Blues Garden.

Last weekend was one of the most wonderful, magical, and loving blues weekends I’ve attended in many years, called Blues Garden, which takes place in Gothenburg, Sweden. The organizing team, “the gardeners,” infuse their warm character into the event and sprinkle magic everywhere. Here were some highlights...

The Prelude.

Not part of the actual event, I arrived in Gothenburg a couple days early to help adjust to jet lag and not roll into the event super exhausted. On Friday, I joined a dear friend for a jaunt about a nearby wilderness park, where we had the pleasure of seeing all sorts of Nordic wildlife.

I've never seen a penguin in real life before.

Hipster goat.

On to the dancing!

The Musicians.

Listening to Christoffer Johansson perform. He’s without question my favorite living Blues musician. I turn to putty every time I hear him on stage. He captivates the audience, puts them under a spell, so that people can be at a dance event and spent part of his act just listening and swaying gently, transported to another dimension. I’ve never heard anyone quite like him. Part of his power is the genuine emotion with which he shares his music. Even when they’re classics from a century ago, he connects with him in a heartfelt manner and sings the songs as authentically as when they were probably first formed.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

You can’t help but empathize with him and feel your own wellspring of emotion stir in response. It actually came to a point of comic climax during one of his songs. He just finished a long, sustained note/wail in the middle of a song, a note filled with such anguish the room was utterly silent in its aftermath. I, feeling a surge of feeling in response, couldn’t help but groan/growl/grunt (some weird mixture of the three, probably) in response, but it came out way louder than I anticipated, so that everyone in the entire ballroom heard me. In the microseconds that followed, which felt like minutes, I wanted desperately wished for the ability to retract my primal utterance, but it was too late, and I feared the worst. To my astonishment, the floor of over 200 dancers erupted into gales of laughter that lasted at least a minute, completely derailing everything; even Christoffer broke his stage character, cracked a smile, and laughed. Happily, my dancing partner took it in stride and found it equally amusing rather than mortifying. 

The attendees of Blues Garden were also treated to repeat performances of the exceptionally talented Gothenburgers Mattias and Hannah. Mattias is a freaking wizard on the piano, able to improvise the most incredible Blues songs with a musical deftness that rivals (in my opinion) Gordon Webster or Josh Fialkoff. Meanwhile, Hannah treated us to her dulcet singing voice that never failed to delight. She also sings a convincing muted trumpet, complete with a handy (hah!) pantomime. They put together a 30-minute set in roughly 10 minutes, and it was nothing short of fantastic. The attendees relentlessly tried to keep them on stage with ovations. 

The decorations.

Their venue was transformed into an enchanted wonderland at night. Flowers adorned all the staircases and door frames. There was a space for communally crafted poetry. All the fixtures were properly dressed to cast warm, diffuse light. Inside the main ballroom, the space was converted into the Enchanted Forest straight out of Narnia, complete with the lamppost in the middle of the dance floor. The brought in real trees from the forest and decorated them with flowers and fake birds. The only thing missing was a snow-dusted wardrobe. I’ve never seen decorations before in all the events I’ve attended; Blues Garden is simply unprecedented.

Note those are flowers that were manually affixed to the tree. 

The food.

My god, the food. It’s a Swedish tradition called “fika,” and I think it’s the best tradition ever. It involves making delicious food and serving it with coffee/tea at dances for a nominal fee. And by “delicious food,” I mean “hand-made just-cooked-in-the-kitchen” food. Salads with myriad toppings, all sorts of gourmet breads and cheeses, more desserts than I could bear to sample. It makes such a difference to maintain a steady blood sugar level, especially as the hours wear on. 

I didn't capture any photos of the fika, but as a case in point about Swedes and their food, here's a "simple breakfast" according to them.

The people.

No dance would be worth attending without the dancers. Blues Garden manages to attract like-minded people: warm, friendly, open-hearted. And so many of them are fantastic dancers. I had more quality dances than I can remember to count, on par with some of the largest Blues events in the world, except experienced in a quaint and homey regional event in Sweden. While at some events I find myself being placed on a pedestal as a teacher and everyone wants something from me, here I felt like one of the crowd, and people wanted nothing more than to connect with me as human beings, to share recognition of one another. 

This is something where I always wish I was taking more photos. When I reflect upon my travels, I often think of the people that were a part of it, yet so rarely I photograph them, or me with them. Mostly because it's awkward, it kind of takes me out of the moment. But then, I look back and see a woeful dearth of ways to remember all the lovely people I spent time with. Sometimes I quietly wish that I had a full-time photographer following me around at these events, surreptitiously candid photos of me so I can remember later. My memory is a sad thing, generally spotty and quick to log moments into archival storage, not indexed, and only retrievable when someone asks specifically for that memory. Photos serve as the way to jog my memory.

My words cannot capture the love and positive energy that coursed through this event. It felt like a huge family reunion, minus the uncomfortable family interactions. Nothing but smiles and laughter and heartful conversations. I cherish these kinds of events, the ones where everyone comes ready to participate, to give rather than consume. It creates an incredible atmosphere, a gift economy of love, where everyone is constantly giving and thus also constantly receiving, but in gratitude and humility rather than expectation. The Gardeners clearly set a pathos for the event, one that attracts like-minded people who want to grow together and celebrate this brief shining moment. I was so floored by the energy at Blues Garden, it is without question the most vulnerability-encouraging event I have ever attended in Europe.

