New Year Rising

Hello, Loves.

Happy New Year. I saw something funny on Facebook today; a meme pointing out that the new year is pronounced “2020 won”. You could cry at that, but let’s laugh instead, shall we?

Sometimes, when we’d dance together in Sausalito and I’d have a hard time connecting with the dance, or the music—basically, if I was struggling in any way—I’d say to myself, “what if this is the last time?” Things would always shift for me with that sort of inquiry. It was March 8th, 2020 and I noted the hand sanitizer that was offered upon our arrival at dance. I was aware of how some people were keeping their distance and not hugging, not touching. There were fewer people than usual in attendance that Sunday. I felt an air of uncertainty in the room. Admittedly, I was struggling. In that environment, I asked myself the question, “what if this is the last time we dance together?” Of course I had no idea that actually would be the last time we’d dance together for many months. Loves, we’re coming around the bend of being apart a full year. I miss you. I miss the dance and all it provides. I miss the touch of you; the hugs, mostly (less so, the sweat 😊). In the same breath of missing you, in the same breath of longing for the dance, there is also gratitude: for zoom, for seeing each other through the miracle of technology, for the health and wellbeing of each member of this community, for our teachers who prepare for hours to bring us the gift of a transformative soundscape. It’s been an incredibly challenging year in many ways, but there has also been some small sparks of light that came shining through. Perhaps we learned what it means to slow down and savor the moment. Perhaps we figured out we’re more resourceful and resilient than we thought we were. Perhaps we became more aware of how much the little things mean to us. Perhaps, through it all, we’ve been steeped in gratitude for the world that made us, for this one wild & precious life we have (I just quoted Mary Oliver, twice!)----even amidst all the chaos and difficulties. As mentioned (repeatedly), my preference would be to dance with you in person, but I’m oh so grateful to at least have zoom (and the spotlight, that just about makes my heart burst every weekend).

Let’s dance together tomorrow and welcome the New Year.

It thrills me to tell you Stacey will shepherd us into the New Year with her music, her presence, her wisdom, her generosity of soul.

Here’s the helpful link:

Two poems for you today:

How the Light Comes

I cannot tell you how the light comes.

What I know is that it is more ancient than imagining.

That it travels across an astounding expanse to reach us.

That it loves searching out what is hidden, what is lost, what is forgotten or in peril or in pain.

That it has a fondness for the body, for finding its way toward flesh, for tracing the edges of form, for shining forth through the eye, the hand, the heart.

I cannot tell you how the light comes, but that it does. That it will. That it works its way into the deepest dark that enfolds you, though it may seem long ages in coming or arrive in a shape you did not foresee.

And so may we this day turn ourselves toward it. May we lift our faces to let it find us. May we bend our bodies to follow the arc it makes. May we open and open more and open still

to the blessed light that comes.

—Jan Richardson


Where the path closed

down and over,

through the scumbled leaves,

fallen branches,

through the knotted catbrier,

I kept going. Finally

I could not

save my arms

from thorns; soon

the mosquitoes

smelled me, hot

and wounded, and came

wheeling and whining.

And that's how I came

to the edge of the pond:

black and empty

except for a spindle

of bleached reeds

at the far shore

which, as I looked,

wrinkled suddenly

into three egrets - - -

a shower

of white fire!

Even half-asleep they had

such faith in the world

that had made them - - -

tilting through the water,

unruffled, sure,

by the laws

of their faith not logic,

they opened their wings

softly and stepped

over every dark thing.

-Mary Oliver

Those last few lines are worth repeating, “Even half-asleep they had such faith in the world that had made them. . . .” and “by the laws of their faith, not logic, they opened their wings softly and stepped over every dark thing.”

Let’s do those things together, shall we? Let’s cultivate a faith in the world that made us. Let’s acknowledge the “dark things”, but open our wings softly and step over, through, and forward.

Sending love & hugs,


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