Tejedora Metaphora

Fusion Fiesta Playlist

2009-08-04T20:41:00Z

As requested, here is the playlist we used at the Fusion Fiesta workshop in Madison the other weekend. Mmmm...music, glorious music.....!!!! Wheeee! Enjoy!

Shishelai - Belly Dancing at the Cafe Feenjon

Chicky - Oojami, Bellydancing Breakbeats

Rakset Al Assaya - Hossam Ramzy - Kouhail

Thessaloniki - Acquaragia Drom - The Gypsy Road

Kasbah 3am - Mohamad Al Hasan Abo Abid - Think Global: Bellydance

Chalak Chalak - Devdas Soundtrack

Asena - Asena

Mademoiselle De Bucarest - Matelo Ferret - L’epopee Tzigane: Road of the Gypsies

Hungarian Dance - Songs From Hungary & Romania

Drum Solo Wassan Pharoun - Issam Houshan - Belly Dance Superstars IV

Tin Tin - Oojami - Bellydancing Breakbeats

Sulukele - Dalia Carella’s Shuvani

Tulum - Selim Sesler ve Grup Trakkya’nin Sisi

Moroccan 6/8 - Solace - Rhythms of the Dance

Laz - Omar Faruk Tekbilek - Mystical Garden

Bad Pumpkin - Kara Nomadica

Serpentina - Light Rain - Dark Fire

Tamra Henna Part 2 - Jalilah’s Raks Sharki 3

Ancient Ruins - Issam Houshan - Belly Dance Superstars 3

Besena Rovena - Roomana Dives - L’epopee Tzigane: Road of the Gypsies

Peace - REG Project - Bellylicious

Marahabat (Welcome) - Nour Eddine - The Music of Morocco

Zexra - Unknown - from a taped recording of an old LP that someone left at my house in the early 90s (if anyone knows the artist & album, I would be very happy to know!)

The Lantern - Beats Antique - Belly Dance Superstars V

The Mystic’s Dream - Loreena McKennitt - The Mask & The Mirror

Darban Jooth Na Boley - Solace - Satya

El Enab - Saad - Belly Dance Superstars V

Silk Route Suite - Sol & Sal - Hossam Ramzy & Rafa El Tachuela - Flamenco Arabe

Dissolved Girl - Massive Attack - Mezzanine

32 Flavors - Ani DiFranco - Not a Pretty Girl

The Cow - Commander Tom Vs. Marco Dux Baby - Bass Beats & Melody

Fingerdance - Billy McLaughlin - Fingerdance

Ordinary - Train - Spiderman 2

My Duet with Ariellah

2009-04-14T00:05:00Z

Descent to the Underworld

Inanna & Ereshkigal

In the fall of 2008, I ran into a problem—there was only one of me.

I had wished to create a new dance centered around one of my favorite stories--the Sumerian myth of Inanna’s descent through the Seven Gates of the Underworld where she meets her sister, Ereshkigal. For months, I had been inundated with Seven Veils—someone had written to tell me how much she loved my veil work and that I should do the Dance of the Seven Veils; I had gotten some new veils and really wished to dance with them; a friend had loaned me Tom Robbins’ book Skinny Legs and All [Bantam Books, New York, 1990], a fascinating, quirky book themed around Salome’s dance.

In my earliest days as a newbie belly dancer, I wasn’t really interested in performing the Dance of the Seven Veils. It ranked right up there with my aversion to the questions, “Do you wear a jewel in your navel?” and “Can you roll a quarter on your stomach?” and “Do you take your clothes off when you dance?” The only thing I had ever heard about this infamous dance was that some sleazy gal had shimmied all of her veils off in order to get John the Baptist’s head on a platter.

Many years later, I was introduced to Inanna’s Descent, and I couldn’t help but envision a very different Dance of the Seven Veils. I am not alone. There is much conjecture about the ancient correlation between the two. My research into the Seven Chakras only solidified the image, and it has been brewing ever since, as has my love affair with this tale. The version I have borrowed and re-borrowed from a dear friend is in Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, Her Stories and Hymns From Sumer by Diane Wolkstein and Samuel Noah Kramer [Harper & Row, 1983]. The online version I have referenced many times is at Dan Sewell Ward’s Library of Halexandria:

http://www.halexandria.org/dward384.htm

In summary, the story begins with Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, the beloved goddess of love and war and fertility, among many other things. She is a mother, a daughter, a priestess, a wife, a warrior and a queen. She is splendid and fierce, beautiful and revered. She is the Light.

In contrast, her sister Ereshkigal has been given the realm of the Underworld to rule. She is the Queen of the Dead, feared and reviled, dark and hideous. She drinks dirty water and eats nothing but clay. Naked and ratty, she is renowned for her insatiable lust and her miserable spirit. She is as despised as her sister is adored, and she hates Inanna as wholeheartedly as the world despises Ereshkigal.

One day, Inanna decides that she would like to visit the Underworld and witness the funeral rites for her sister’s husband—one cannot marry the Queen of the Dead and go to live with her in the Underworld without dying, after all, and Inanna has never seen anything like this. She is curious. So she dons her finery and the accoutrements of state—seven symbols of her beauty and power. Thus adorned, she strides down to the Underworld, demanding entry. Ereshkigal is furious at her sister’s pomposity and orders all the gates to be barred. She then commands that each gate should only be opened far enough for Inanna to squeeze through and that each time, she should lose one of her adornments.

At each of the gates, this comes to pass until finally, after squeezing through the seventh gate, Inanna is stripped of all of all her symbols of status and splendor, naked and “bowed low” as Ereshkigal wished. Still, she is the Queen of Heaven, so without so much as a “Howdy-do, good to see you, Sis,” she marches into the Underworld with the intention of sitting upon her sister’s throne.

But the Realm of the Dead is Ereshkigal’s domain and Inanna is powerless there. Ereshkigal smites her, strikes her with the curse of death and hangs her upon the wall to rot.

Now, before Inanna had embarked upon this ill-advised journey, she had been given many warnings. “Are you sure you really want to go there? I mean, everyone who goes there dies! You’re really determined? Well, all right, it’s your funeral.” Yet Inanna went anyway. Still, she was smart enough to instruct her handmaiden that if she didn’t return in three days, she should send someone down to get her.

Three days pass by.

No Inanna.

Fraught with worry, her handmaiden rushes to various deities, urging them to go save the lost goddess. No one is willing to attempt that, but the God of Wisdom has an idea. He creates two little creatures and sends them to the Underworld. “The Queen of the Dead is going into labor,” he says, “so when you hear her moan about her head and her belly and her pains, then you will echo her and commiserate with her. She will be so pleased that she’ll offer you any gift you wish. Ask for the corpse on the wall.”

So the little creatures do as the God of Wisdom instructed. As Ereshkigal cries out, “Ohhh, my belly!” the creatures echo, “Ohhh, your belly!” As she cries, “Ohhh, my head!” they echo, “Ohhh, your head!” and so on. And just as predicted, Ereshkigal is so touched that someone has actually shown her compassion for the first time in her life, she grants their request, gives them the body of Inanna, and the Queen of Heaven is restored to her throne, much wiser and now imbued with a deeper sense of power, self, purpose and understanding of life. There are some additional conditions of her release and some proceeding tales, but this is the part of the story that was important to my dance, for I have been dancing with my Ereshkigal for quite some time now.

Inanna and Ereshkigal are not superficial symbols of Good vs. Evil or Angel vs. Devil. They are far more potent than that. Each of us, each society, each community possesses both shining attributes and bitter darkness…the beautiful side of us that world loves, and the part of us that we banish to the shadows. This is the depth of the story of Inanna’s Descent to the Underworld—those moments when we come face to face with our own dark side, and the dance that ensues, prompting us to—hopefully—heal and grow.

