got tired of the bras, but I didn't want to stop wearing them, for fear that people would notice that all of the sudden I'd shrunk. But when I got to college, things changed. Here I was in a place where no one else had previously known me. I could wear a normal bra, and no one would be any wiser.
So I did, and it was liberating.
Sure, I looked smaller, but it was okay because no one knew what I had previously looked like. They couldn't sit there an judge me, and laugh that I had tried to make myself look like something I wasn't and failed. I became more comfortable with myself, and was starting to be able to love myself for who I was, and not who I was pretending to be.
Things in my life changed. I stopped taking medication that suppressed my appetite, I was dating a former football player, consequently I was exposed to more food and was eating more, and I gained weight, which at that point in my life was still an exciting thing. Suddenly, I had cleavage. It was amazing, and I had confidence.
Then, Biofit, the Semi-Annual Sale came along and I found you.
It started out innocent enough. I liked how you made me look, so I purchased you. I rotated you out with other regular bras, but then I realized how much more comfortable I was when I wore you, not just in looks but in general physical comfort as well. I felt great.
Then, things changed again, and not for the better.
I lost weight, and with it, my extra cleavage, and now, Biofit, I find myself in the exact same predicament that I was in while in high school. Once more I'm attached to wearing push-up bras, and don't feel comfortable wearing a regular bra. I feel too small, and not good enough. Biofit, you have warped my body image. I remember when I started taking dance classes again, I changed in the bathroom, and I looked at myself in the mirror, wearing a sports bra, tights and a tank top and I said to myself "I'm so small." I felt so tiny, so skinny, so unhealthy. And I thought this isn't good, this isn't right, I shouldn't feel this way about myself.
And then I think, how many other people feel the same way?
What has our culture done to us?
Why can't I, and others like myself, love ourselves for who we are, why do we have to depend on things like you Biofit? Why do we have to spend thousands on plastic surgery, laser hair removal, and expensive medications to make us look like movie stars. Why do we want to look like movie stars?
Biofit, I wish I knew how to quit you.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Death, Pipe Organs, and Mountain-Top Experiences
Today, during Chapel, our organist received a phone call that his father had passed away. He had been ill and so it was not totally unexpected, but nevertheless, it was a sad moment.
We (the Divinity Choir) were leading an all-music service and David had slipped out of the loft during the longest non-music part of the service. This is actually a common occurrence, in fact, you can often find David with his ninja like reflexes, quietly opening the side door to the organ and slipping inside it to adjust something. Since he is the first person to be employed by the school to play that organ, David knows it both inside and out, and in many ways it is his organ. Having never seen what is inside behind the little door, I have no clue what he does when he goes in there. Probably top secret organ stuff that I would never understand. (look at about 1:41 on the hyperlink). So no-one was really surprised when he left today. Except when we figured out what had happened when he left. Immediately, a plan was sprung into action and Mark, a 3rd year who also plays organ, sat down on the bench in preparation to play during communion, and if he had to, for the rest of the service.
But then David, after composing himself, came back in and insisted on finishing the service.
So we moved into the Great Thanksgiving, (without anyone in the chapel except a few of us in the loft knowing what had happened) and David sat solemnly on the bench, facing the organ, not looking at anything else but the keys, until he played the musical setting for communion.
At this point I should probably note that David wrote the musical setting that the Divinity School uses for communion.
So there I stood, three feet away from a majestic two manual, thirty stop, three-year-old organ (built and installed in 2008) with 1700 pipes, being played by a dedicated, highly talented, yet grieving man, who was playing a piece that he had written. Judging by its copyright of 2005, it was probably written for Goodson Chapel (completed along with the Westbrook Building in 2005), and was clearly written to highlight the beautiful instrument that is the organ, and specifically the organ that would later be housed in our chapel.
Naturally, I was weeping.
It was such a tragic, yet beautiful moment, hearing him play his own music and I feel certain deep in my heart that his dad was proud of him and what he had written.
Then we continued with the service and the hymn sung during distribution, "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence." I tried looking for a version of the arrangement that was just a choir and organ like we had, but the one I found simply did not do what was heard today in Goodson justice.
