'OHANA AND HULA

At class tonight, I danced solo.





Not only that, but I had to improvise, AND "work the stage."









Imagine doing this to a Tahitian beat, when you've only participated 4 times, and at the back of the class, which consists mostly of 20-somethings, who have been dancing since they were small children, and who move really well, are more flexible and sway a whole lot better.

I on the other hand barely hang in, can't hear the count,
lose the "bump" over and over again, and have shadowed thoughts of joint damage.

Hip circles at high speed are hard.

Hip circles at high speed while traveling by yourself around the room with an audience that is LOOKing at you, is really hard.


The hula solo went a whole lot better, although I did get a little nervous, distracted by the eyes of the audience, and lost the movement by "thinking too hard."

Since I tend to panic in public, hyperventilate or get flushed at just the thought of speaking up in front of a group, this could have been a really stressful evening.

Instead I didn't panic, and only felt mildly foolish.

Mostly, I was surprised at just how comfortable I felt, and how, in this environment, there was no judgement of quality or performance.

Just a wide eyed expectation that you loved the dance as much as they.


In this cement floored garage, tinged with the stink of cigarette smoke, flanked by a vehicle in repair and shelves of miscellaneous storage boxes, Auntie R and Auntie T passing the culture to the next generation, appreciation of dance and movement, a family collective to make it better for all, no competition or rating scale, 'ohana and hula in a high-desert, land-locked state, truly blessed to be there, I found that I did.


My only real concern? I may get sick more often this cold season--I must get, and give, 10 hula-sister and hula-bro hugs every night I go to dance.

Notes:

Photo #1: Tahitian dancers

Photo #2: Keiki (child) hula

Photo #3: Kahiko (ancient) hula

Photo #4: Auana (modern hula) grace at sunset

A Visit From A Friend

Renee.
Renee and her son Harry.
Visiting Albuquerque.
A foreign, beautiful voice.
An unexpected phone call.
A gathering.
I can't believe it. And yet it seems so natural. I haven't seen Renee in over ten years.

On Sunday, July 29th, I missed the phone and heard the machine: "Naomi, I hope this is you, this is Renee..." In that deep, musical, UNMISTAKABLE voice. Renee. From a time in Honolulu, when the world was music and dance, and there was a happening on every day. I used to talk to Renee daily. At work. On the phone. Dance classes and music on the weekends. Weeknights. Gatherings. People. Color. Clothing. Jewelry. Music. Food. We played downtown New Years Eve until just before the fireworks came on, performed for parties in strange, large beautiful houses, eventually were part of a fairly consistent nightclub gig. The multiple threads of a cloth, woven together, torn apart, weaving in and out of each other. So much was happening then. I think of Renee's penthouse apartment. Her sheer joy and enthusiasm for the open lanai, the ocean trade winds, rippling curtains, the sun, Hawaii, life on the Ala Wai canal.

Tonight, Renee and her son Harry are here. They are driving and flying, tripping around the United States. Washington, Oregon, Sedona, Santa Fe (where the hotels were full), Albuquerque (where we visited tonight), and Taos. Renee and Harry spent the day in Taos, drove a dirt highway, with two-house towns which they’d never seen before, cliffs dropping from the edge of the road down to the Rio Grande, boulders, Pueblo Indians, Indian bread, and hot springs. They arrive back in Albuquerque at 11:00 pm, Renee so tired that she can't think of going out to eat. I volunteer to bring food, but she isn't hungry now. So we settle on coffee and chocolate ice cream, which I pick up from a nearby Walmart at midnight and bring to the room. The hotel is a dump. The living room is dark, and the receptionist says that there is no one to fix the lights. The kitchenette has no utensils, dishes, napkins. It is bare. But we are good.

I can't believe I am seeing Renee walk down the hall towards me, but it also seems as if no time has passed. It's Renee, as beautiful as ever. Slender, white jeans, white decorated top, those signature braids. I meet her son Harry for the first time. He has a daughter who is no longer as small as she was when she visited Renee in Hawaii those years ago. He is lean, fit, braided to his mid-back, and in awe of, and enthusiastic about, the nature, country that he has seen. Renee and Harry have a bottle of wine. I bring coffee, chocolate ice cream, and home made oatmeal cookies. I'm glad I added extra cranberries and blueberries, but regret not having enough walnuts. We talk about their trip to Taos, their trip in general, the red rocks and colors of Sedona, Harry climbing a rock and sitting in a cave so high he was on eye level with a helicopter, the bad hotel (Best Western on Louisiana, which had them walk room to room, carrying their own linens to find and then move into a new room, when their original room was not workable), Hawaii, Harry's work as a fitness trainer and the fitness boot camps he runs in Georgia, a brief review of our recent working lives with Renee having climbed the corporate ladder via computer, her purchase of a five story Brownstone in Harlem in 2000, the crash of computer related work in 2003, my upcoming race and recent athleticism. Somewhere, around, 4:00 am, our conversation becomes vague and wanders off as fatigue hits all of us. I say goodbye, this brief interlude with these special people. Tomorrow, Renee flies to New York and Harry flies to Georgia.
Whew.