The Descent through the Seven Gates was easy enough to create. There are numerous theories about the origins and meanings of the Dance of the Seven Veils (Google it sometime or see www.shira.net for more details), and this was the motif I chose: seven veils to represent the seven symbols of Inanna’s original, uninitiated power, placed at the locations of the Seven Chakras in descending order, with relatively corresponding colors. (These are my own interpretations, not to be confused with the literal adornments and placements in the original texts.) My favorite chakra book, and one that helped me link these attributes with Inanna’s accoutrements is Anodea Judith’s Eastern Body Western Mind, Psychology and the Chakra System as a Path to the Self [Celestial Arts, 1996].

Even the music—Pharonic Odyssey by Paul Dinletir from Belly Dance Superstars Babelesque—was synchronistic perfection, for it just happened to have seven distinct parts that begged for the type of motions that would correspond to each body part. I mean—a drum solo in the sixth movement? I couldn’t have asked for a more ideal song to represent the whisking away of all of Inanna’s adornments!

With her symbols of power and station removed, the Queen of Heaven is vulnerable, yet she still has the audacity to push past her sister, intent upon plopping down on the Throne of the Underworld. But in the blink of an eye, she is put in her place—on a hook in Ereshkigal’s dank hall.

And there, she rots. During this time, two things happen. Not only does the formerly glittering, ego-confident, Exalted One die and spend some time stewing in her stuff, but the banished, hated Shadowed One goes into labor. It is herself that Ereshkigal gives birth to—a rebirth of spirit, painful and frightening, especially when one is as alone as the Queen of the Dead. But for the first time in her life, she finds that she is not alone, not spat upon, not reviled. In the midst of excruciating metamorphosis, someone shows her compassion—the God of Wisdom’s little creatures.

For my dance, I chose to have Inanna herself do this, because it was logistically easier, but more importantly because at the root of this story, this is the important part—the true inspiration gleaned from those complex internal workings of a soul in search of its true self. It represents the moment of stunned, slapped-awake comprehension by that fancied-up, showy self that the world acclaims—the self that presents the best possible face and does the societally correct things; the hollow self that isn’t quite genuine for fear of offending or disappointing; the self that banks upon the pride of worldly accomplishments and titles and rewards and ornaments; the self that despises what is so vehemently locked in the closet and rattles at us from time to time.

Ereshkigal is untamed. She is the Destroyer. She has known a lifetime of rejection and bitterness, and she is full of sorrow and rage. She wishes more than anything to fill the insatiable emptiness inside of her through sexual exploits. She is not nice, lady-like or appropriate for the dinner party or the office. She is definitely not the sort of gal you want to bring home to mama. She is even told to stay out of sight during times of great loss, great affront and great passion—crying in public, shouting against outrages, expressing unbridled sexual desire. These are not the activities of a Good Girl. And death? That word, in its many incarnations, is as abhorred and banished as Ereshkigal herself.

So when Inanna comes down and takes a good, hard look at her sister—her dark-side mirror, her shadow-self—she is witnessing things that have long been kept behind the veils. Staring into the mirror like that can be horrific and wondrous, appalling and fascinating, heartrending and the most joyous relief. I was twenty-five when I did this for the first time. My hand shook as I touched my own face and looked into those reflected eyes that I had avoided for so long, even while I had primped and preened to “perfection” each day. It was a revelation, like looking at someone I had never seen before.

I have been dancing with my Ereshkigal ever since, peeling away veil after veil to get to the core of who I truly am. I find, in truth, that I am a combination of both, and that is another point of this story. Each side has her place and her time, and is necessary and valuable—and yes, beautiful. When the Inanna of my dance comes to watch this agonizing rebirth, she is at first curious and a little baffled, then fascinated and wishing to hear more, and then finally moved to echo those cries of pain in loving compassion. She throws her arms around this lonely, tattered, down-trodden figure—a figure she has mistreated worse than anyone else—for aren’t we often the most cruel to ourselves than anyone? In this act, Inanna comes to understand the depth of love and of life.

I have found that the old adage is true: that until I could learn to love myself, I couldn’t truly love anyone else. In helping my Shadowed One up off the floor, dancing with her, and full embodying everything she had to teach me, I have started to become whole once more.

Originally, I had thought to share a more public version of this dance with the world and to perform it as my finale solo at the Northern Lights Festival in Wisconsin. (Interestingly enough, the first festival had been held about an hour away from where I grew up—I am a Minnesota girl by birth.) I had contemplated a nekkid-Inanna costume that peeled off into the dark Ereshkigal costume and then thought to maybe don a brilliant, multi-hued veil of culmination. Or I considered doing the dances in several suites with costume changes. For weeks, I wracked my brains trying to figure out how I could possibly convey the intricacies of such a huge story.

But then it hit me. Just as Inanna couldn’t truly come into her full self without Ereshkigal, I couldn’t do this dance alone.

It is at this time that I have to say a few words about Ariellah. I have admired her work for many years and was excited to find out that we would be on the same DVD together—Fantasy Belly Dance: Magic. She was perfectly cast as Kali, another dark, powerful figure of death and rebirth, and when I finally came to the realization that I needed a literal representation of Ereshkigal to dance with, I could think of no one better to play this role—and Ariellah just happened to be one of the other instructors at Northern Lights.

So I wrote to her three weeks before the show and, even though she had a billion things going on and was about to head out of town, she graciously agreed to do this duet with me. I was overjoyed! When she returned, I sent her the details of her character and the basic outline according to the music—Break Me by Beats Antique (I got a kick out of the fitting title). I had hoped that she would be familiar with the music, but it turned out that this was the one song on the album that she had never danced to. I guess it was just waiting for this piece.

So we corresponded a bit about costuming choices and how we wanted to represent it. Neither of us are terribly flesh-showing dancers, but yet Inanna is supposed to be naked and Ereshkigal is barely clothed in tatters. We finally decided on white and black, not only for the eternal symbolism, but also because the white provided a better contrast with my skin so that the movements of the dance could be seen, rather than flesh-tone. I also did not want to use the nekkid body-line because I wanted my audience to be focused on the story, rather than my intimate outlines. So dark, gothy-wear and white sparkles it was. I chose a glittering, encrusted cabaret costume very intentionally, to represent the ultimate richness and beauty when one has been stripped down to one’s barest, essential nature. Ariellah chose leather and heavy metal, and for all her dark-fusion-liciousness, she also sparkled—ever synchronistic, as everything about this piece was.

As the images solidified, we had to smile at the unintentional layer of storytelling we were also touching upon—that of the struggle between cabaret and tribal, for there seems to be a lot of familial squabble even though we are all sisters. Personally, I love it all and was overjoyed to be able to do this collaboration between such different styles.

Ariellah and I met each other for the first time on Friday night at the instructors’ condos and mapped out our final plan for an hour before the hafla. The piece was an improvisation between two virtual strangers, outlined by some musical cues and the story. We truly are like night and day—I am a bouncy, babbling spaz, while she is calm and fluid. Yet we came together so naturally. I couldn’t have asked for a more professional, inspiring, capable partner! The duet was to be mainly led by Ereshkigal, with an unsure Inanna gradually gaining momentum until the end when they part ways and return to their domains, more whole than before they met.

On Saturday, we ran the piece twice between workshops and then didn’t see each other again until the show. We each had solos earlier in the evening, and exchanged some grins and crossed fingers before going to our respective entryways. I began with the Descent through the Seven Gates and as I neared the end, I began to see expressions of surprise and intrigue in the audience. Without looking, I knew that Ereshkigal was slinking her way toward the stage. I was Inanna in the climax of my drum solo, while my dark sister gradually siphoned the audience’s attention away, drawing the power unto herself, claiming her domain. I danced on, oblivious and over-confident as all of my veils fell to the floor, leaving me nekkid and clueless as I faced her.