When we had rehearsed the piece about a week or so ago, Allan (our conductor) had us listen to David play the accompaniment to the fourth verse which reads: "At His feet the six-winged seraph, cherubim, with sleepless eye. Veil their faces to His presence, as with ceaseless voice they cry: Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Lord Most High!" As the accompaniment changes when the choir sings "cry" you can really hear what sort of effect Gustav Holst was going for when he arranged this piece. Breath-taking.
When we reached that part in the song, despite the fact that I had managed to reel my tears in, they came back full force. As David played his heart out, it was like the heavens had opened up and the angels were singing with us, comforting this man in mourning and welcoming his father to heaven. (the part of me that wants to avoid being labeled a heretic realizes that this may not be exactly what happens when we die and go to heaven, however, that image seemed most fitting.)
And then it hit me. This is really what it's all about. It's not about grades, and papers, and trying to keep up with your fast-talking professor during lecture. It's about glorifying God with the angels. It's about life and death, and Christ's resurrection. The body and the blood. That in death there will be life, since Christ died for our salvation and gave us the gift of eternal life. "It's about me. About my body and my blood, about my death for you and your sins." That's what God was saying to me.
As much as I love the connection with God that I get when singing CCM and Gospel music; the earthy feeling of lifting my prayers up to God and feeling a connection with God personally, there is nothing like a pipe organ and the amazing, spine-tingling sounds that it can produce when it plays music for worshiping God. It is a glorious and angelic sound that fills your entire body and it's so loud that you can't even think about anything else but how beautiful it is. It lifted my spirits and I found myself elated as the Holy Spirit washed over my and renewed my soul. I was given a mountain-top experience and it was all because I happened to be witness to a musician playing his pipe organ while mourning the loss of his father.
And it was tragically beautiful.
We (the Divinity Choir) were leading an all-music service and David had slipped out of the loft during the longest non-music part of the service. This is actually a common occurrence, in fact, you can often find David with his ninja like reflexes, quietly opening the side door to the organ and slipping inside it to adjust something. Since he is the first person to be employed by the school to play that organ, David knows it both inside and out, and in many ways it is his organ. Having never seen what is inside behind the little door, I have no clue what he does when he goes in there. Probably top secret organ stuff that I would never understand. (look at about 1:41 on the hyperlink). So no-one was really surprised when he left today. Except when we figured out what had happened when he left. Immediately, a plan was sprung into action and Mark, a 3rd year who also plays organ, sat down on the bench in preparation to play during communion, and if he had to, for the rest of the service.
But then David, after composing himself, came back in and insisted on finishing the service.
So we moved into the Great Thanksgiving, (without anyone in the chapel except a few of us in the loft knowing what had happened) and David sat solemnly on the bench, facing the organ, not looking at anything else but the keys, until he played the musical setting for communion.
At this point I should probably note that David wrote the musical setting that the Divinity School uses for communion.
So there I stood, three feet away from a majestic two manual, thirty stop, three-year-old organ (built and installed in 2008) with 1700 pipes, being played by a dedicated, highly talented, yet grieving man, who was playing a piece that he had written. Judging by its copyright of 2005, it was probably written for Goodson Chapel (completed along with the Westbrook Building in 2005), and was clearly written to highlight the beautiful instrument that is the organ, and specifically the organ that would later be housed in our chapel.
Naturally, I was weeping.
It was such a tragic, yet beautiful moment, hearing him play his own music and I feel certain deep in my heart that his dad was proud of him and what he had written.
Then we continued with the service and the hymn sung during distribution, "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence." I tried looking for a version of the arrangement that was just a choir and organ like we had, but the one I found simply did not do what was heard today in Goodson justice.
When we had rehearsed the piece about a week or so ago, Allan (our conductor) had us listen to David play the accompaniment to the fourth verse which reads: "At His feet the six-winged seraph, cherubim, with sleepless eye. Veil their faces to His presence, as with ceaseless voice they cry: Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Lord Most High!" As the accompaniment changes when the choir sings "cry" you can really hear what sort of effect Gustav Holst was going for when he arranged this piece. Breath-taking.
