The Dance

Photo Rache Bennett

I am beyond honored this week to have the beautiful and glorious Rachel Bennett of Rachel Bennett Yoga as the Guest Writer.  Rachel is a dancer who teaches private yoga and meditation in NYC and is a very talented writer.  She speaks to connecting movement with breath and finding the silence within.  Namaste, and enjoy.

 

In the winter of 99’ I moved to New York to become a professional dancer and actress. I arrived with what the Buddhists call “Beginner’s Mind.” I knew nothing and in that nothing state, everything was possible. My mind was like an empty rice bowl.

But, then my life changed. Six months later, my father lost his job and without health insurance was diagnosed with cancer. My parents lost their house and all their savings. They had no choice but to move down to DC to live with my Dad’s brother and his wife. My father received chemo treatment at John’s Hopkins while my mother worked Full Time and took care of him in the evenings. But my Dad’s cancer didn’t respond to the treatment and on October 21st, 2000, he passed away.

I was a senior at Hunter College.

Loss and suffering are odd. They work on us in ways we don’t always understand until later, marinating inside us, changing us into deeper vessels. The price we must pay is pain. But, the psyche finds ways to numb and cope, so as not to be obliterated by sorrow. We find ways to keep going and mine was movement.

Dance.

After my Dad’s funeral, I returned to New York, but felt numb. I was exhausted from watching my father turn into a skeleton. Grief makes us tired. There are some things we can’t be prepared for, only lived through. I remember the Spring following his death, walking to class, when I noticed flowers coming out of the ground. I was infuriated. I had the visceral desire to crush them under my feet.

I said silently to the colorful buds, “How dare you bloom with such life when my father is dead?”

But, I continued to dance. I landed a gig in Japan and some summer stock musicals, pushing through my grief. On visits home to my mother, I embarked on another loss: Her mind. She acted strangely. Dropped things, kept tripping, couldn’t remember where she’d put something. Eventually, she was fired from her job. Her boss told her, “I’m sorry, Shaunna, but you don’t make your deadlines and you can’t stop crying at work.”

My mother – the one who’d published a newspaper, championed women’s rights, taught Chaucer and Shakespeare and fought for equality of all kinds – I now found sleeping in the middle of the day covered in candy wrappers.

Our dialogue went from talks of art and my life in New York, to something like this:

“Rachel, have you seen my purse?”
“No, Mom. I haven’t. Where did you last have it?”
“I don’t know.”

Her psychiatrist told me her behavior was just grief from losing my Dad, but my gut told me there was more. I left the city to care for her. I thought I could save her, but the more I tried, the more I got pulled down under. She was an endless pit of tears, sorrow and questions and I found myself drowning under her weight.

Sometimes we must leave to survive.

So I returned to NYC, got a job waiting tables and entered what would become a decade of surviving and care-taking. I moved twelve times and secured five different homes from my mother from 2002 until 2008.

Then the phone calls from her room mates:

“Rachel, I’m sorry but your mother doesn’t flush the toilet and leaves milk out on the counter all night. I keep reminding her, but –I think it’s time you find another place for your mom to live.”

“Your mother parks the car half in the driveway, half in the road. I’ve reminded her several times, but – “

So I’d start looking for another home for her.

I kept the acting/dance game going best I could. I earned my SAG and Equity Cards, auditioned for managers and agents, but my mother was sobbing in dark rooms, her hair uncombed. I made an appointment to speak to her psychiatrist, seething.

“She can’t put a key in lock. She can’t find her purse or her lipstick or her notebook. She forgets things I tell her.” I tell him, venom in my voice.

“What is going on? Do you have her on too many drugs? Is her anti-psychotic mixing badly with her rheumatoid arthritis medicine?”

One night, my mother turned the water on in the kitchen sink and then went into the living room to watch TV.
“Mother, you left the water running. You need to turn the facet off.” I said impatiently.
“I don’t remember how.” She said.

I made an appointment with the head of the neurology department at Albany Medical Center the next day. After many written and verbal tests, an MRI and CAT scan, Dr. Zimmerman and I walked down the hall together and he said to me, with a clipboard under his right arm, “I’m sorry Rachel, but from the tests it’s very clear that your mother has early onset Alzheimer’s. It’s primarily in her parietal lobe, which monitors spatial relations, but will soon encompass the frontal lobe as well.”

She was 55.

By this time I’d stopped the dream of performing. Or perhaps the dream stopped me. I’m not sure which.

Pre-Alzheimer’s, my mother was vibrant. When she laughed, mountains shook. When she was mad, sparks seemed to fly from her green eyes. But, when she was happy, the world seemed to glow.  At different times throughout my mother would tell me,

“Rachel, there will be pain in life. And deep sorrow. But, there will also be joy. Remember that when you have the chance to dance, Rachel – DANCE. Always. Whenever the opportunity arises.”

And we did. Over the years we danced in the kitchen to Rod Stewart, at picnics and weddings. When my dad fished in the river, my mother and I danced on the bank.