Now I can tell you, doing a cocky, posturing, stalky dance opposite Ariellah is quite the experience! She is not tall but her presence is immense and she had no trouble laying me out on the floor, fixing the curse of death upon me and flinging me up to rot on the back wall.

And then she did her thing.

I didn’t have to pretend to be mesmerized and fascinated, thinking, “Wow…that raqs! I wanna try that!” I was actually so engaged with what she was doing that I totally blew one of my cues. That’s all right. The dance had gained a life of its own and we were fully enraptured in the tale we were telling. We weren’t just telling it to the audience anymore—we were experiencing it, feeling all the emotions of this ageless, human story. As the dance progressed and we began to move in unison, I discovered a different place of initiation in my muscles, a new way of executing these moves I’d been doing for years, and a totally different side of myself that I have rarely expressed. I could see something happening in her eyes too, and when we made the final pass, all I could think of this amazing, truly powerful figure of inspiration was, “Thank you. From the depths of my heart and soul, thank you for all you have shared with me, all you have taught me, all you have given to me!”

I saw it all mirrored in her smile.

We broke apart and I launched into celebration—whirling in ecstasy as I repossessed all my brilliant colors, all those powers now polished and refined, imbued with genuine depth and everything I had learned on my journey. We finished on our respective sides, queenly in our own rights. The final “brrrring” of the music sounded and we shared a look of which only we comprehended the full meaning. When the standing ovation came, it nearly caused my heart to burst because my dream had come true. There had been barely any credit notes in the program, nothing at all about the story, but the audience had Gotten It. People were bawling, clapping, cheering, hugging. Ariellah and I hugged too and, true to Ereshkigal, she hesitated taking a big bow with me. But Inanna had been to the Underworld and back, and would not stand for her sister—equally beautiful and amazing in all her dark, untamed glory—to stand in the shadows.

After all, I couldn’t have done it without her.

See the dance as filmed by Candlelight Productions: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWXxJwAbUCA&fmt=18

More about Ariellah: http://www.ariellah.com/

Continuously MIA

2008-10-28T22:00:00Z

*siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh*

The type of sigh that Napoleon Dynamite does when he's frustrated. It's almost dinner time. I just received a notification of a comment that was left on here today, only to find about 20 more that I didn't know existed. *eyebrow* I have a billion things on my To Do list. I have so many emails in my inbox that I haven't been able to catch up in over 6 months. I leave for Europe in a week. I have to pick new music for the Canary Islands show because there were some crossed lines. My body is really crabby and I've been sick since the weekend.

And my sigh is that of Napoleon Dynamite. My eyebrow is only a twitch, which means I'm still in a pretty good mood. Kind of like the certain flicking of my cats' tails that tells me I haven't completely earned a good swiping, only a playful pounce. Anyway, I am ravenous, I haven't been on MySpace since this summer, I'm almost equally behind on Tribe, I don't remember the last time I looked at this blog, I am back down to only 200 messages in my inbox (it was 450 a couple months ago)...but I AM alive. Contrary to popular belief, I haven't fallen off the face of the planet.

See...this is is one of those annoying things. There are only a few hours a day where my brain can handle doing gobs of email and computer work, which means that the moment I go on tour or get sick, they start piling up and I have a hard time recovering from it. Heaven forbid if I should have a funk or do something like...oh I dunno...get divorced. *the other eyebrow, and a bit more prolonged* Anyway, there is this horrible rumor going around that Izzy has left the building, but like Elvis, people keep catching glimpses of her at various festivals and then there are those random emails and blog posts that throw everyone off guard.

Anyone who is close to me knows: Online communication has become the bane of my existence. I haven't quite figured out how to keep up with my life since it's taken the turn it has in the last year and a half. I will figure it out. I will clone myself...or something. But I'll have to keep a close eye on them...I seem to remember a movie about a guy's clones all running rampant in his life and doing things he didn't really want them to be doing...getting benefits he wasn't getting...hahahah!

So yes, I'm still here. And there. And everywhere. I'm just...*pant pant pant* A little cross-eyed. Don't mind my MIA-ness or my delays in replying. It's sooooo not personal. OK, I'm going to go EEEEAT now! Arrrrrg!

Dancing with Death

2007-05-16T20:37:00Z

I cried in karate the other day.
        So there I was in my first advanced class learning one of my new self-defense techniques. It is a longer technique. It is a bit involved for somebody coming at me with a simple right-handed punch.
        It is friggin' brutal.
        Sometimes when my instructor teaches me a new technique, he has me throw the attack and explains it as he does the counter on me. Other times we do it in the air side-by-side and add the hands-on dynamic later. This was one of those days. So there we were, side-by-side, him explaining and me mimicking. We sweep past the punch and grab this person's wrist and...well...then we proceed to do some stuff to them. Nasty stuff. Stuff that really wouldn't feel very good and leaves them lying face-down on the ground with various body parts either broken or really hurting.
        But we're not done yet. Oh no. "So then," my instructor says, demonstrating, "you put your hand on their head here and you put your other hand on their chin here and you make this fast twisting motion like this, snapping their neck—"
        My eyes pop open.
        All the air rushes out of my lungs.
        All my muscles freeze.
        He explains the next moves in the sequence (yes, there is more after that) but all I can hear is the crunching sound of a neck being snapped. All I can see is the vivid image of this poor sucker on the ground with his head in my hands, being subjected to such ruthless force. I shut my eyes and hold out my hand, palm up. "Wait," I say. My voice is kind of high-pitched, definitely choked. "Stop. Hold on!"
        As my instructor glances over at me and sees the tears welling up, he takes his own turn at goggling with wide eyes. "Are you all right?" he breathes, concerned.
        I nod. "I just—I just need a minute. I just got slammed with the vivid image of what I would actually be doing to another human being in this technique."
        He allows me to pant and wince and cry a little bit, poised in that position there with my imaginary victim between my knees and my hands in the lethal hold. Finally, I gulp back my tears enough to finish the technique that ends in one final kick to the head. After everything I've already done to this person, all I can think is, "Ugh! And one for your mother!"
        Blinking away the remnants of my tears, I say to my instructor, "So...in other words, if I was to choose to do this technique on somebody, they better REALLY be threatening me..."
        He gives me a grave look and nods. We have a bit of a conversation about this, about what the story would be that could possibly prompt me to defend myself from a punch in this way—what sort of justification it would take to do this to someone. It is brief, but poignant, and I can't help feeling very awed and more than a little humbled at what I am learning to do. What's that saying? "With great power comes great responsibility."
        I cry a lot in karate. I cry when I accidentally hit someone too hard. I cry when all my old Stuff backs up on me. I cry when I get really frustrated. I cry when I am elated to have found such a wonderful school that has taught me so much. And I cry when I think about the magnitude of some of the things that they are truly teaching me.
        Given the circumstances, I don't think that's such a bad thing...

Into the Labyrinth

2007-05-16T20:29:00Z

Into The Labyrinth

Spring, 2002
from a profound dream-land experience

I wore my boots. The thigh-high, leather boots with the sturdy heels. The boots that had made my fingers raw and blistered to sew together. The boots that had caused a fight—several in fact. They were made for fighting though, gorgeous and supportive, and meant to be worn in confidence.