The teachers.

Gas and Alba, Vicci and Adamo, and Annette. (And me.) I respect each of these teachers for myriad reasons, and I think we formed an excellent teaching team. We all brought something different to the table, but always presented with humility and love for dance and respect for the event. There were no egos here, nothing but eagerness to share and inspire.

The leggings.

Knowing about the enchanted theme of the weekend, I came prepared to dress up in a different way on Saturday night: leggings and a collared shirt reminiscent of a pirate’s costume. What I didn’t realize was that no one else would dress up in masquerade. Everyone dressed super nicely, but in the traditional sense. I was the only person to look fanciful. The moment I stepped into the dance space, eyes were falling upon me. I felt out of place, dressed garishly and vulnerably, form-fitted and with little to hide behind. I had gone all-in, dove head first, but as I jumped I realized I was diving into an empty pool. People would be overtaken with laughter upon seeing my leggings and teased that I looked like Peter Pan — not maliciously, but due to my rapidly developing insecurity it impacted me harshly. Immediately the waves of embarrassment began to crash over me.

You’re dressing outlandishly to get attention.

You couldn’t pull off those tights anyway, joker.

You’re being inappropriate.

You’re making people uncomfortable. 

You should change yourself. No, not just your clothes.

I knew there was a showcase that night that I was to do with Annette, and suddenly I felt terrible for dressing this way, thinking I would make us look bad. I had been irresponsible and unprofessional. There were multiple times that I wanted to run away, to go back to my host’s place to change into more traditional clothing. But it was too late, I had already committed, I might as well stick with it. So I swallowed my pride, tried to ignore the countless comments and stares received, and performed the showcase (a medley of seven different songs and styles).

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

Even though the night went off without a hitch, even though I slowly overcame my crushing embarrassment, even though people were on the whole very nice and a few genuinely complimented my costume, my physique, and my willingness to just go for it, my heart sank to my toes when I saw this photo for the first time. I look like an idiot, I thought to myself. 

Shakespearean fool or no, I left quite the impression. People were talking about it constantly. During a panel discussion on Blues dancing the following day, one person asked, “Are tights the new trousers?” The room exploded into raucous laughter and applause.

Photo credit: Joel Höglund. Link.

As part of the feedback form for the event, one question asks “What was your favorite part of the event?” A few people put down “Andrew’s leggings.”

At the end of the day, I am able to laugh about it, but I went through an unexpected range of emotions to get there. I have a curious relationship with being in the spotlight. All my life, I tend to exist on the outskirts. I’m not the life of the party, I’m not able to hold the attention of large groups of people, I don’t like to draw attention to myself. In fact, I can be a bit judgmental of those who I deem to be “acting out” for the sake of receiving attention. Dressing up in this way, I subjected myself to that same criticism.

The irony is not lost on me that I, a person who habitually avoids the limelight, fell into a profession where I exist in that light constantly.  Perhaps it has to do with the “teacher cap” I put on, the metaphysical costume I drape over myself when I step into the role of Teacher and beneath which I can hide. I, Andrew Smith, am not occupying the center of attention, this is Teacher Andrew. But that’s not entirely true anymore, that I protect myself in this way: over the course of the past several years I have learned to more often remove that guise and just be Andrew Smith, a person who is also a Teacher. Northwest Blues Recess in 2014 was a pivotal moment to that end, where I was unabashedly myself and also the recipient of a lot of focus and awareness. Still, it’s a learning process, and it can be downright scary to share in this way. (Yes, I realize I do the same through my blog, but for some reason it feels even more real when I do it among people in real life.)

There was one quote I recently encountered while reading The Art of Asking, by Amanda Palmer, which has given me valuable food for thought:

        There’s a difference between wanting to be looked at and wanting to be seen.

        When you are looked at, your eyes can stay blissfully closed. You suck energy, you steal the spotlight. When you are seen, your eyes must be open, as you are seeing and recognizing your witness. You accept energy and you generate energy. You create light.

        One is exhibitionism, the other is connection.

        Not everybody wants to be looked at.

        Everybody wants to be seen.

I think it has helped frame my thinking about people giving me the gift of their attention and awareness. I always feel undeserving of it, yet I am so humbled and grateful to receive it. It is simply being seen, but by a lot of people. And that can be quite unnerving. But I’m kind of a connection junkie.

Down Under in the Down Under.

For my final week in Australia, I ventured up to Queensland, famous for the Great Barrier Reef and Daintree Rainforest (among other natural beauties), its proliferation of dangerous aquatic life (such as the box jellyfish), and its slightly offbeat people (because you have to be slightly crazy to live in a place like Queensland). I spent four days on the Great Barrier Reef learning to SCUBA dive.

