THE Post. You know. The one that I’ve written, time and time again, in my head. This is the post that was supposed to get my blog moving. So why is it that every time I attempt to write it down, I freeze up and can’t remember what I wanted to say? Well, here goes anyway. Let’s see what comes.
I began thinking about re-visiting the concept of blogging when I moved to New Jersey. Yes, New Jersey inspires me. Well, not exactly New Jersey, but Hoboken.
As our first school year in Hoboken started, I set out with my youngest daughter on our daily walk to school. What seemed to be a simple means to an end — leave house, walk child to school, leave child at school, pick up later — is actually more of a daily practice. At least that’s how I experience it.
Every morning in Hoboken — Monday through Friday — waves of people move across the grid. Parents and children walk to school — or scooter or bicycle. Men and women walk to public transportation, work or the local college. Teens in red, black, grey and white collared shirts and kaki pants head over to the Hoboken Junior Senior High School. Crossing guards guide those on foot and those on wheels (2 or 4) to safely reach their destinations.
I am ensconced in this flow every day of the school week. Sometimes, our movement is easy, lilting, light hearted. Sometimes, we are in staccato, struggling to get where we are going. None-the-less, we are outside, breathing the air, making eye contact, even saying hello and chatting (or maybe arguing) together as we go.
Movement. So integral to my being; yet, somehow, elusive to my conscious mind. I had danced and moved throughout my life — alone in the sanctuary of my bedroom. I tried. I tried to dance in the world amongst the people who dance. I couldn’t. You see…I was kind of chubby, always a little bit “fuller.” (Still am!) I just couldn’t dance with myself, the me in the mirror, amongst the skinny, wafer-thin “others” I saw in the reflection.
So, I went stealth, inward, ninja. I packed up myself and receded into my room. There, I danced and sang for me and the audience in my mind — well hidden from the rest of the world and my image in the dance class mirror.
The Universe kept sending me hints that I should consider coming out of my closet, but I wasn’t receiving the message. I wasn’t listening when I got the role of Cha Cha (the key dance part) in Grease my senior year of high school. I couldn’t hear in the clubs of mid- to late-80s Manhattan when people would pick me out on the dance floor for a fleeting together groove. And in my mid-20s, I could only stand as a green belt in awe and envy at the competitions in Kentucky when the Black Belt Martial Artists would compete to music in “American Martial Arts.”
It wasn’t until post-40 that I began to listen, hear and receive. It was around that time that a very special friend mentioned Nia. “I think you would like it,” she said. Ha. Like it? I love it!
For me, Nia was a coming out of my proverbial closet into the world of movement, of dance, of martial arts set to music, of yoga and other healing arts infused with sway and swag. Nia seeped into my life quickly and was the beginning of deep-seeded movement. I moved from Cambridge, MA, to Tel Aviv, Israel, and then to Hoboken, NJ, dancing Nia all the way.
And so now, I find myself living in a community that moves mostly by foot and vehicles with 2 wheels or less. I am entranced and inspired by the movement. Actually, as I am writing this post, I am thinking back over my adult life, I’ve been choosing communities like this since my early 20s, since the choice was mine to make: Boys’ & Girls’ Towns in Chicago; Porter & Harvard Squares in Cambridge, MA; Bavli & Yehuda Macabi in Tel Aviv; and now the streets of Hoboken, NJ.
There it is, again. Movement. I’ve been searching my whole life for my passion. Could it really be this obvious?