I wore the boots with leggings and a long, wool, hooded tunic because it was night. As I left the hubbub of the cabin, the scuffing of my feet on the curving dirt road seemed to shout in the hush. Tall aspens and pines stood sentinel, looking down upon me and, beyond them, the stars. The moon had not yet risen and we were far away from any city so they pulsed in the black expanse. I was small in the universe, and felt it at that moment. Small, but not necessarily unimportant.
The boy who guided me was young, perhaps eleven, with dark hair. He wore a black robe, also with a hood which he had left hanging down his back, as I had mine. It was still balmy, but growing cooler as the hours passed. I tucked one of my hands up into the draping sleeves of my tunic, shivering as we made our way closer. In my other hand, I carried a sword. Long and straight with a black hilt and a heavy curved guard. The boy carried only a small lamp. Ahead I could see the flicker of lights among the trees.
I wasn't inclined to speak. Neither was my guide. I was glad. It made things all the more reverent and really, this was a very important thing I was doing.

When we arrived, there was only the High Priestess, clothed in her scarlet velvet robe, the black-lined hood framing her face. Her skin was ivory, smooth and pristine. Her black hair mingled with the lining, but I knew that when it was unbound it would hang to the middle of her back. Her eyes seemed nearly violet in the lamplight, almond-shaped and surrounded by thick lashes. She smiled at me, but it was the welcoming smile of the priestess, not the big grin I was accustomed to upon our normal greeting. I knew my face would hold its severe, chiseled harshness—my serious-business-face, so I mirrored her expression.

As the boy retreated, she gave me a solemn nod, I returned it, and then it was time to give up the sword. I had been expecting it. It was why I had brought it. I had walked armed for so long now, sword unsheathed and held before me. At the very least, one hand lingering near as it hung at my side, fingers twitching, ready to take it up at any moment. But now it was time to put it down.

I relinquished it, not without some discomfort, though I knew it was only a symbolic trinket of the real armaments I clung to inside.

"Welcome." The priestess smiled again, one of those knowing smiles rimmed with the kind of pride a mother would have for a daughter, or an older sister would have for one younger. "Are you here of your own free will?"

"I am."

"Are you ready to be reborn?"

"I am."

"Then come."

She covered my eyes with a dark cloth. Blind-folded, I allowed her to guide me through the hedges. I was not afraid of this. I was ready to begin trusting again and she had proven herself in the past as one who would be gentle with me. Steady and strong, but always gentle. Her hand rested atop my head, pushing down so I ducked and stepped into the small enclosure. It was barely larger than my body in a crouch. Settling down on the ground, I crossed my legs and made myself comfortable. I could feel the walls close by, almost touching me.

"When I hear you feeling for the doorway, I will know it's time," she said. "Your own time."

There was a rustling and some scraping, and all sounds from outside became muffled. My breathing echoed in the small chamber. It was very warm and comfortable. From outside came a steady thump-thump….thump-thump…thump-thump…

Heartbeat of the drum.

I smiled.

My vision was red-black behind my eyes. Red and black like the Priestess' robe. Shiny black like the highway upon a December night and red like blood. Glowing red as an autumn sunset and black as the sky at midnight . Deep. Warm. Thump-thump…thump-thump…

Surrounded by the darkness, I chose those things I would shed from the old life. Anger—rage. The blind rage that consumed my soul. Thus blinded in the unlit cave, I felt only calm and wished that this feeling could go on and on. This blindness was soft, dark. The other was flashing and brilliant, like lightning searing my vision and destroying all in its path. Confusion, apathy, degradation. Cynicism and tunnel-visioned self-absorption. Grief and bitterness. Heartache, heartbreak, heartless, heartburn…

Heartbeat. Thump-thump…thump-thump…

It was not their time any more. They had served their purpose for long enough.

Show me the way, I sent into the darkness, into the light beyond the darkness. Show me my path, now that the old one is no more. Light of Lights, work through me, shine through me and let me be reborn…

* * *

When I stepped outside, struggling to stand on numb legs, the tender hands helped me up and gave me sight. She also gave me a drink of milk, sweet and nurturing, then marked my forehead with jasmine. The mark of a newborn child.

I gazed out at the night with those pure eyes and I wept over its beauty. I asked to always gaze upon the world with those eyes. I wanted to capture that moment and bring it back into the world of gray suits and camouflaged uniforms and gang colors. I gazed at the High Priestess and found her eyes were shining down at me. I gazed upon the cave that had served as the transition between lives. I gazed upon the trees and shrubs and the glittering sky, and turned my face into the wind.

She bade me farewell with instructions to follow the torches along the path, saying at the last, "Beware the Minotaur." With glowing eyes, I gazed at the torches, gazed at the path, and thanked her for sharing this night with me.

I came first upon the Maiden in a shimmering white gown that flickered the rainbow with her every movement. Glittering dust lingered on her eyelids and cheeks and upon her rosy smile. Her hands were like wands, spreading stars as she gestured, and her feet trod upon the ground in skips and bounds, leaving a path of flowers in her wake. I wanted nothing more than to giggle with her as we pranced the path, arm in arm. I knew and loved her well.

Next, I came upon the Mother in her gown of moss green and mahogany, draped in folds over her full belly. Upon her brow rested a crown of boughs and flowers and her smile was full of love. Within her brown eyes were flecks of gold that flickered like candlelight. We walked arm in arm as well, but slowly, strolling as the easy conversations passed through the night air. I also knew and loved her well.

I came upon the Crone. She of black cloak and iron-tinted hair. She with the ravens upon her shoulders and the falling stars in her eyes. Eyes set deep within folds and creases of ashy skin. A slit for a mouth with wrinkled lips turned under where there should have been teeth. Yet she spoke to me with ease, for words were unnecessary here. She laughed too, a sound of ageless wisdom and a great deal of amusement. She chuckled at me, at the world, at herself as we staggered upon the path. I wasn't quite sure who was supporting whom. The rhythm of our steps was familiar, as I had walked for months hidden within the folds of her cloak, wrapped in her bony embrace. I was ready to emerge into the world of the living again. I thanked her for walking with me. She touched my cheek and bid me farewell. She, too, I knew and loved well.

Stopping for a moment to reminisce, I took in the winding path lined with torches and rustling aspens. Their branches were full with the growth of late spring. In the thickness of the trees beyond the path, it was dark. Mostly shadow. A patch of faint light here and there in an opening, but mostly shadow. It was very quiet and I wondered what sorts of animals lived there, what sorts of meadows and foliage and secret nooks I might find. A dark shape suddenly caught my eye, moving among the trees. I blinked and stared harder, trying to make out the silhouette. Was it a bear? A man? It stood taller than a wolf or cat or fox.

It was gone.

Trying to mentally smooth down the raised hair at the back of my neck, I continued on.

I next came upon the God, virile and robust with his hoofed feet and chest of thick, reddish curling hair. He stood very tall and his face shifted in the firelight, in the shadows, in his expressions. Sometimes he appeared fair, sometimes dark, now a beautiful man with long flowing hair, now a flicker of a stag. A crown of great forked horns rested upon his head and his tawny cape flapped in the wind. As he took my arm, I knew him. Slightly. A new discovery of whom I was still curious, still enchanted, still a bit shy. Consort. Mate. Beloved. And I loved him well.

We parted and I wandered the path alone for some time. A bird called somewhere. A single call. It was answered by another farther off. As I came to two torches flanking a large tree, I knew I was meant to stop. The tree was different than any others that grew here. Its leaves were full and glowed golden; its bark was silver. Among its intricately woven branches, golden fruit grew. As I approached, one of the branches dipped to dangle one just in front of my face. Lifting my chin, I took a bite of the sweet, juicy fruit. It was like an apple, but no apple that I had ever tasted. Layers and layers of flavors, a multitude of experiences in one bite. I hungered for more but one bite, it seems, was all I was to have. The branch resumed its lofty place with a soft rustle of leaves.