My base of operations was Cairns, a small resort town toward the northern end of the GBR. Primarily composed of hotels, hostels, restaurants, and shops, Cairns doesn’t have a nightlife or much liveliness to speak of, but if you have money to burn it can be quite a pleasant experience to participate in the tourist activities. I booked myself a trip on Reef Experience for a four-day, three-night stay out on the GBR. Called a “liveaboard,” you take a transfer vessel out to a boat permanently stationed out in the reef. Most people will tell you that you can get a complete experience of the GBR by snorkeling, but I decided to be a little adventurous and sign up for a certification course in SCUBA diving. I’d never done it before, but if there was ever a place to learn how to dive, it’d be out in one of the seven Natural Wonders of the World. 

The day we set off was woefully rainy and windy, so the trip out to the reef was tumultuous. Even with a motion sickness tablet I get moderately seasick and lost my breakfast partway into the trip. The vague sense of seasickness stuck with me for several hours, lasting through the transfer to the liveaboard vessel and past lunch. Not the most portentous way to begin a four-day commitment to being on the ocean. When they announced the first water session was about to begin, and new guests could go for a snorkel, I exulted that I could at least leave the boat and maybe escape this unpleasant sickness.

It failed to occur to me that as a snorkeler, you’re still floating on the surface of the ocean, still subject to the whims of the ocean’s movement. My body immediately was tossed up and down. Sticking my face into the water, I saw nothing beneath me but endless and intimidating depth, and water kept leaping into my snorkel pipe to be choked upon by me as I inhaled. When I’d lift my head out of the water, I was treated to large choppy waters that would crash into my face and be similarly difficult to establish a calm breathing pattern. I swam feebly and anxious (despite being a pretty strong swimmer), a sense of dread coming over me: was this going to be my experience? What had I gotten myself into? Also, where the hell was the reef? I saw just a few fish swimming around in the depths, but nothing to write home about.

Fortunately I persevered and kept swimming forward, following the procession of other snorkelers, not knowing where I was going. At last, I reached the reef, and suddenly a deep calm overtook me as I beheld the most colorful array of aquatic life in my entire life. It simply defied imagination. I was cast under a spell. Every way I looked, prismatic fish rushed about. Coral of all shapes and types and colors decorated the calcified floor.

This moment marked the turnaround in my entire trip. When I came out of the water, I was hooked. I was in a truly magical, unique place.

The rest was, on the whole, a blissful and wonderful experience. I would do four training dives per day, always with an instructor, and most of the time in a 1:1 setting. I did two night dives as well. To write about my journey, I’ll begin with my delightful dive instructor, Fabian, a thick-jawed, sturdy Aussie originally from Germany.

His combination of a German accent with Australian slang kept throwing me for a loop. He would regularly say common phrases as, “No worries, mate, too easy!” but with the same intonation as the weight lifting brothers from SNL (“we will PUMP *clap* you up!”). Bar none, though, my favorite expression of his would come whenever he began to explain the skills I would practice on the present dive: “We’re going to smash some skills.” It tickled me every time. And smash some skills we did.

Over my first three days on the boat, I completed the SSI Open Water Diver certification, the entry level certification, which allows me to dive autonomously up to 18m. We covered all the basics: equipment maintenance, handling emergencies underwater (how to remove and replace your mask underwater, remove your air regulator, remove your tank, maintain buoyancy, ascend and descend safely, etc.). It was actually quite fun, the process of learning these new skills, many of which I practiced repeatedly. 

Diving is an experience unlike any other. Some people say it’s like flying, except underwater. There’s truth to this comparison, but it misses just exactly how surreal it feels to be underwater for 40 minutes without dying, able to glide about with minimal effort and swim among the fishes. The first couple times, my brain would panic and think I was running out of air, that I couldn’t breathe, because it is so engrained to think of being underwater as being without oxygen. It felt like I was watching my life through a camera lens, as if I weren’t actually there. But I kept reminding myself to breathe slowly and fully, and gradually my respiration slowed down as my experience grew and I became increasingly calm in the water.

Diving is vastly more fun that snorkeling, in my opinion. For one, you never have that jarring experience of water suddenly splashing into your snorkel pipe and on into your mouth or lungs. For another, you can see an entirely different world of marine life. Also, as a snorkeler you don’t get the special privilege of gliding along underwater with a sea turtle.

I went for a couple night dives, which is a different world altogether from the day dives. I was quite thrilled.

It’s thrilling until you look off the back of the boat and see sharks swimming around — they feed in the evenings — and you think to yourself, “Wait, I’m diving into that?” Yes, yes, you are. 

Underwater, you can’t see anything save for the path illuminated by your light. Between the moonlight, your flashlight, and your inner ear, it’s reasonably easy to keep track of up from down, but turn off your flashlight and you’re treated to floating in almost pitch blackness. Amazing.

It turns out that the eyes of a shark glow green when you shine your light upon them. It only adds to the their chilling appearance, seeing this lithe killing machine skulk about in the water with complete ease. Reef sharks are entirely harmless to humans (in fact, all shark attacks are accidents — sharks don’t hunt humans) and are particularly non-aggressive, but I still felt my stomach turn into a knot when when swim at us and slithered right beneath us, probably no more than 10 feet away. 

I completed my Open Water Course in three days, which left me an entire extra day of diving. On a whim, I decided to go through the Advanced training as well, which would entail another five training dives. It worked out that I could squeeze it all into the four-day trip originally planned. Being certified as an Advanced Adventurer allows you to dive down to 30m, giving you access to a lot of popular shipwrecks, as well as expanding your skillset and confidence under the water. 

