The Unconventional Cope-ist

 The Secrets We Keep~

Ye Olde Iron

Singing is my secret superpower. Doesn't really matter if other people think I'm good or not because it makes me feel strong.  Missing my parents? I'd sing a song to them. Have a lousy day? I'd sing about it. My grandma teased me by saying she would put her old antique iron on my head to stop me from growing. My bad days feel like I am wearing that old iron as a hat. But, when I set a melody to all the things that aren't working out, it's like affixing balloons to that pesky iron, lifting some weight off my ever-flattening head.

Okay. So the singing isn't a secret, but the way I feel about it is. I suppose confessing to using singing as a weapon to take on the world sounds odd. But weapons/armor/empowerment take on all different forms, so why not? There are the main ways of coping: take a breath, count to 10, remove yourself from the situation, punch a pillow...or sing. Singing requires lots of breath, if you sing a few bars, that takes at least 10 seconds, and people tend to remove themselves from your immediate vicinity fearing imminent embarrassment. And presto! Coping at its finest.  I'm not saying people don't want to punch a pillow or run from the room after I'm done warbling. 

A few years ago, I took the kids to see the non-animated Dora the Explorer movie. The kids started laughing hysterically, and I asked them ‘why’ because the movie just wasn't that funny. They said it was because Dora randomly burst into song. "Just like you, mom!" Groan. Maybe I should have been mortified, but it only encouraged me. "See? I'm not the only one!" I replied proudly. "Totally, normal." Needless to say, they have shied away from likening my behavior to characters in other movies. It's probably a good thing as I tend to take a good idea and run with it. Any of the dancers I have set choreography on will attest to that--even suggestions made in jest. 

Dance used to be one of my other superpowers, but with knees that snap like castanets, my olé days are over. It doesn't stop me from dropping a little pop-and-lock in the freezer aisle at Whole Foods, but my grand jetés are no longer so grand. 

Dance has meant a litany of things to me, but a couple that jump out are: its physical demands and soul healing powers. I relished finding the limits of my physical abilities. All those turns in the backyard impersonating Wonder Women when I was 7 gave me what I call a 'high-turn tolerance'.  Knowing it was one of my strengths, a choreographer in college choreographed a solo for me where I was required to not only spin in tight turns but to roll my head at the same time. "You're suppose to be tripping out on caffeine," he had told me. So, arming myself with a super-sized Diet Coke, I spun my way through rehearsals, brimming with enthusiasm. With my long heavy hair, I gave myself whiplash. Physical limitation met. 

Dance is still a balm for my soul, a way to explunge life's toxic build-up. Put the music on and let 'er rip! With the exception of a few bruised fingers and toes from clipping the furniture, I let the movement guide me. Although, I am not as wild as I used to be. I'm not a stranger to apartment neighbors in college knocking on the door and demanding, "Do you mind? It sounds like a drum practice in there!" Right, no jumping high in the air. Or my dad pounding on my ceiling with his foot, (my bedroom was directly below his) a thunderous signal to turn my music down. Now, my much tamer dances across the kitchen are met with eye rolls and giggles....until I start singing.