Continuing on, charged with this hunger, I hastened to find out what was around the next bend. I skittered around the corner and suddenly pulled up short. There at the turn in the path, standing just at the edge of the trees, was a tall figure. This was not the God. This was someone else. He stood mostly in shadow, but I thought I could make out horns atop his head—two great, sharp, curving horns. He leaned against the tree with his arms crossed before his barreled chest, one leg casually crossed in front of the other. The Minotaur. He was staring directly at me.

Beware the Minotaur.

Was I supposed to pass him? Would he hinder me? Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I scurried past and made for the next bend in the road. When I glanced back, he was gone. With a shudder, I darted down the path, nearly missing the next stop on my journey. I almost mistook the snake for a pile of logs, but then it moved and I paused to watch it. It was slowly working itself out of its old skin. The remains, a sheer, crinkling trail of dusty gray, wound its way back into the woods. Fascinated, I watched the methodical undulations until the serpent had finally emerged, then drew itself into a coil with its head in the center, resting upon its hulking body. "Remember thisssss," it hissed. "The Ssssspiral Danssssssssss…"

Nodding in awe, I backed away down the path, but my tell-tale hackles rose again. I tried not to whirl around, couldn't help it. He was there, in the shadows where I couldn't make out any of his features. The Minotaur kept pace with me this time, walking soundlessly, his gaze fixed upon me as I traversed the path. I couldn't keep my eyes from him. Why was he there? Why did he follow me? What did he want? Why did I need to be wary of him? I nearly asked him, but just when I thought he would step into a pool of light, he vanished.

Sighing in consternation, I stomped on. I will talk to him next time. I will ask him why he's following me. I will ask him what he wants of me.

A cloud of mist hovered across the path, fading into the perimeter of the trees. Beyond it, I could discern nothing. Two figures flanked the path, one male and one female, hovering just at the edge of the mist. The male was dressed in a white Grecian garment with golden curls atop his head and encircling his chin. Perched upon a log, he suddenly jumped down, holding out a flagon of dark liquid to me. "I am the Wine God. Drink with me and be merry! You've had a long journey!"

Taking a sip, I discovered it was a sweet red wine. I thanked him.

"I am the Corn Goddess," the female said. Pretty and robust, she was dressed in a patchwork skirt and a bodice with overflowing bosom. She offered me a piece of cornbread, saying, "Eat and be nourished. You have far to go!"

The bread was also sweet and I was very grateful, for I hadn't realized just how hungry I was. After I had shared the small meal with them, the Wine God stood back to sweep his arm into the heavy cloud behind him, causing it to swirl. "Beyond you will behold—"

"—the face of the Goddess Behind the Veil," the Corn Goddess finished. "Fare thee well!"

They linked arms and disappeared into the mist.

The Goddess Behind the Veil. She, too, I have known well. And loved. I calmly stepped forward, feeling the coolness envelop my skin, breathing in the thick, refreshing scent of moisture-laden air.

She was there, amidst the sparkling droplets that obscured all but what she wished to show me. The vision was mine, meant for me alone. I walked with this eternal being for some time, asking many questions of her. She said nothing, only smiled at me. The smile seemed to say, "You have asked these things of me before. And my answer is still the same." With a sigh, I nodded and thanked her. As I took a step forward, the mist suddenly whirled and dissipated, and I saw that in essence, I had traveled nowhere. I stood beside the log of the Wine God's perch between the trees, and there was the end of the Labyrinth. Beyond the last torch was an open meadow. In the distance, the lights of the cabins twinkled.

My heart fell. That's it? It's over already? The Labyrinth had been beautiful and full of enchantment, but it hadn't offered me any of the promised earth-shattering revelations. No knowledge that I hadn't already gleaned in my previous journeys. No burning bush, no answers to my yearning questions. I had been hoping for something…

As I wistfully trudged the final leg of the path, I couldn't help glancing over my shoulder. Nothing. Not a rustle. Not a glimmer. He wasn't there and I had missed my chance to ask him all the things I longed to ask.

As I approached the stairs that led to my cabin, one of the cloaked guides—a young girl this time—was just coming for another initiate. A loud thump reverberated inside my chest. There was still a chance. "Are you able to give the High Priestess a message for me?" I asked.

With her affirmative answer, I quickly wrote a note and gave it to the girl. As I awaited the response, I lingered about the stairs, not yet ready to go inside and speak to the others. They would all want to talk about their experiences, hear about mine, but I was not yet ready to be back. I felt caught between that otherworldly place and the return home.

Shortly, the boy who had been my guide emerged from the woods with the message that the High Priestess had arranged a meeting for me with the Minotaur. My pulse raced. This was it! We returned to the beginning of the Labyrinth, had to wait a moment, as one of the initiates was sent on her way, and then he brought me to the High Priestess once more.

"Well," she said, her familiar grin back in place. "This is a first. No one has ever asked to speak to the Minotaur."

"Never?"

"Never. He's waiting for you in the forest. Straight ahead there, in the thicket."

She sent me with a small lamp and a quick kiss on the cheek. Her eyes were glowing with delight. So were mine. As I tromped in my heavy boots off the path and into the thick of the wood, I found myself standing up taller, straighter than normal. I was aware of the stray strands of my hair tickling my forehead in the breeze, the itch of the wool tunic at my neck, the lingering taste of the wine on my lips. My steps were buoyant, vigorous. Loud. I grinned. My pulse raced.

Off to the side, I heard rustling, rustling…silence.

A dark figure stood in the space between two large aspens. We stared at each other for a moment. Then I walked purposely toward him, seeing that it was indeed the one I had come to meet. His horns rose, dark and ominous in the faint light. A silvery haze seemed to hover about him, obscuring him even further.

I stopped a few steps away—a polite and slightly wary distance.

He bridged the gap in two broad strides and his full form came into the circle of light cast by my lantern. I had to tilt my head up to look into his face—the shape of a great bull's head, covered in soft blackish-brown fur which trailed off along his neck. His eyes were brown and very large, but had narrowed as he looked down at me. He crossed his bulging arms over his chest and planted his sturdy legs wide apart. When he spoke, his voice was stern and resonated with the ages. "You have strayed from the path."

"I have come to meet you," I answered boldly, finding that my pulse had grown calm, raised only by my enthusiasm over this encounter.

He rose up even taller, looking down his broad nose at me. There was smugness in his expression, menace in his posture. "You do not fear me?"

"Should I?"

"All fear me."

"Why?" Such a simple question. One that seemed to constantly tumble from my mouth, and one that had caused me much trouble all my life.

He replied, "All fear the Unknown."

"But that is why I have come to meet you."

I think he understood me, understood all the questions that his silent, forbidding presence had evoked in me, for he explained, "I am the Keeper of the Labyrinth. I am here to see that none stray from the path."

Wrinkling up my nose, I asked, "But why is it important to stay on the path?"

"So that none are lost."

I blinked once. My eyes shifted as I took in his words for a moment. "It's your duty to see that none are lost?"

He bowed his great head in affirmation and a light came into my gaze. Warmth flooded my breast and I felt gratitude for his silent, daunting presence as I had traversed the path. He couldn't have known that I would be so comfortable here in the shadows of the forest, that I wouldn't have been lost, simply exploring. In my oh-so eloquent way, I answered, "Cool." Letting the conversation settle about me, I sighed in contentment. "Thank you."

I was finished. I had found my answers.

"Will you show me the way out?" I asked.

"Of course. Take my arm."