When we reached that part in the song, despite the fact that I had managed to reel my tears in, they came back full force. As David played his heart out, it was like the heavens had opened up and the angels were singing with us, comforting this man in mourning and welcoming his father to heaven. (the part of me that wants to avoid being labeled a heretic realizes that this may not be exactly what happens when we die and go to heaven, however, that image seemed most fitting.)
And then it hit me. This is really what it's all about. It's not about grades, and papers, and trying to keep up with your fast-talking professor during lecture. It's about glorifying God with the angels. It's about life and death, and Christ's resurrection. The body and the blood. That in death there will be life, since Christ died for our salvation and gave us the gift of eternal life. "It's about me. About my body and my blood, about my death for you and your sins." That's what God was saying to me.
As much as I love the connection with God that I get when singing CCM and Gospel music; the earthy feeling of lifting my prayers up to God and feeling a connection with God personally, there is nothing like a pipe organ and the amazing, spine-tingling sounds that it can produce when it plays music for worshiping God. It is a glorious and angelic sound that fills your entire body and it's so loud that you can't even think about anything else but how beautiful it is. It lifted my spirits and I found myself elated as the Holy Spirit washed over my and renewed my soul. I was given a mountain-top experience and it was all because I happened to be witness to a musician playing his pipe organ while mourning the loss of his father.
And it was tragically beautiful.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Dancing
There's a reason that this blog is titled Purple Pens and Pointe Shoes. It's the same reason that the web address is braddock street ballerina. And why the background is a pointe shoe, and why my picture icon is a person en pointe.
It's because I'm mildly obsessed with dance.
Okay, yeah right, it's because I'm really obsessed with dance.
I started taking dance lessons when I was five. My cousins, Emily and Elizabeth, both took dance lessons and as I had no older siblings, I wanted to be just like them, and therefore wanted to take dance lessons. But that's not really when I started dancing. No, I've been dancing ever since I figured out how to walk. Moving to music, or just the music in my head, has always been a part of me.
But I never realized how essential it was to my very being until I stopped doing it.
I continued to take lessons until I graduated from high school. I never stopped enjoying it, so there wasn't a reason to quit, and I enjoyed the exercise. I've never been good at sports: my hand-eye coordination was really bad as a child, so pretty much any sport that involved a ball was out of the question. I still get nervous that the basketball is going to come flying at me when I'm in Cameron, and I'm like at least 20 feet away from the edge of the court. But dance, I could do that. I could move my body in time to the music and let's face it: I loved performing, so the recital at the end of the year was an added bonus.
When it came time to look for colleges and what sort of majors I might be interested in, dance was never really an option I considered. It was something I did for fun, not because I wanted to do it professionally, and I certainly wasn't the best dancer in my class. My flexibility sucked, and I didn't have the dedication I would need to improve it to the level that it would have to be to dance professionally. Some of the schools I looked at had a dance program, others did not, but all of them had a studio where PE courses were offered that included some form of dance. I chose Wesleyan because I knew it was the right fit, and because they offered me the biggest scholarship package.
My first semester at Wesleyan, I took Ballroom Dancing. I enjoyed it, but it wasn't the same as taking a class like ballet or jazz. I wasn't used to dancing in heels, I typically danced barefoot, or in pointe shoes. I really wanted to take lessons somewhere, but I didn't have the money, or the transportation to get to classes. But as other dance classes, ballet included, were offered by the PE department, I took them. And I loved them.
And then the ballet teacher who was an adjunct from the local area, got a full-time job and resigned. And then Doug Kennedy, who was in charge of the PE courses, went lame sauce and decided not to hire somebody else. Even if Lina (one of the associate deans and totally awesome person) offered to teach them.
Lame, Doug Kennedy, lame.
So I stopped dancing. At least, in a classroom setting. But there weren't many other opportunities for me to dance. Mostly, it was just me randomly dancing around whatever space I was in when I was sure no one was watching. I really didn't need the funny looks from my peers who didn't understand what I was doing. After all, their definition of dancing was grinding their body up against a member of the opposite sex during a party. But sometimes, I would just randomly do part of a combination in place or down the hallway of our suite. This was also around the time that I almost (or maybe even did) fracture my 4th metatarsal when I tripped over the leg of a portable screen for the projector. With how bad the pain was, and how slow the recovery was, I was to think that I would never be able to dance again.