As an added bonus, it meant I continued to have mostly 1:1 dives with extraordinarily qualified dive instructors. This time I was working with Jon, a smooth American who looked completely at ease under the water. He was astonishingly adept at pointing out aquatic life, so my trips were punctuated by some truly wonderful discoveries. He could spot them long before I ever figured out what he was pointing out. One of my favorites was an octopus, hidden among the coral.

He discovered morays crouching under coral, noted peacock soles (those weird flat fish with eyes only on one side) camouflaged on rocks, and pointed out found rays hidden among the sands.

I encountered a few jellyfish, but the larger kind that are evidently not harmful. Also, apparently turtles love to eat them.

There’s a fish named Frankie at one of the reefs that loves to play with divers. During one of my dives, he followed us around the entire time like a puppy, for the better part of half an hour. 

I even found Nemo. Anemonefish (there are many varieties) are absolutely adorable, the way they peek out from their home, venture out for some food, and then scurry back inside when they’re spooked. Pixar actually really captured their essence in their scenes.

You get to know the passengers and crew rather quickly. There were never more than 30 people on the boat, so even if you don’t get their names you recognize their faces. The roster would change from day to day, as some people would come and go; I felt a bit unusual to be a constant figure for four whole days, as most people stayed over for only one or two nights. Meals were communal, so I was able to forge some friendships over food. I met a lovely couple from Copenhagen traveling the world for the past eight months on vacation, and a friendly technical analyst at Google, and a young pair of college friends taking a holiday in Australia while on break from school, and a few other people. The food was always exceptional: healthful, delicious, upscale, and high-quality. I still don’t know how they could accomplish so much with a small kitchen on the ocean. The crew were surpassingly courteous and friendly, creating a convivial atmosphere on the boat. Aside from the dive instructors, most of them were 20-somethings thrilled to be working on the GBR. 

Social interactions and befriending others mystifies me, and this situation was no exception. My conversations with others never went beyond being friendly, making small talk to pass the time. I felt a kindred spark with the couple from Copenhagen, they seemed quite engaged with the world, but we only had a day to interact. I didn’t connect on a deeper level with anyone else for the entire trip. My experience reminded me of how terribly shy I can be outside the context of dance, which baffles me to this day. The process of getting to know people can feel so forced sometimes, yet when I’m at a dance event I’m all bubbly and it all comes as second-nature. It’s like there are two different people living inside me. Anyway, it was good practice to exercise my socializing skills while in an introverted state. I just never know what to say, each prompt is unnatural and like lobbing some heavy inquisition across a chasm. Once I run out of the sterile conversational starters — “How long are you staying in Australia? Where else have you visited? Where are you from?” — I find myself at an utter loss for what to say. Sometimes I just don’t care to connect, but other times I want to know more about them and don’t know how to start the flow. I feel unsure whether they actually want to connect. I just can’t manufacture the connection. But then, maybe they don’t want it either, and that’s what I’m picking up on. I suppose charisma is partly about being able to form that connection with anybody, but I completely lack it when I don’t have my dancer hat on. Why don’t they do classes on this stuff? 

I found myself not fitting into the usual demographics of the boat: either early 20s and footloose, or middle-aged and settled down. Sure, I don’t have many tethers, but I want them. I have a decent idea of where my life is heading professionally, at least for the next 5 years. So while I no longer identify with the young and wandering crowd, I also don’t yet connect with the settled-in crowd, the married couples without or with children, for I am single and don’t even have a permanent place of residence. I didn't fit in with any group, and I think was perplexing to other passengers, for I defied common patterns, they didn’t know what to make of me. (“You’re a software engineer, okay… Oh, wait, you also teach dance around the world? And you live in a suitcase? Well, that’s… that’s something.”) At least being on the boat reinforced where I want my life to go next. I found myself looking to the settled-in crowd with a touch of envy. I was particularly fond of the Copenhagen couple, for they were very clearly in love with each other and shared a deep and strong bond, but also remained curious about the world and wanted to be outwardly focused as well. That’s precisely the kind of dynamic I hope to have with my future mate.

Unsurprisingly, I did a fair amount of introspection while on board, wrestling with difficult and depressive emotions as articulated in this post. The quiet moments are when these thoughts would intrude into my mental space, the small 30-minute breaks between water sessions and meals or whatever other activity was happening on the boat. The schedule was generally busy, but you would always have these moments, long enough to leave you wondering what to do with your time, but never long enough to let you get into something substantive. Some would take to non-committally reading a book, others sunbathing on the top deck, I often took naps. But when I couldn’t nap, I was left alone with my thoughts, as the other passengers tended to stay to their cabins when not engaged in an activity. 