Grasping his long, hulking limb, I wrapped my hands around it, satisfied that I had come face to face with him, asked what I needed to ask of him, and found him a threat no longer. He was my path—the path less traveled, the journey into the Unknown.

He strode purposefully through the trees, leading me toward the torch-lit trail that would take me to the cabins. Just as we neared it, I glanced up to see that he was about to walk his immense horns into the branches of a tree. I was too late to stop it. I couldn't help but let out a giggle as he tangled himself, ducked back, staggered, shook his head to clear himself. All semblance of dignity in him was lost. Patting his arm, I quipped, "Perhaps I should guide you."

Part 4 - Shimmer Wings

2007-04-21T07:39:00Z

    In order to begin healing, the first thing I had to do was to stop trying to dance. I had to bawl and scream and cry and give up the dream that someday I would reclaim the life I had left behind. Then I had to just let my body do its thing. I had to feed it well, not make it do things it didn’t want to do, and let it sleep at any given moment it asked to. I had to treat it like an infant. It was a painful, but very necessary step. It was only after the admission of defeat that I truly began to relax, to surrender to the process of rejuvenation and to allow this amazing machine of flesh and blood to do what it needed to do. To this day, it fascinates me with its capacity to heal itself, if we only give it the chance and help it.
    Only after I had let myself twitch & drool for a bit was I strong enough to begin the excruciating and rewarding process of recovery. It’s hard, it’s exasperating, it’s painful, it SUCKS. But it’s worth it.
    Meditation was one of the most profound ways I found of helping. Visualizing my body healing itself, visualizing what it would look and feel like to be whole and strong again, visualizing my muscles releasing their death grip, visualizing my bones staying in their proper alignment…the process has been terribly slow and very frustrating, but I have reaped the rewards. And it keeps me focusing on the positive, instead of the negative. Very important.
    Another was Bowen Therapy. It is not massage, it is not reiki, it is amazing! The way I understand it, by performing a series of movements on an injured or stressed area, it sends messages to your brain to instigate the body’s own process of correction—to release held, spasming areas, and use the correct muscles to put the body in its natural, proper alignment. Sounds weird? I thought so too and was skeptical until I experienced it. This technique was what finally broke through the locked patterns, allowing my muscles to stop spasming and pulling my spine and hips out of alignment every other day. It’s amazing—now I can go into a meditative state and “Bowen” myself just by sheer relaxation and concentration.
    Once I had gotten to the point where I could actually start to rebuild my lost strength and flexibility, I worked with a wonderful physical therapist—Mary Ripper Baker of Motion Studies, who is also a dancer. Having a therapist who truly understood what I had lost and what I longed to regain more than anything was just as important as the exercises she gave me. My nickname for her was my Physical Terrorist, but always grumbled with love and gratitude. When our sessions ended, I had to become my own physical terrorist, so I developed a series of stringent drills to regain and relearn all the dance technique I had lost and to find ways to compensate for the injury-induced imbalances. My injuries spiral their way up my body, so all those lovely shimmies and undulations and gooey moves were lopsided. These drills are still a regular part of my regimen—they worked so well that I taught to them to my students, who lovingly named them Belly Dance Boot Camp! Hah, Physical Terrorist, indeed… *crack of whip*
    Beyond the physical healing, one of the most frustrating aspects was trying to dance with a brain injury. First off, dancing has always been my main stress relief, so I had to learn how to cope with life at its most stressful without my Woobie. Then when I was finally allowed to dance again, it was no longer the fun activity I had once enjoyed. With the damage to my processing speed, I was constantly a half-beat behind in the music. As I have always had an internal metronome, it drove me crazy! That one just took time. However, learning and memorizing was something I had to completely re-learn. I don’t quite know how to explain the new learning style. It is a feeling…a completely different way of memorization that has much to do with attaching the kinesthetic connection of my body to the phrases and beats of the music, as well as the visualization of myself doing the moves and the way the words are printed on the chorographic outline. “Left hip down, up, up up. Right hip down, left hip down…” I literally read it off the envisioned page in the air in front of me. And I have to write everything down or it will be gone as soon as I leave the room.
    Karate--yet another thing that would have once been strictly filed under the No-Can-Do-Kid List--has greatly helped in this respect too, forcing my brain to learn how to re-route its customary pathways to learning new things. The physical conditioning, too, has done wonders for my body, although I do have to be careful with impact and certain movements. But I have wonderful instructors who accept that I have limitations, yet constantly help me work through and past them. These aren't old movements that I'm re-learning how to memorize. These are completely foreign sequences, and I am finally figuring out how to use the pathways that I have left, and to create new ones. Of course, trying to match the names of the techniques to their corresponding movements is like trying to prize a hunk of tuna out of my cat's mouth, but it's getting there. I also have to envision the technique sheets pasted on the wall in front of me and "read" the names off before I can actually which move my instructors are asking me for, but hey...a gal does what she has to.
    This visual attachment became distinctly apparent during my second neuropsychological exam (the intensive test that measures brain damage). In one test, the administrator would say a long series of words. The objective is to repeat back as many words as you can. Then you are reminded of each word you forgot. You do it again and are reminded again until you can finally list every word. The first time I did this test, it was awful and took forever, but the second time, I had re-routed my memory track through the visual arena—they would say a word, I would attach a visual image to it in my mind. I developed a series of images instead of words, all lined up in my head in order. I now do the same thing for choreography. There are still many dances that I just let my students do because I often can’t remember my own choreography to save my life, but it gets better the more I play with it. So does karate, although I'm still struggling to turn the huge list of self-defense techniques into one big long kata so that I can hope to memorize the order.
    An interesting benefit to all this right-brain dependency came about six months after the crash. When my brain started to re-route customary left-brain functions into the rightr brain, my mind exploded in poetry and rhythmic modes of expression filled with imagry and metaphor. I'm told that this is a very common thing in stroke patients who have suffered damage to the left-brain. This is still a predominant mode of my communication, which sometimes gets on people's nerves when they'd like me to get straight to the point, but it sure does make for some great writing!
    Another big step in re-training was when I began to play zills again. Ooooh, multi-tasking. This is another process of attaching sounds and patterns of the zills to the physical movements. While I’m dancing, I no longer think, “One and-a two and three-e-and-a four,” or “Right, right-left-right, right, right-left-right-left-right.” I feel it in a way that I can't verbalize. I have to feel it and make it part of the movements my body is doing, or I can’t play them.
    My return to dancing happened sporadically, a party here, a show there, testing my limits and pushing the boundaries. For the first two years, it took about 2 weeks to get back on my feet any time I danced. Now I can produce my own shows and perform multiple numbers full-out. There are always specific conditions to which I must limit myself, but I have learned through trial and error which ones I can fudge on, and which ones are absolute no-no’s. Delving into the realm of some of the heavy-duty, national-caliber shows I've been hired to do has really pushed these limits--and forced my brain to figure things out that I had been told I should never even try to attempt again. It is a rough, sometimes brutal process to stumble through, but I become stronger and stronger with every year, capable of more and more things that I had once thought lost to me forever. It astounds me that I am still recovering. Even comparing how I was last year at this time to how I am as I write this, the difference is startling!
    In the past years, I have really begun to reap the benefits of the silver linings. My disabilities have taught me some very important things: how to teach normal, non-prodigy-children—i.e. the majority of students who walk through my door, as well as those with limitations. It’s taught me how to use my body in the most efficient ways, to cherish every moment of every day because I don’t know what will be on my plate tomorrow, it’s taught me patience and focus and discipline, how to accept—and *gasp!* even ASK for help and then be grateful for it, to rest when I need to rest and to push when I need to push and to know the difference between them. I have learned that I’m completely normal at the same time as being profoundly special—as we all are—and that one of the things I was put on this planet to do is to create my art and to share it with others. My own crucibles have led me to this place of understanding, and without them I never would have found this dance, this feeling, this way of being that is solely mine. Floundering in chronic pain, despair and bewilderment, I never would have believed that such miraculous healing was possible.
    But I only have to look in the mirror to know that it is true. After several years hybernating in a dark cocoon, I have emerged a different creature. And now I have wings.