But dancing had become like breathing to me, and without it, I was suffocating.
When I came to Divinity School, one of the first people I met, Joe, told me that I was going to sign up for Broadway Revue and I was going to be in Broadway Revue. This was not a suggestion, it was a command. And, I figured, what the heck, I have a degree in theatre, I can sing, and I've got 12 years of dance experience behind me, I'm sure they can use me somehow. Hahahaha, boy did I have no idea.
As it came time to learn the choreography for the numbers, it quickly became clear to other members of the cast that I had a knack for picking up the steps quickly, and found myself constantly being grabbed in the hallway for review. Dancing again was elating. It lifted my spirits and considering how other things in my life were slowly going downhill, it was one of the bright spots in my life at that point.
During Broadway Revue, I was given the task, along with my friend Becca, to choreograph a ballet sequence for one of the numbers. As that piece was the opening number from A Chorus Line (and also our opening number) what we were essentially choreographing was part of the audition. I loved it.
As I stood there, on the stage, arms outstretched, feet in 1st position, with my old tights and slippers underneath my shorts that proudly displayed "WESLEYAN" on the butt, I waited for the curtain to rise. And as it did, my heart soared. Here I was, back where I belonged. And I danced my heart out, I danced like that routine was the difference between being able to stay in NYC or having to return home, because after all, that's what A Chorus Line is about. It's about the life of an actor in the industry trying to make ends meet.
I was breathing again. It was like I hadn't breathed in years.
And that was when I realized that I needed to learn how to breathe again.
This past semester has had its ups and downs. And many times, I've felt the urge to physically vent my feelings in the only way that I know how: dance. But I didn't. So this afternoon, when I once again felt the urge, I toyed with the idea of going down to the baseball field behind my apartment complex. But in all honesty, it's cold outside, and I'm a wimp.
But I remembered something that my friend Lizzie told me about a dance studio near my apartment. So like any good millennial, I googled it, and found Ninth Street Dance Studio, a place where anyone of any age, shape, and dance experience, is welcome to come and discover dance. I'm signing up for the Lyrical/Contemporary class which "teaches a fluid choreography, often using emotion to motivate the movement."
So this semester, I'm learning to breathe again. And in learning to breathe, I'm also hoping to let my spirit soar, and take my broken wings and learn to fly, to paraphrase the Beatles.
I can't wait to fly again.
It's because I'm mildly obsessed with dance.
Okay, yeah right, it's because I'm really obsessed with dance.
I started taking dance lessons when I was five. My cousins, Emily and Elizabeth, both took dance lessons and as I had no older siblings, I wanted to be just like them, and therefore wanted to take dance lessons. But that's not really when I started dancing. No, I've been dancing ever since I figured out how to walk. Moving to music, or just the music in my head, has always been a part of me.
But I never realized how essential it was to my very being until I stopped doing it.
I continued to take lessons until I graduated from high school. I never stopped enjoying it, so there wasn't a reason to quit, and I enjoyed the exercise. I've never been good at sports: my hand-eye coordination was really bad as a child, so pretty much any sport that involved a ball was out of the question. I still get nervous that the basketball is going to come flying at me when I'm in Cameron, and I'm like at least 20 feet away from the edge of the court. But dance, I could do that. I could move my body in time to the music and let's face it: I loved performing, so the recital at the end of the year was an added bonus.
When it came time to look for colleges and what sort of majors I might be interested in, dance was never really an option I considered. It was something I did for fun, not because I wanted to do it professionally, and I certainly wasn't the best dancer in my class. My flexibility sucked, and I didn't have the dedication I would need to improve it to the level that it would have to be to dance professionally. Some of the schools I looked at had a dance program, others did not, but all of them had a studio where PE courses were offered that included some form of dance. I chose Wesleyan because I knew it was the right fit, and because they offered me the biggest scholarship package.