Lying on my bed alone in the middle of one of the most magnificent natural wonders, feeling sorry for myself and at a loss for what to do next, it struck me then yet another powerful lesson of traveling alone: learning how to be alone with your thoughts. It Because it’ll invariably happen, no matter how hard you try to cram your schedule or visit places of staggering beauty or keep distractions close at hand — there will always be moments when you must be alone with yourself. It made me think of how, as a society, we look to our partner to distract us from those moments, and how that can be an unproductive pattern. We think that finding a long-term partner will save us from loneliness. Sure, living with a partner will mean less time spent alone, but it’s always a losing battle: there will still be times when it happens. If we lean on our partner to shield us from being alone, we become co-dependent, we become less unconditionally loving. A partner can never save us from feeling lonely; we must learn on our own how to be alone and not lonely. It’s something I still struggle with, but I’ve actively worked on it throughout my time here in Oz, and there are at least stretches where I’m successful.

I wondered to myself how I would be acting if I were around another person, what I would be commenting on, and how that diverged from what I was presently doing. What was its significance, the way I can spend so much time in utter silence, breathing and staring at the water and allowing my mind to wander? What does it say about me, the way I am not relentlessly driven to make conversation, even if it’s with myself? These questions still lazily roll in my mind, I turn them over endlessly as I ask myself how I can be a better, more interesting, and more loving partner in the future.

By the end of my stay, I was ready to disembark. I had my fill of routine, of being underwater, in one place, and alone. I was tired of trying to make friends and finding mediocre connections. I was proud of myself for making so much of this adventure to the Great Barrier Reef, of organizing it and having the courage to sign up for SCUBA diving and have this otherworldly experience, but it was time to move on, time for a change of scenery, and time to recuperate. I have no idea where my new diving certification will lead me, whether it’ll remain an occasional hobby activity or turn into something more avid. But, without question I’m grateful for the experience I had out here on the reef, it showed me a whole new world, and allowed me to discover more about myself in the process.

 

Cleaning house: reflections on love, partnership, and loss.

This post started with wanting to write about being single on Valentine’s Day. Over the past couple weeks of reflecting and writing, it has evolved into something much more.

When I departed for Australia, it felt like pretty much everything in my world was falling apart. Professional life abounded with stressors, I was still devastated from a breakup from a couple months ago, and then the day before I departed I went through redefining a (different) partnership to be a friendship. The only thing I had left for stability was an amazing community: all else was changing out from under me. The situation contrasted sharply with the past summer, when it felt like everything was on the up and up: amazing job with flexibility for remote work and a budding partnership to which I quickly assigned dreams of marriage and family. Now, I found myself irrevocably, painfully single. Part of the reason I embarked for Australia so ill-prepared was that I'd been preoccupied with all these other events. In many ways, going on a grand adventure to Australia was the *last* thing I wanted -- my chief desire being to crawl into a hole. 

On my trip over, I set an intention for my journey Down Under: to maintain an open heart. I, of course, wanted to turtle, to withdraw and never again expose myself to the abject dangers of falling in love the way I did last summer. Following through on such reactive impulses would, of course, only further hurt me, trapping the pain inside by putting up a wall between the world and me. So I promised myself to be wholehearted and honest with myself and others. That’s a tricky position to maintain, particularly when your heart is laden with grief and you sound like a broken record from a bad Country artist (it was so good back then, it was all my fault, now I’ve lost everything, yadda yadda); it’s hard to not think that being in my company would begin to pall. It’s not something you want to ever show to another living person, lest they judge you for being feeble, for appearing vulnerable, for indulging in self-destructive thought patterns. In a world where we are trained to always and only present a well-rounded, carefully put together persona, being wholehearted like that can be downright terrifying. Of course, as my past two years of growing in the learning from Daring Greatly has taught me, leaning into the discomfort and allowing myself to be vulnerable is the best course of action.

In practice, it feels forced, this process of putting myself out there; in my moments of insecurity, all I want to do is feel sorry for myself, all I long for is to be with her. The connection we shared was all-encompassing, a soul mate connection, giving way to moments that would leave me breathless, exhilarated, and deeply grateful to be with this person. The loss of this bond makes all else feel dull by comparison, dimming the brightness of the world: no one else will be her, and forming new life experiences reminds me she’s not a part of them. When I mentioned in a previous post about being withdrawn on the Friday of a dance weekend, it’s because I was in the throes of missing her and couldn’t be bothered to find interest in anything else about life. This mindset is so unproductive and equally impossible to escape, impervious as it is to reasoning.

When a relationship comes to an end, you lose more than the other person: you lose the dream of what a future would be with them. Part of what has made this breakup so particularly overwhelming — despite lasting for a relatively brief duration — was how vividly I could imagine that future with her. I easily envisioned all the aspects of life that I wish for one day: adventures around the world shared in the company of another, building a home and community, raising a family. The future has been a hazy and far-off concept for the majority of my relationships, but for this one it felt like it was right around the corner. Losing a dream that ties into deep-set beliefs about fulfillment in life has brought on such emotional anguish. It has brought me to the uncomfortable realization of how strongly I tie self-actualization in life to finding a mate.

One sagacious friend pointed out that I may have lost the possibility to fulfill the dream with that person, but the dream in the abstract (marriage, family, community, etc.) still belongs to me. Excellent advice to be sure, but it’s hard to be comforted by it right now. The mind latches on to the details, it likes concreteness. An insubstantial notion that one day I might find a mate and have an enriching life-long partnership pales in comparison to the evocative imagery I built up surrounding a future with this person. I endeavor to redefine my dream to not include her, but my mind refuses to let go. It is exceptionally difficult to replace a broken dream that involves a specific person with a complete dream that involves no one in particular. 

