Trust

I leaned forward to peer into the calm water below. I was six years old and had climbed to the top of a rusted trestle bridge. Why? To jump off, of course. Now don’t misunderstand me. My little mind had not turned to thoughts of suicide. I was there to feel the rush of flying through the air and plunging into the water. I knew my body, and I knew that it wouldn’t get hurt. I knew my legs would launch me away from the metal frame of the bridge. I knew my arms and legs would stay streamlined as I hit the water. I trusted my body, unconditionally. I always trusted it to make the leap, hold the pose, maintain the center of balance, and it always did. For twenty-five years of life, and twenty-one years of dancing, it always did.

Betrayal

Two years ago, in 2013, I was a sturdy twenty-five-year-old staring a lifelong dream in the face. I had reached a point in my career as a dancer where I could finally devote myself entirely to this thing that I had loved for so long. With a large local following of aspiring Zoukeros and more and more traveling opportunities, I could now dance full time. No more bartending, no more odd jobs; just dance. I was training six days per week and using the seventh day to design promotional material, refine syllabi and study various philosophies of motion and zouk. “Pushing my body too far” never even entered my mind as a possibility.

But while drilling a new choreography in the studio one day for what must have been the twentieth time (while running at only fifty-percent effort), I felt a pop in my right hip. I had torn my gluteus medius. At fifty-percent effort, with a motion that I had already done nineteen times that day—nothing was special, nothing was different—I felt a pop, and that was it.

For weeks I continued like nothing had happened, because, as far as I knew, nothing had happened. Things had popped and shifted in the past, but my body always worked them out. The next month I found myself on a plane to Canada for the Toronto Zouk Exchange. I was so excited to be a part of such a community-driven gathering, and my excitement was justified. The students were wonderful and eager to learn. The venue was beautiful. The music was loud. Everything about it made me want to dance nonstop. And I did just that. The strange little pain in my right leg wasn’t going to stop me.

Time passed and I kept training six days per week, teaching local classes and traveling to teach and perform. Time passed and the pain grew.  But as always, my trust in my body was unwavering. Then one day in training, while weighting my right foot to allow more space for my partner to deepen her body roll in a closed embrace, my right leg collapsed and I fell to the floor. Lying there, I stared at my leg like a husband catching his wife in bed with another man. My body had betrayed me. I felt decades of trust crumble and I started to cry.

For months I floated in a pool of depression. If I couldn’t trust my body, then what could I trust? I cancelled my bookings for the next six months and had guest instructors teach my local classes. When I did dance, I felt unsteady and frail. Any moment of connection was quickly interrupted by pain or self-doubt. I was further away from my creative space than I had ever been before in my life. I was a stranger in my own skin.

When I finally went to the doctor, I began to actually understand my injury. I learned that a total recovery was possible. A total physical recovery, that is—what about my trust? What about my relationship with my body? I wasn’t sure those things could ever totally recover.

Reconciliation

My rehabilitation was one of the most moving experiences of my life. I saw my own value from other people’s eyes. I watched people come together with the common goal of healing my body. Doctors, massage therapists, nutritionists, and other good, caring people poured themselves into my treatment. Their belief in my body rekindled my own. Their efforts to heal me physically opened my eyes so that I could start healing emotionally. I began to realize that my body hadn’t betrayed me. No—I had betrayed it! It wasn’t telling me, “I can’t do this.” It was saying, “I need your help,” and I wasn’t listening. With my opened eyes, I saw that we as humans can do anything, but to do so, we need a well balanced link between mind and body; unconditional trust, both ways.

With mutual trust and respect, the mind’s ability to conceive does not limit the body’s ability to execute, or vice versa. This link is what allows dancers to emote physically with such power. It eliminates hesitation, reservation, and discoordination. Building this two-way trust is gradual and challenging, but the payoff is immense. We start by identifying the body’s true voice (which is often drowned out by the mind’s voice posing as the body’s). Once we’ve done that, we have to respond to this voice without hesitation. The body is constantly telling us what it needs. It’s up to us to listen and provide for it.

Balance

I am happy to say that, with the help of so many amazing people and an ear always trained on my body’s true voice, I have made a 100% physical recovery. Pain is no longer a part of my daily life. While my emotional recovery has also been significant, it’s not at the 100% mark yet. So that’s what 2015 is all about for me; rebuilding that relationship with my body. This year’s choreographies are a bow to the childlike play that my body so much enjoys. The classes are focused on building the invaluable trust between mind and body. Every dance is danced with eternal appreciation for the two bodies that give us the ability to have that dance.

I want to thank some people by name whose investments in me reminded me to invest in myself again: Kelly Scott, Rae Long, Kayla Wyatt, Sean Goddard, Georgi Schmitt (my mama), Randy Orr (my papa), Candice Patton, Brad Meccia, Bre Folk (my partner), Drew Lamb, Tina Barksdale, and Waldo Solano. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You gave me back my oldest friend.

For more on Ian Orr please visit the evoZouk facebook page.