My first semester at Wesleyan, I took Ballroom Dancing. I enjoyed it, but it wasn't the same as taking a class like ballet or jazz. I wasn't used to dancing in heels, I typically danced barefoot, or in pointe shoes. I really wanted to take lessons somewhere, but I didn't have the money, or the transportation to get to classes. But as other dance classes, ballet included, were offered by the PE department, I took them. And I loved them.
And then the ballet teacher who was an adjunct from the local area, got a full-time job and resigned. And then Doug Kennedy, who was in charge of the PE courses, went lame sauce and decided not to hire somebody else. Even if Lina (one of the associate deans and totally awesome person) offered to teach them.
Lame, Doug Kennedy, lame.
So I stopped dancing. At least, in a classroom setting. But there weren't many other opportunities for me to dance. Mostly, it was just me randomly dancing around whatever space I was in when I was sure no one was watching. I really didn't need the funny looks from my peers who didn't understand what I was doing. After all, their definition of dancing was grinding their body up against a member of the opposite sex during a party. But sometimes, I would just randomly do part of a combination in place or down the hallway of our suite. This was also around the time that I almost (or maybe even did) fracture my 4th metatarsal when I tripped over the leg of a portable screen for the projector. With how bad the pain was, and how slow the recovery was, I was to think that I would never be able to dance again.
But dancing had become like breathing to me, and without it, I was suffocating.
When I came to Divinity School, one of the first people I met, Joe, told me that I was going to sign up for Broadway Revue and I was going to be in Broadway Revue. This was not a suggestion, it was a command. And, I figured, what the heck, I have a degree in theatre, I can sing, and I've got 12 years of dance experience behind me, I'm sure they can use me somehow. Hahahaha, boy did I have no idea.
As it came time to learn the choreography for the numbers, it quickly became clear to other members of the cast that I had a knack for picking up the steps quickly, and found myself constantly being grabbed in the hallway for review. Dancing again was elating. It lifted my spirits and considering how other things in my life were slowly going downhill, it was one of the bright spots in my life at that point.
During Broadway Revue, I was given the task, along with my friend Becca, to choreograph a ballet sequence for one of the numbers. As that piece was the opening number from A Chorus Line (and also our opening number) what we were essentially choreographing was part of the audition. I loved it.
As I stood there, on the stage, arms outstretched, feet in 1st position, with my old tights and slippers underneath my shorts that proudly displayed "WESLEYAN" on the butt, I waited for the curtain to rise. And as it did, my heart soared. Here I was, back where I belonged. And I danced my heart out, I danced like that routine was the difference between being able to stay in NYC or having to return home, because after all, that's what A Chorus Line is about. It's about the life of an actor in the industry trying to make ends meet.
I was breathing again. It was like I hadn't breathed in years.
And that was when I realized that I needed to learn how to breathe again.
This past semester has had its ups and downs. And many times, I've felt the urge to physically vent my feelings in the only way that I know how: dance. But I didn't. So this afternoon, when I once again felt the urge, I toyed with the idea of going down to the baseball field behind my apartment complex. But in all honesty, it's cold outside, and I'm a wimp.
But I remembered something that my friend Lizzie told me about a dance studio near my apartment. So like any good millennial, I googled it, and found Ninth Street Dance Studio, a place where anyone of any age, shape, and dance experience, is welcome to come and discover dance. I'm signing up for the Lyrical/Contemporary class which "teaches a fluid choreography, often using emotion to motivate the movement."
So this semester, I'm learning to breathe again. And in learning to breathe, I'm also hoping to let my spirit soar, and take my broken wings and learn to fly, to paraphrase the Beatles.
I can't wait to fly again.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Nicknames
Nicknames. We all have them. Sometimes they're funny. Other times serious. Some are terms of endearment. Others are just to bug the living snot out of our friends.