In lamenting to friends that I'd never meet someone else quite so amazing and that I was sure to die alone (a classic siren song of my internal gremlins), some joked that I'd probably meet that person in Australia. I replied that I surely hope not, because Australia is simply too long distance. But more seriously, I’m not ready to find someone else, as I have work to do: I need to learn from my previous experiences and discover how to be a better person, both in a partnership and solo. 

I’ve been thinking a great deal reflecting upon what I actually want in my life, what lifestyle I believe will be most enriching, and where my priorities lie. I’ve begun to question whether perhaps, like many other parts of my life, the relationship model is an aspect on which I’m flexible; that I have leanings, but am happy to go with what fits in the relationship for the right person. I’ve realized how easily I fall into a pattern in a partnership and stop being fully present, no longer offering the same level of love and attention that person deserves. My time here in Australia has helped me find clarity around where I want my life to head in the next five years: finding a long-term partner, beginning to settle down, and laying the groundwork for raising a family.

I’m grateful for these realizations, because it means I’m learning more about myself, but it’s also a direct trigger to a downward spiral starting with the thought, “This sure would’ve been good to figure out BEFORE that relationship ended.” I can’t blame myself too much, I suppose: these questions are deep, complex, and impossible to answer solely through reasoning. We have no choice but to live into the answer, and in my case the timing on this evolution of understanding meant I still lost a profoundly important relationship. The predominantly nomadic lifestyle I’ve adopted, necessitated by my path in teaching dance professionally, has been unquestionably rewarding, but it did allow me to fall into a holding pattern of never setting down roots anywhere.

While I have spent a lot of energy deconstructing my relationship dynamic, I have also spent time aimed inwardly. If we went with a metaphor of a house representing each one of us, I have an unfortunate tendency when in a partnership to focus solely upon building a new, shared home. I stop going back to my own house so often to perform regular upkeep. It’s been two years since I was last single, and now the kitchen of my house is a complete mess and there’s some science experiment growing in my fridge. I have to remember that my house is still my life force and I need to care for it, so it’s time to start cleaning. To that end, I’ve spent time and energy being with myself, being at peace with the world around me, being comfortable with being alone. I need to remember what brings me inspiration, what fills me with joy (aside from the obvious, which I can’t have), what helps me grow as a person. Essentially, I’m learning once again how to date myself, something I haven’t done for far too long. Clearly, I have a long way to go, but at least it’s progress.

I’ve done my best to allow other people into my proverbial home to visit, even while I’m cleaning house. This occurred once while in Melbourne, when I connected with someone on a romantic level. We met at Cider House Blues and then proceeded to spend several days and evenings together during my week in the city. We were both in a place to be able to appreciate the casual but sincere connection without attachment, and parted ways (on V-day, naturally) on excellent terms with much gratitude in our hearts for the brief time we shared.

The path to being open-hearted while brokenhearted is fraught with jarring juxtapositions of joy and sorrow. Take, for instance, the way I actually spent our final day together, wandering around St. Kilda Festival, a huge music festival that transforms much of the St. Kilda suburb. We enjoyed good food, gorgeous weather, and sharing playful, creative dances at a Salsa music stage and, later, at a bar playing classic soul tunes. I was swimming with delirious happiness, drunk on dancing and warm summer weather. Then I began to get hit by these sharp pangs of remorse as a memory would surface: one of meandering an arts festival on a beautiful day with my former partner, dancing in public, perusing the wares of vendors (predominantly of charming home furnishings) and daring to imagine crafting a home together and populating it with such accoutrements. It’s like my brain is determined to feel sad, and despite my best efforts to the contrary, will repeatedly bring to my attention evidence of why I should be the saddest person ever.

It is natural that my brain would offer these reminders. We identify strongly with painful situations; our brains are trained to make extensive notes about circumstances that lead to pain and then raise the alarm for future events that bear any resemblance. As a species, we are served well by an aversion to pain. The pain even becomes part of our identity, in a way. In those moments of downward spiral, I am impervious to any uplifting words, for my identity then is: I am Failure, I am A Lost Cause, and so on. It’s so hard to let go of that all-consuming identity, to let it coexist with more positive self-identities: I am Wholehearted, I am Loving, I am Talented, etc. It’s a perverse inclination, to self-flagellate in this way and be defined wholly by the negative, and yet it’s bizarrely satisfying because it feels so real. It leads to unproductive inner dialogues: “I’ll never find anyone like her again,” “I’m not worthy of someone like her,” “It’s your fault the relationship ended,” or “What if I had done this thing differently, maybe it would’ve worked out.” These internal dialogues perpetuate the cycle and keep us dissociated from the present, as we wallow in this toxic environment of self-abuse. The anguish of believing you’re unworthy is so intoxicatingly present; in the face of these dark forces, the forces of light dwindle and plead for a space to shine.