My mother doesn’t dance anymore. She lives in a nursing home in the Bronx where she sits in a wheelchair, waiting for meals. Waiting for someone to wheel her to an activity. I visit on Sundays and when I do, I put music on, and swirl her in her wheelchair. It’s our new way of dancing. Last week we danced to “Moon River.”

“Rachel, wait!” my mother screamed at me.
“What mama? What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Do you see it? Over there!”
“What mama? I don’t see anything.”
“There! See, there!”
She now points to things that I can never see. “Delusions” the staff psychiatrist tells me.

I wonder if she sees my father’s ghost. Or perhaps she sees us dancing together when I was five years old, heart ribbons in my hair, in Barnstead New Hampshire. She’s in a realm now that is not held by time or space.

Then she proclaims loudly, “Rachel, I’m here! I’m here!”

“Yes, mama you are! And so am I.” I tell her.

Mama Rachel photo Bergen Reginonal Medical Center June 2014

Her words are a declaration, a prayer, an offering, and the highest expression of gratitude I’ve ever heard.

We are here. Now. Each word, plié, brush stroke, or kiss is our way to say, I am here.

If you listen in silence, with all the desire in your heart to hear, you will hear that proclamation spoken by anyone who ever lived, swirling in the cosmos. I am here. I am here. I am here.

What will your offering be?

Rachel Bennett NYCB 2

The F Word

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It’s there, but not in the four lettered iteration you think. It’s actually uttered and thrown from mouth to mouth, scattered like autumn leaves and placed on bright pillows in deep hopes of actualization. It’s deemed necessary and often seen as an end point, the end to our anger and suffering. Nirvana awaits within this simple word.

The need is immediate, and we leap over all mud puddles to place our bare feet in that green silken grass, and fling our boots to the side, desiring to forget our blackened soles.

But do we really know what we are asking for?

Do we know who we are asking?

 

I can share with you what I asked for.  I asked for forgiveness.

All relationships are a two way street and even though mine felt horribly short and road-blocked, I knew I had hammered that block with my own nails. In seeing the depth of the nails, now splintering the wood of my marriage, I pulled one out and laid it at my husband’s feet, laying claim and offering as a promise I wanted to repair.

But he turned away from the nail, from my hands open wide, and would not give me what I wanted.

Even more, he kept his nails firmly embedded, his block growing into a stockade before my eyes. He sanded the surface, and swept any sawdust from the site. He packed away his toolbox and locked it tightly.

How could I forgive that which wasn’t even acknowledged?

I turned back around and saw my toolbox busted wide open, the hammer strewn to the side, vice grips laying twisted on the road, and my ruler snapped in half. The metal clasps that once held the top so fast, now lay bent and deformed, unable to hold anything together.

I picked up whatever remains there were, and threw them in the trash.

I put on my highest rain boots, staring at the raging ocean before me in my heartbreak. I couldn’t even utter the word, as all I would feel was a black wall, and a thick fog that would roll in with tremendous force.

I had an intention to survive, and an intention to understand, and that had to be my guide for a long time.

 

At first it was the wall next to me. Then, as the fog cleared, I could see the bricks piled high to my right. Slowly, with each healing day, and being held by my community, I was able to reach up and take down one block at a time. The mortar would crumble on my meditation cushion, and small bits would drop into my hair, the black of the brick passing through my fiery mane.

Sometimes a brick would stick so strong and no amount of coaxing or pulling would bring it loose. Weeks would pass with no movement, just dust slowly forming in the spaces created; rectangles of emptiness oddly positioned, with no real pattern, except a slow opening.

How I wanted to feel relief. How I wanted the wall to disappear.

That was the end goal, wasn’t it?

 

I recently spent a cold March Saturday on a retreat around the F word.  The phenomena brought out quite a crowd, all of us sitting upright, and feeling very similar confusion.  Our teacher began by laying a groundwork of relationships and what is present and supports a loving connection.  Of all the terms he used, two resonated with me:

Trust

Communication

I knew these existed in abundance and were the cornerstones for many happy years of my marriage, but when I stood before the towering stockade in my divorce, they were completely out of my grasp.

On the heels of these definitions, our teacher then asked us,
“What are you asking for in forgiveness?”

As neither of these have existed between us for two years, I began to ask the next question, which was,
Who am I asking to give me these things?

Could it be that my communication of laying the nail at his feet was all I could do, and was enough?

I did pull the nail, and threw away the broken ruler.  This was the beginning of self forgiveness and self trust.  As I sat next to the crumbling wall, bricks were immobile when I sought answers from the past, from the turned back and locked toolbox.  But the truth was, what I was asking for from him, I was cultivating in myself.

Maybe the wall wasn’t meant to just disappear, but instead be dismantled with care.  The bricks were brightening from a darkened black to vibrant red, and I could see through them now, a wide window opening.

I didn’t buy a new box to lock my tools up tightly, but instead found new alternatives to the vice grip and heavy hammer.  Now I had before me a supportive community, a bowl of ash to catch fragrant incense, connection to my breath, love of the crashing waves, and an open journal, ink looping on every page.

And as I turned the paper to present a blank canvas, I picked up my pen and wrote out in sweeping cursive the words I have wanted to hear.

I Forgive You

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