I've never been good at coming up with nicknames. I'm just not creative in that line of thinking, I suppose. If you have one, I'll use it, even if it's not a real name. I call my great-grand little Super Baby because she calls me Super Mama. I'm rather good at using terms of endearment. Instead of coming up with a nickname for a boyfriend, I'll just use terms of endearment. It's easier I suppose, since I'm never good at coming up with nicknames. Lots of my friends go by names that are really nicknames of their given names. I think that's kinda neat. Most of these are ones that they've fashioned for themselves, although I do know on some occasions where even the parents call them by their nickname. My dad is one of these people. As the oldest male child, he is named Gerald after his dad, but has always been called Jerry so as to avoid confusion. But sometimes, nicknames aren't names that we actually go by, but are just used when necessary.
Like mine.
I have no idea when it started or who started it, but people have always called me Rach. I have never asked to be called Rach, at least not that I remember, but I've never minded it either. My parents never really use it, but a lot of other family members, mainly on Dad's side, have used it at one point or another. There's a lot of us on that side of the family, so when we get together, there's always a lot of activity. So lots of times, it's easier to holler out "Rach" to give me some sort of instruction. Over the years many different friends have called me that. Lots of times without asking if I've minded. The truth is I don't mind, but I always find myself thinking "how did they know?" the first time they call me that. I remember a friend's mom calling me Rach, and I'm pretty sure that my friend didn't even call me that, or rarely called me that. I know, I know, Rach is a very common nickname for people named Rachel, but somehow, growing up I always felt like it was something that only people close to me could use, people who knew me really well.
Two weeks ago, I found myself once again with my Dad's family. Everyone was there. My cousin got married, the first wedding we've had in our family in 25 (?) years. Because of everything going on, only the granddaughters stayed at Gigi's house. We ran around doing extra behind-the-scenes work with our mothers, the aunts of the bride. I remember at one point, I think it was even the reception, Amanda calling me out onto the dance floor. "Rach! Come on!
I froze. Not because I was scared of the dance floor. Oh heck no. I was tearing up the dance floor that night, in my Duke flip-flops, because heels were not happening that night. But because she had called me Rach.
You see, nobody here calls me Rach. I don't know why. I don't know if I've given people the impression that I don't want to be called it, but nobody calls me Rach. It's always Rachel. I hadn't been called Rach for the better part of the year, perhaps even longer. It was almost tragic, that that part of me had been missing. There was an intimacy in the name that I hadn't realized was there. And I was sad to think that even though I have a lot of great and close friends here, that I didn't share that part of me with them.
So you can call me Rach. I wouldn't use it as a replacement for Rachel, after all, that's my name, that's what I go by. But if the mood suits you, and you need to get my attention quickly (as is usually the case when my family uses it), you can call me Rach.
If you'll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HOiVaE-pKqM&feature=fvst
I've never been good at coming up with nicknames. I'm just not creative in that line of thinking, I suppose. If you have one, I'll use it, even if it's not a real name. I call my great-grand little Super Baby because she calls me Super Mama. I'm rather good at using terms of endearment. Instead of coming up with a nickname for a boyfriend, I'll just use terms of endearment. It's easier I suppose, since I'm never good at coming up with nicknames. Lots of my friends go by names that are really nicknames of their given names. I think that's kinda neat. Most of these are ones that they've fashioned for themselves, although I do know on some occasions where even the parents call them by their nickname. My dad is one of these people. As the oldest male child, he is named Gerald after his dad, but has always been called Jerry so as to avoid confusion. But sometimes, nicknames aren't names that we actually go by, but are just used when necessary.
Like mine.
I have no idea when it started or who started it, but people have always called me Rach. I have never asked to be called Rach, at least not that I remember, but I've never minded it either. My parents never really use it, but a lot of other family members, mainly on Dad's side, have used it at one point or another. There's a lot of us on that side of the family, so when we get together, there's always a lot of activity. So lots of times, it's easier to holler out "Rach" to give me some sort of instruction. Over the years many different friends have called me that. Lots of times without asking if I've minded. The truth is I don't mind, but I always find myself thinking "how did they know?" the first time they call me that. I remember a friend's mom calling me Rach, and I'm pretty sure that my friend didn't even call me that, or rarely called me that. I know, I know, Rach is a very common nickname for people named Rachel, but somehow, growing up I always felt like it was something that only people close to me could use, people who knew me really well.