Much of my life feels like an endless struggle of forces, an uncomfortable coexistence of opposing emotions. My adventures in Australia have been exceedingly wonderful, filled with sunny days and warm weather, adventures in nature, entertaining times with friends new and familiar, and dancing to other dance styles (Kizomba, WCS, Salsa). Through all of these heady times, I carry a black hole of grief in my heart, one that can activate at any moment to absorb all positive energy that comes near me. Repeatedly, I encounter moments of staggering beauty and all I can think about it how desperately I wish to share it with that person. Sure, such is the Human Condition: to have complex emotions, to be both happy and sad, but I guess my point is that I never feel it so acutely as now when grieving over a terrible loss. The contrast can be so severe that the practice of going out and deliberately making the best of my time here in Australia feels disingenuous when given the context of my deep sadness.

The dream world offers me little reprieve. At least a couple times a week, I will wake up with a vague sense of missing something; occasionally, I am less fortunate and the dreams are more vivid, only to be filled with loss as those ephemeral details fade to nothing and I realize it was entirely a fabrication. It's only through force of will and habit that I drag myself out of bed to take on the day. I press through the thick, dull feelings of sadness — so non-specific and inarticulate in the mornings, as if my inner dialogue is still waking up and figuring out how to berate me — with a cup of tea and some treatment in the sun, or writing in my Morning Pages, or diving into my work. As long as I hit the day with a running start, I can usually get on top of my emotional state for the majority of daylight hours.

It is quite challenging, in those moments, to find the wherewithal to go on adventures. For all of my globe-trotting, I'm quite the homebody and it can require a lot of energy to motivate myself to go outside. But I do it anyway, I force myself to head out the door and off to visit a friend for a walk in a park, or to explore a museum on my own, or exercise, or to head down a street in search of food and await what moments will come. I do it because I know it's the right thing to do — exactly the opposite of what I want to do, which is to lie in bed and drown my sorrows in mind-numbing activities. It helps that I’ve systematically eliminated said escapist activities, such as watching TV or playing video games, so that if I want to feel sorry for myself I have little choice but to be present with my emotions, which can offer rather poor company when feeling down. Once I get over the inertia, it's relatively easy to keep on rolling along, but boy it is a battle to get the process started.

While on my adventures, I'm still prone to being completely sidelined by some thought that sucks dry the joy from the present moment, when all I can do is keep walking and trusting that one day it will get better. I remind myself of the sage advice from Shel Silverstein’s The Missing Piece Meets the Big O (I’ve never been so emotionally moved by a triangle and a circle), that I must be complete in myself. I focus on journaling, adventuring, learning, spending time with friends, exercising, being alone, dancing, teaching, speaking with friends about my sorrows, and sitting quietly with my thoughts. It's a hard path to walk and right now I still can’t shake the loss; I’m still tormented by uncertainties about the future, and still get blindsided by grief. I don’t yet truly believe in a bright future for myself, but I keep progressing one day at a time, because it’s the only way forward through life.

A scene from Melbourne.

Begin scene: a taxi cab in Melbourne. Andrew Smith enters the cab and provides the destination address. The driver strikes up a conversation. 

Driver: what country are you from?

Andrew: America. 

Driver: What's your favorite car?

Andrew: Um... The Prius.

Driver: (without pausing to consider the answer) My favorite car is Mustang. Do you know Mustang? Very good car. The best. 

Andrew: Oh. Well, what do you like about it?

Driver: To go fast! It's a strong *muscle* car. (flexes his arm to emphasize the point)

Andrew: I see. 

Driver: Where in America do you live?

Andrew: Washington. 

Driver: Do they have Mustang there?

Andrew: Sure, a few. 

Driver: It must be very good to live where they make Mustang. 

(The rest of the drive proceeds in silence, until at the end of the trip Andrew is exiting the vehicle.)

Driver: When you get back to America, you know what you should do?

Andrew: What?

Driver: Buy a Mustang!

End scene. 

Into the Land Down Under.

Oh, hello there, Blog. Seems we haven’t spoken in quite some time. Sorry about that. It turns out that I don’t usually write about relationships or professional endeavors; because that’s pretty much been my entire life over the fall, I’ve not had much space to write about anything.

But times are changing (for good and for bad). I’m now in Australia for the whole month of February, partially for dance events but primarily for vacationing and recovering from the heartbreak that has been the past several months. My tour of Australia was booked over a year in advance — the first time any event had booked me so far into the future — and would be my first trip to the land Down Under. In preparation for my trip, I managed to have the presence of mind to purchase a Lonely Planet book and order In A Sunburned Country, by Bill Bryson, as a way of introducing me to this peculiar continent. Aside from these two actions, I departed from the US decidedly unprepared and having spent very little time planning, I’ve just been so busy. 

The day after my arrival in Melbourne, I was whisked away to the magical setting for Cider House Blues, at which I taught this past weekend. Before departing, I came across this delightful little road sign, which I wanted to share as a brief aside before diving into the weekend festivities...

 

Belonging to the parents of one of the organizers, CHB takes place on a farm outside of Melbourne, about an hour’s drive away. The trip out there was quite pleasant, and featured interesting road art along the way. Evidently, there’s been a big push by the Australian government to beautify the country highways with large-scale art projects. My favorite is the de-scaled hotel that’s not a hotel. 

 

Aside from the pleasing road art and conversations in the car, we were treated to an decidedly beautiful sunset. Coming from Seattle, where it was recently 40ºF recently, I appreciated this resplendent display of Summer.

