Two Years, Two Lights, One Plate

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I was there when the second plane hit, I saw it with my own eyes. It was such a sunny September day in New York City.

This week, walking into Union Square in New York City, I looked skyward and saw them, two shining beams piercing the sky, a memorial that blazes the skyline every year the week before September 11.  And it all came back.

The day, and my journey.

While there were many ways I processed the grief and senseless hatred of this act, where I found my truest voice was in dance and writing.

These are my creative HOMES.

What’s yours?

Three years ago, on September 11, 2013, I danced in the Table of Silence Project, choreographed by Jacqulyn Buglisi at Lincoln Center in New York City.  It was so powerful, I agreed to perform two years in a row, returning again in 2014.

This is the gift we have as Creatives.  It’s what we express and the change we inspire.  The Table of Silence has been performed every year since 2011, and is broadcast across the world.  The audience has reached the millions, offering a message of peace.

What I didn’t expect was how dancing in the Table of Silence would actually heal me on a much deeper level.  I began with one intention, and was gifted something far more powerful.

The belief that I could do more. The realization that I had something to give, and I wasn’t alone.

It was after dancing in the Table of Silence that I decided to launch my own business.

Here is my original entry from September of 2014. At that time, this was just a blog with no inkling of a business. My audience has grown 26x since then……I have grown in ways I never thought possible.

What waits for you?

 

My White Plate

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“Repeat after me, I am a miracle.”

I am a miracle.

“Hand over your heart, I am a miracle!”

I AM A MIRACLE.
 
We stand in rows of ten, twelve deep, dressed in white, and all eyes and ears on the woman up front, our director and guru, Jacqulyn Buglisi.  She is leading us in rehearsal for The Table of Silence Project.  Her company members from Buglisi Dance Theatre walk throughout to help with the movements, give correction, and answer questions.

We beat our sternums, singing out, and let the vibration ring through the cavernous studio space.  We clap our hands in front of our mouths, only fingers touching, and then bring our hands out, palms offering the sound, forearms perpendicular with our bodies.  Our bare feet stand firmly on the floor where we add our intention to share our message through dance with our audience.

We offer our expression, we offer our silence.

 

I was on the N train in Astoria heading towards Queens Plaza to transfer to the express train.  I had only lived in NYC for three years and had my second day of jury duty.  As I was a Queens resident, I had to report to the courthouse pretty far out.

I had spent my first day trying to look as dour and pissed as possible so I wouldn’t be picked.  So far, the strategy was working.

The N line is an elevated train out in Queens, and I stared out the window at the smoke billowing from the one of the towers of the World Trade Center.  It was churning out in large black puffs and I got out of my seat to try to understand.  I heard a woman on her cell phone say something about an airplane, but all my brain could process was there had to be an explosion.

Suddenly the second tower was engulfed in fire and smoke. From my vantage point, I only saw the impact, and couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

When I arrived at the courthouse, every TV was on and people were standing, staring blindly at the images.  My eyes widened as I took in the reality of the attack.

We were excused pretty quickly and the subways had already shut down, so everyone was bee-lining for buses.  They were all packed, and I lined up with others to get on whatever came next.  This was my only way home.  As I walked out of the courthouse, I got the word,

The First Tower is Down

I felt my stomach drop into my heels, and my legs stopped working.  I stood on the concrete outside the courthouse, and for a moment everyone rushed by me, running for the buses.  There was a horrible smell in the air, and black was streaming across the blue sky.

One question arose,

“What is going to happen?”

I got on the first bus I could, and everyone had the same frantic look in their eyes.  People were trying to call friends and family and the lines were getting jammed.  I was trying to call one of my closest friends to make sure she hadn’t gone into Manhattan, and I was just getting a busy signal.

I turned to the stranger next to me and saw myself in her.  I asked her where the bus was going and she asked me where I needed to go.

We were all lost in the confusion of this attack, a community formed out of survival.

Through their help, I got off and followed the subway tracks home.  I sat on my couch, watching the one station still broadcasting, and wept for the lives lost, for the fear, and for the destruction.  Ash filled the New York sky, and I curled into a ball, mourning the loss.

These two towers held some beautiful memories, and now they were a massive graveyard of twisted steel and burning death.
 
The following day, my neighbors held a candlelight vigil on the sidewalk outside our apartment.  We came together to comfort, as the city did the same.  People streamed into the island to help, and to search.

As I witnessed this community, I felt for the first time this was my home.  We were leaning on each other for strength, and holding each other in grief.

 

This is my second year dancing in the Table of Silence Project.  Last year I placed white powder on my face to signify ash, and walked on Lincoln Plaza with over a hundred dancers. In the face of divorce , robbery, and the sudden death of a dear friend, I felt I had burned over and again in my loss.

In the first year I performed, I cried deeply, feeling my heart so broken.

Jacqulyn’s words were a beacon to me, reminding me of my inner peace, and the power of our collective hands raising.

Now, after removing white plates from each other’s mantels, we all sat in the sunshine, crossed legged, in silence, eyes lowered, listening to the flutes echoing across the plaza. We formed three concentric circles around the main fountain, a sacred geometry.

As I sat, I realized there was a change.

I was not sad, and suddenly the tears flowed. 

This was the Miracle.

My tears caught the white powder on my cheeks, and fell into the plate in my lap, held carefully between my hands.  At the sound of the bell, I raised my plate heavenward, offering in silence my story and journey.

A plane flew overhead and instead of smoke, I saw blue sky.

I had worried my bare feet would bleed and tear dancing outside at Lincoln Plaza, but the granite was smooth and cool beneath my feet.  My soles had calloused and strengthened over the three weeks of practice, and they carried me out of the plaza, in a line, following this community in white, all of us holding our plates at our heart centers, as the drums beat on and on.

Today I walk, and I offer peace.  I dance in peace.

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Birthday

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I awake,

my doorframe surrounded by bright balloons,

taped to outline the entrance to my room:

Red, green, blue,

my primary arch.

Upon stirring,

this is my first pathway.

 

I pass through

imagining the scotch tape

lovingly placed by my mother’s hands

the night before.

 

Sweet waves float from the kitchen,

smells of bacon,

waffles,

fresh fruit,

and eggs.

I follow to the center of my home,

the nourishing space,

to sit under a paper sign

placed over the window,

two words spelling out a celebration,

balloons dangling on either end.

 

Sounds accompany the smells:

the clinking of silverware on plates,

laughter and tears of gratitude

as paper rips open,

revealing loving words,

their annual message bolded in various expressions,

carried in crisp envelopes from

England

Belgium

Germany

Canada

Pennsylvania

and New York.

Marked from travel with blue and black ink,

landing here in my hands today.

 

Noon day sun shoots through the

kitchen window,

placing circles of light,

illuminating the butter,

salt and pepper,

maple syrup,

And confetti.

 

As the circles move across the table,

I’m led to the living room

where my friends await,

arms open.

 

I sit in the circle and streamers fall from the ceiling.

We skip and play,

scooping cotton balls into plastic bowls,

scavenger hunting,

Ice-skating,

zipping past each other,

moving in pairs,

triplets,

quartets,

then forming a whole.

 

We exit the living room

through a door

leading to outside,

to stand under the stars,

the vast night sky above.

We dance arms open

wide,

touching nothing but space,

ending the day

releasing the balloons

we have held so tenderly and gently

in our hands.

 

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