Two weeks ago, I found myself once again with my Dad's family. Everyone was there. My cousin got married, the first wedding we've had in our family in 25 (?) years. Because of everything going on, only the granddaughters stayed at Gigi's house. We ran around doing extra behind-the-scenes work with our mothers, the aunts of the bride. I remember at one point, I think it was even the reception, Amanda calling me out onto the dance floor. "Rach! Come on!
I froze. Not because I was scared of the dance floor. Oh heck no. I was tearing up the dance floor that night, in my Duke flip-flops, because heels were not happening that night. But because she had called me Rach.
You see, nobody here calls me Rach. I don't know why. I don't know if I've given people the impression that I don't want to be called it, but nobody calls me Rach. It's always Rachel. I hadn't been called Rach for the better part of the year, perhaps even longer. It was almost tragic, that that part of me had been missing. There was an intimacy in the name that I hadn't realized was there. And I was sad to think that even though I have a lot of great and close friends here, that I didn't share that part of me with them.
So you can call me Rach. I wouldn't use it as a replacement for Rachel, after all, that's my name, that's what I go by. But if the mood suits you, and you need to get my attention quickly (as is usually the case when my family uses it), you can call me Rach.
If you'll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HOiVaE-pKqM&feature=fvst
Saturday, December 4, 2010
All About Soul -Billy Joel
The inspiration for this comes from Billy Joel's song "All About Soul." Look it up, it's a pretty awesome song.
She sits. Waiting for him to speak. He's silent. He doesn't know what to say. There aren't words.
Sometimes they don't need them. Without speaking, they have a silent understanding. They think alike in that way, almost on the same wave-length, most of the time it's a bit scary how they know what the other is thinking.
But sometimes they don't. And this is one of those times. Where did it go wrong? Why is there this break-down in communication? They can't understand it, and yet here it is. They find themselves swallowing nervously, and staring at their shoes instead of looking at each other.
Why is their life so hard? When did it get this complicated?
He wishes things were different. He wishes he could make things easier for her, but it's out of his control. He's afraid of her giving up. Of her not being able to take anymore, and just running away. He fears this because he knows that she's had her moments. Like right now. He knows that she feels like she's at the end of her rope. And he prays to God that she doesn't give up.
He can't live without her. If she left, he wouldn't be able to survive. She is what keeps him going. He loves her, so much. She is his air, and no one understands him like she does.
"I'm sorry." he whispers. It's so quiet, one would almost wonder if he spoke it out loud. But she hears it. He knows she does. She always does.
She doesn't speak. Instead she reaches out and grabs his hand. The gesture says everything.
I know. I forgive you. I'm sorry too. I'm not running away. I understand. I know what you're feeling. This isn't your fault. I don't blame you. I love you.
It's all about soul.
She sits. Waiting for him to speak. He's silent. He doesn't know what to say. There aren't words.
Sometimes they don't need them. Without speaking, they have a silent understanding. They think alike in that way, almost on the same wave-length, most of the time it's a bit scary how they know what the other is thinking.
But sometimes they don't. And this is one of those times. Where did it go wrong? Why is there this break-down in communication? They can't understand it, and yet here it is. They find themselves swallowing nervously, and staring at their shoes instead of looking at each other.
Why is their life so hard? When did it get this complicated?
He wishes things were different. He wishes he could make things easier for her, but it's out of his control. He's afraid of her giving up. Of her not being able to take anymore, and just running away. He fears this because he knows that she's had her moments. Like right now. He knows that she feels like she's at the end of her rope. And he prays to God that she doesn't give up.
He can't live without her. If she left, he wouldn't be able to survive. She is what keeps him going. He loves her, so much. She is his air, and no one understands him like she does.
"I'm sorry." he whispers. It's so quiet, one would almost wonder if he spoke it out loud. But she hears it. He knows she does. She always does.
She doesn't speak. Instead she reaches out and grabs his hand. The gesture says everything.
I know. I forgive you. I'm sorry too. I'm not running away. I understand. I know what you're feeling. This isn't your fault. I don't blame you. I love you.
It's all about soul.
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