Feed your heart, says Harry. Find what you can do that feeds your heart.
Harry tells me he'd like to be less urban. The image of the single house, in the middle of nowhere, somewhere outside of Taos, on some obscure dirt road, has not left him.

Out of a dark Albuquerque night, in a dark shabby hotel, with these bright, beautiful people.

Feed your heart.

One of my favorite stories:

BIRTHDAY SWIM TURNS INTO ORDEAL FOR 70-YEAR-OLD MAN

The Associated Press

TOKYO-A Japanese man thought he would try something new--snorkeling--for his 70th birthday and ended up in a 19-hour swim for his life after being swept out to sea by a strong tide, a maritime official said Tuesday.

Hideo Murasugi set off on his first snorkeling expedition at noon Sunday at a reef on the southern Japan island of Ishigaki, about 1000 miles south of Tokyo.

His family reported him missing when he didn't return that evening and authorities sent out a search party, according to Ishigaki Maritime Safety Department spokesman Kazuo Toji.

Murasugi swam ashore unassisted Monday morning after spending the night dog-paddling and floating in the water while he waited for the tide to turn. Nineteen hours after entering the water, he made it to shore, Toji said.

Murasugi told officials he had been swept out to sea but realized he was not far from shore when night fell and he was still able to see lights.

"I'm very sorry to have troubled you," Toji quoted Murasugi as saying. "Having snorkeled for my first time, I've experienced enough marine leisure for a lifetime."

I like this story for it's under-stated expression.

About 15 years ago, I went night diving off Mokuleia, on the north shore of Oahu. I went with a couple of people I didn't know too well (OK--yes, there's a lesson in that one...), and at a location I was unfamiliar with. We surface swam out from shore, dropped down, and were immediately picked up by a rip current. It was sudden and shocking, too quick to react. All I can remember is being tumbled end over end, in a tangle of my own limbs, and my partner tumbling next to me. I remember seeing the bottom rushing by--like when you're little and hanging your head outside of a car window or over the back of a truck bed, and seeing the asphalt rush by, up close and hypnotic. At some point, we were spit out into a calmness, and my partner signaled to surface, which we both did.

I remember the inky blackness and the motion of the dark sea. We had no frame of reference. We were out in the ocean, in the middle of the Pacific. We weren't in a bay, and the island curved away from us as the shore rounded a point of land away and to the right of us. We had chosen to dive in a sparsely populated area--an empty YMCA camp, a few vacation rental cabins, the remainder a small airfield, one homestead cabin on the mountain/mauka side of the road, and then nothing but an impassable dirt trek which lead around Kaena point (the location that Lost is filmed in, by the way).

I remember the gently buffeting movement of the water and the realization that we didn't know where we were. Gradually, we reoriented ourselves, and our eyes adjusted. As we floated for what seemed forever, but was probably only moments, as time stretched and seemed to stand still, we discerned a distant whiteness, and beyond that, a few distant scattered lights. Given a direction, we suddenly had a purpose. As there was no way I was going down into that water again, we surface swam--which in diving consists of streamlining the upper body with arms at your sides and kicking--and kept our eyes on the dim whiteness and lights. I remember being thankful for the large, stiff fins I had on--far too large and stiff for a small, irregular diver like myself. I was thankful for my strong legs and large quadriceps. I was thankful for my calm mind. I was thankful for the lights.

In time, I realized that the dim whiteness was the foam of waves breaking onto the offshore reef. As I fatigued, all I wanted to do was reach those waves and surf my way in to shore. I didn't think about the reef, or how large the waves might be--I just focused on a consistent, smooth, rhythmic kick and on conserving my energy. We were lucky, and actually made our way in through a channel in the waves, across a calm lagoon inside the reef, and dragged ourselves up onto the sandy beach.

The ocean lends a calmness and a cradle, even as it can gently take your life. I have no idea how I would react to 19 hours in the water solo. Those distant lights must have been very comforting to Mr. Murasugi, as they were for me. After 19 hours in the water, I, too, might decide that was enough "marine leisure" for a lifetime.

Mr. Murasugi truly does illustrate the adage that life is 10% of what happens to you and 90% of how you react to it.