Knowing love, I will allow all things to come and go...
To be as supple as the wind and take all that comes with great courage...
Life is right in any case.
My heart is as open as the sky.
~~Mira Nair, from her film Kama Sutra

There is more about my recovery on my website: www.izzydancer.com

Surfacing

2007-04-21T07:26:00Z

Surfacing
August 12, 2005

Applause.

Don’t you truly see?
You’re not looking at me
You just see the mask
The pretty face and swishing hip
Curvaceous figure, sparkly lip
It’s the glitter in your eyes
The glare of spotlight
Blinding you
To bitter truth

Ovation.

Hey, get off your feet
Oh, just stay in your seat
What are you thinking?
Don’t you understand?
It’s all slight of hand
Shimmering mirage of glamour
The truth obscured by veils
While beneath
Writhes this loathsome thing

“Will you please call and remind me because I’ll never remember by the time I get home?”
“No, I can’t make your party because my brain is too fried to drive or handle a crowd.”
“Can you give me overdraft protection because I transpose numbers in the hundreds column?”
“Oh, sorry, your other left.”
“Oh, sorry, can you say all that again?”
“Oh, sorry, can you go out of your way to adjust your entire way of doing things because I
need so many special conditions that I won’t be able to participate in life if you
don’t accommodate all the places where I’m broken!”

Snicker.

No, I’m not a flake
Not an artsy half-bake
This hair is brunette to the root
So take your rolling eyes
All your condescending sighs
That slow, annoyed blink that says
I’m not the sharpest in the box
Shove it
In your braying donkey’s gob

Sneer.

You don’t get it, do you?
What’s “dyslexic” mean to you?
Did you think I was exaggerating?
I don’t have that neuron
That connection is sure gone
I warned you from the beginning
How hard it is to work with me
You doubted
But now you know the truth

“I need a thingie with a handle and two claw-dealies and a big, heavy—yeah. Hammer.”
“We’ve really met before? We were in a play together? I was in a play???”
“I’m okay. I just tripped over my own feet in the fiddle of the moor.”
Stare-Stare-Stare…Blink-Blink… “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
Stare-Stare-Stare…Lift of eyebrow… “Can you repeat that entire thing?”
Stare-Stare-Stare… “Too many brand names, colors, types, lights, prices that I can’t even
begin to try to decipher which is the one I need and if I don’t stop staring at it all I’m gonna
give myself a migraine!”

Illusion.

You who don’t know me
Would like to hug or throw me
You see Diva or Dunce
And can’t comprehend
You don’t understand
Lackluster masks authentic glow
While glitter loses shine backstage
And I
Am not what I seem.

Betrayal.

Those who hurt me worst
Are those that I am cursed
To love and grow to trust
You flutter close awhile
And promise me a smile
But once the mask comes off
You snicker loudest of all
You knew.
I guess your love came with strings.

Part 3 - Techno-Medical Mumbo-Jumbo

2007-04-21T06:48:00Z

What all the Techno-Medical Mumbo-Jumbo of my brain injury actually means to my life:
(Written in the Spring of 2005)

    Problems with planning, sequencing, focusing, problem solving, organizing, controlling my emotions and The Animal Brain (I’m hungry—eat it now; I’m scared—run away; I’m threatened—kill it!), motivation, multi-tasking, harping-harping-harping and hammering away at a single thought that just constantly bugs me and won’t let me go and I can’t shut up about it because my stop mechanism is broken and I just keep on harping-harping-harping on it and forgetting that I’ve already said that and losing track of just how much time has passed since I started talking about it…
    Heh. I was passionate and sensitive to begin with. Losing access to a chunk of higher cerebral function made dealing with this devastating trauma, and the others I still carried from the past, a nightmare.
    Problems with ringing in the ears, short-term memory, missing chunks of long-term memory, difficulty with verbal conversations (speaking in ordered formats, remembering a list of things I need to say, understanding and remembering what is said to me) especially when I can’t augment it with reading lips, difficulty processing audio input in general although my ears are just fine, categorization, aggressiveness, talking-talking-talking where nobody can get a word in edgewise to save their lives because I just can’t quit talking to save my own life and one of these days it’ll kill me cuz I’m gonna forget to breathe…
    Ahem.
    Problems with retrieving the correct vocabulary (“You know, that sitty-downy thing in there with the shhhht and the whhhhooo…”—a horizontal hand swipe and a vertical gesture. “Er, chair. Yeah. That’s it.”) Trouble remembering people’s names, learning new languages, learning new phone numbers or addresses, reading comprehension, distinguishing left from right, doing even the most simple math, hand-eye coordination.
    Problems with balance, depth perception, right-side motor functions, insomnia, fatigue, dizziness, light-sensitivity, mood swings, processing speed, spatial orientation especially when I don’t have access to the visual realm.
    Yeah. All that from a few bumps on the head. To look at me and speak with me, I seem like a perfectly normal, healthy person. No one truly knows the extent of compensation, advance calculation and calm grinning that I do. Some things have healed with time; others have developed a re-routed trek through different parts of my brain; and then there are the things that are just as bad as that first week.
    I have to sit in the back of the movie theatre because the more I have to pan & scan, the harder it is for me to track the goings-on. I have to see long, complicated movies more than once to really comprehend them, or ask people to repeat themselves a lot, or re-read paragraphs over and over. I also have a hard time realizing just how LOUD I’M TALKING—a bad thing with a voice as resonant as mine. Commercials or programs that flash through a rapid series of shots will put me under the table in a few seconds. Situations in which there is a lot of audio input and I am also required to do cerebral tasks will make me twitch & drool in the corner. I often avoid taking phone calls after about 4:00 p.m. unless I am really UP, because it comes in solely through the audio channel. If I close my eyes and try to discern the origin of a certain sound or which direction I am facing, I almost always get it wrong.
    I have a normal time bracket of about 4 hours for heavy concentration tasks. I can do up to six hours as long as I have a good rest for a few days afterwards. I need a nap almost every day in addition to 8-10 hours of sleep at night (much better than the former two naps and 12-14 hours of sleep). If I don’t stop, sleep, eat, rest when I get the warning signs, things can get very bad—breakdowns, rages, convulsions, disorientation, lapse in concentration, massive increase in all symptoms. When it is really bad, I have had minor seizures and sometimes look catatonic. Strobe lights are evil. Bright flashes into my eyes will flip my brain switch into OFF in a heartbeat. When I perform, I have to give very specific instructions to my light techs, because the wrong sort of cue can really be detrimental--not only to my performance, but also to my functioning capacity when I come off the stage.

I need lots of time alone, in complete silence. Holidays, parties, large groups, and special occasions can be very rough. I actually avoid many social situations because I’m just not up for that much going on all at the same time. I often have a choice--I can drive to a function OR I can attend it. I like to sit facing the wall in restaurants—sitting in the middle of a crowded room is also evil. So are places like Wal-mart, Lowes, the mall, the grocery store, the freeway…any place where there are a lot of people, a lot of products, numerous brands to have to decipher or multiple things going on at once. Hiss! Snarl! On the several occasions I have tried to do the grocery trip by myself, I have either failed miserably and practically murdered the cart on my way out or almost killed the groceries as I literally threw them into the refrigerator—still bagged—and immediately face-planted for several hours.
    In the beginning, I was incapable of holding a conversation while the TV was on. My brain couldn’t handle hearing the tube at the same time as listening to someone else or speaking. I couldn’t sing on key anymore. I couldn’t hear music in real-time—I was always a fraction of a beat off, trying to play catch-up. It was the same with conversations. Sometimes it still is. People who know me well understand that sometimes it takes a few beats for me to get their jokes or to fully comprehend what they’ve said. They just wait for my eyes to quit glazing or darting from side to side—Beat…Beat…Beat… “Oh! Hahahaha!” People who don’t understand often think I’m ditzy, flakey or uninterested in what they’re saying. They couldn’t be more wrong.
    When I was given clearance to start driving again, I would find myself unable to focus on more than one thing at a time. I would get fixated on the bumper moving closer, closer, closer—whoa! Or on passing a tree, a tree, a tree—whoa! I shouldn’t have been allowed to drive as soon as I was.
    I also should never have been sent back to my office job. They were so tolerant and really tried to keep me on, bless their hearts, but the injuries had left me incapable of doing that kind of work. The phones were the first thing to be taken away from me. I couldn’t resume my work after the interruption without a really long period of racking my brains for what I had been doing. I had to call in sick day after day due to feeling like I’d been run over by a truck or the ice pick through my eyeballs and Magnito’s Helmet. The final straw was when the company accounts were $1000 overdrawn due to my messing it up so badly that we couldn’t figure out what on earth I had done. After nine months of struggle and misery, my doctors finally removed me from the job.
    I also had to move, because I couldn’t handle driving in Colorado Springs traffic anymore. After my lost wages from the insurance company ended, I tried to work part-time at a New Age store in Florence CO —I figured I would be safe in a store like that in a town of 3000 people. I was, until I had to run the cash register, and as long as the customers were all standing in the same spot. The moment they moved to where I had to keep track of them in more than one place, I would practically need a nap by the time that they left.
    I think my physiatrist's prognosis was the most devastating though. When I kept on complaining about symptoms that just weren’t getting better, he said, “You may have to face the fact that you’ll never be a dancer again.”

CarCrashBackLash

2007-04-21T06:40:00Z

CarCrashBackLash
October 27, 2001

Twenty-eight years
and too many tears
and losing the best man I've had
Too many years
of too many fears
and being nothing but mad

Now that I'm wise
rain pours from the skies
because it's gone on for too long
Tail-tucked lies
as a soul dies
and I didn't know something was wrong

The cigarettes burn in the ashtray...
    smolder, smolder
Leaving a long line of ashes behind
Remnants of my years of tears and fears and your Yes, Dears
I’m afraid that we’ve burned too many bridges to travel any further together.

I've stopped the rage
and turned a new page
and handle things in a new way
Burning the sage
to spark a new age
so that I have good things to say

But it's all for naught
I've burned you out
and you're too far gone to see
Lost in the drought
you hear only my shout
and don't realize that it's in glee

I've quit smoking, but we still wade around in the ashtray...
    flounder, flounder
Pavlov's dog cringes from Evil Mistress
Though I only wish to pet you, you still feel the lash of my tongue
Kinda like the sensation that a fishbone is still stuck in your throat after it's gone down.

Wish I could go back
when I first jumped the track
and began down this path of hate
I despise my knack
of being blind to your lack
and I'm terrified that I've lost my mate

Maybe not today
or tomorrow, per say
but I fear we're broken already
Our pattern betrays
are we set in our ways?
cuz that makes me queasy and heady

"Is this cigarette the one that finally does me in?" you ask...
    cancer, cancer
I fear I've lit up one too many times and the mutation has begun
I refuse to pollute my mouth with rage-cinders any more
Yet, still you won't eat from my hand. (I don't blame you)

Sure, now I'll dance
and write of romance
but if you're not here by my side...

the cadence and harmony and rhyme and rhythm leaves my heart and I can only mumble what my thoughts are cuz without you all the dancing and writing and healing in the world doesn't mean quite as much if you're not here to share it with.

Part 2 - Lysdexics Untie!

2007-04-21T06:20:00Z

LYSDEXICS UNTIE!
Translation for the unimpaired: "Dyslexics Unite!"

Before I begin this next section, you may ask why I would give this detailed account of such a morbid subject? I suppose to dispel the myth that drinking and driving is “no big deal.” But more importantly, to give some first-hand clarity on The Hidden Injury (brain damage), and to offer support and encouragement to others in similar circumstances (either the injured or those angels who support us). It was only from hearing accounts of other injured people that helped me see that I was not losing my mind, I was not alone, and my life was not over. Sharing my experience for the benefit of others has really helped to take the bite out of it and to put the focus where it should be—on the healing and moving on. Also, my jumping up and down, singing halleluiahs and grinning like a goober later on will make more sense with a point of reference from where I started.

THE INJURIES:
Prognosis 1: Severe Whiplash. Damaged muscles, tendons, and ligaments from neck to pelvis. Muscle spasms, fatigue, limping, hunching, and a vice-grip over my skull that I call Magnito’s Helmet of Pain. Backwards curve in cervical vertebrae. One shriveled, stringy leg on the left from damage to left hip; one butch, rock-solid leg on the right from doing all the work of holding me up. Joint problems in feet, ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, elbows, jaw from misalignment. Numb hands and arms from pinched nerve outlets due to twisted vertebrae. Bulging disks.

Prognosis 2: Various & Sundry. The annoyances and embarrassing conditions that came on within 1 week of the crash, some of which still plague me: asthma, hemorrhoids, bowel problems, wrecked immune system, chronic canker sores, my “second bung-hole” (my snidely affectionate term for the bed sore I acquired after reclining for weeks on a twisted coccyx).

Prognosis 3: PTVS (Post Traumatic Visual Syndrome). In the strain and impacts, my eyes were jarred so badly that the muscles got stretched out. My vision was warped and I constantly thought I saw things that weren’t there—especially dangerous while driving. I couldn’t estimate distance and kept on bumping into things. To correct this, they gave me warped prisms to exercise my eyes while reading and while watching the TV across the room. My depth perception and peripheral vision are still bad.

Prognosis 4: PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Lovingly called “The Rage Thang” in my house. Volatility, irritability, drastic mood swings, paranoia, depression, hyper-vigilance, hyper-sensitivity. Irrational phobias and/or rabid hatred of the following: moving vehicles of any kind, driving, riding in a car, the medical world, the insurance world, the world of legal systems, the highway, tight spaces, other human beings (especially drunk ones), stepping outside of my own house, not having absolute and utter control over Every Single Circumstance of Life, falling-tripping-maiming-sneezing-breathing…you get the point. (I am only being partially sarcastic with all of this.) Chronic nightmares, flashbacks, what I call “flash-forwards”—graphically gruesome images conjured by my brain at any given moment pertaining to any circumstance where there is a 1:1,000,000,000 chance that something bad could happen. All compounded by:

Prognosis 5: Dain Bramage. Technically “closed head injury” or “mild traumatic brain injury.” In other words, my skull wasn’t cracked open and I wasn’t unconscious for more than 20-30 minutes at a time. Damage to frontal lobe, motor strip, right and left temporal lobes, and right and left parietal lobes. Basically I have Shaken Baby Syndrome from having my brain slammed into my skull in 3 different impacts, and from my head hitting the door frame.

My list of symptoms comes mainly from reference to my neuro-psychologist’s reports and a compilation from Brain Functions and Map by Robert P. Lehr Jr., Ph.D: http://www.neuroskills.com/tbi/brain.shtml

You can find other valuable websites that have really helped me and my loved ones understand and deal with this in the links page of my website: www.izzydancer.com