The farm is stunningly beautiful. The pictures don’t quite capture the serenity that is this place, but they offer a starting point. This panorama was taken from their porch that doubles as an outdoor dining room.

After a leisurely morning spent sunning myself and sipping tea, I got to work tying up some loose ends for work and eventually around to lesson planning for the weekend. At some point, I took a break to exercise (Insanity all the way!), which elicited bemused commentary from others. I find it interesting how people often feel driven to comment when observing others exercising outside the context of a gym. 

The day passed quickly in the way productive days so often do -- i.e. quickly -- leaving me unprepared mentally and emotionally for the arrival of CHB participants by the evening. As the crowd grew, I found myself increasingly shy and overwhelmed by the prospect of being social with a huge group of people whom I’ve never met. It made me appreciate the long-growing friendships I’ve developed with scenes throughout North America and Europe, that I can find familiar faces almost anywhere, but here I found myself in a completely new spot and only familiar with the organizing team. Making matters worse, my internal monologue took a turn for the worse and began to dwell on depressing events of the past couple months, further stripping me of my usual confidence summoned by being a dance teacher at a dance weekend. I felt utterly incapable of putting on my amiable teacher hat, of bringing the party, of opening my heart chakra and sharing joy and love of dance with everyone. While I couldn’t do it authentically, I forced myself to go out and dance and put on a happy face because it was the right thing to do — not only in a professional sense, but also to drag myself (begrudgingly) out of my blues. Those psychological studies that show that facial expressions can influence your mood can’t all be wrong. I had some pleasant dances and people were categorically kind and friendly, but it still felt like a slog and I was incapable of genuinely connecting. 

Friday was challenging, but Saturday and Sunday saw a marked improvement for me. The classes went splendidly, for one. I love teaching abroad, particularly because the students are so often more keen to learn. I was able to teach one of my classes outside in the sunshine on their outdoor dance floor, which delighted me to be out in the sun (with sunscreen, of course). I find that classes are a great way for me to connect with large groups of people, it’s effective at breaking the ice. Where I couldn’t find the right spirit to interact with them on Friday, by Saturday afternoon I felt relaxed and confident and able to make small talk with people. People saw in me the goofy, slightly awkward person that I actually am, not some scary intimidating teacher who looks down my nose at people, and I think that let them open up more as well. Throughout the rest of the weekend I had the pleasure of connecting with a number of kind-hearted, engaging locals, either in receiving earnest compliments about a class or over sharing a scrumptious meal, all of which were communal. 

I want to give huge props to the kitchen team, for their hard efforts to fit a diverse range of dietary restrictions and still have everyone feel nourished. I ate super well this weekend, always with an excellent balance of greens, grains, and protein. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the presence of mind to photograph any of the spreads — probably because I was in such a ravenous state that I could think of nothing else than to stuff my face with delicious food. 

Shortly after Saturday dinner, we convened for a Blues dancing competition, but with a special twist: it took place on a bouncy castle. It was Australia’s — nay, I daresay the World’s — inaugural Bouncy Castle Blues competition. And oh, what a glorious sight it was to behold. I had the special honor of judging said competition, which I can assure you put a lot of pressure upon me to carefully weigh the balance if Blues aesthetic with bouncy castle awesomeness -- not a feat suitable for an inexperienced judge. Being able to say that I professionally judged a bouncy castle Blues competition is perhaps one of my greatest achievements in my career to date.

I captured one of the preliminary rounds on video. I did a terrible job maintaining the dancers in the frame, because I was scribbling down notes at the same time (I was judging, remember, and that’s a very serious business). 

Saturday night was particularly magical. It began with dancing outside under a crystal-clear starry night sky. Here’s the dance floor (I couldn’t get a good photo during the night):

Being so far away from civilization and with the porch lights dimmed, one could easily see the Milky Way while dancing. Another reminder of us being quite remote was the wonderful background din of crickets, frogs, and who knows what else that provided a gentle hum to the entire night.

 

The live band that played that night rocked my socks off. The duo, Wilson & White, play a fine pre-war Blues set, I was transported to an era when Delta Blues was alive and well. I danced so hard that night, never missing a single song from the band. I was grateful for the band breaks, because it meant I could take a break as well to water and feed myself. During those breaks, I had the pleasure of chatting with locals and getting to know them better. After their second-to-last set, the entire party was given makeshift lanterns and we made a little procession off to a shack about a hundred yards away, where the band was set up for their final set. I returned the next morning to take pictures, so just imagine it being dark and lit with tea lights. Someone was set up inside the shack handing out cocktails.

Here’s where the band played.

I haven’t danced this hard in a long time, it was a real gift to receive. The musicians had a great time interacting with the dancers, and the dancers were clearly eating up everything they were being offered. The whole night was filled with so much win. Once the live band wrapped up, I took a wonderfully long break from dancing to recover my energy, then headed back out for dancing until 5:30am. Along the way, I enjoyed some hilarious conversations that probably wouldn’t make much sense when not deliriously tired and riding high on dance.

Sunday glided along in the usual fashion of days that follow staying up all night dancing and then teaching the following morning: filled with a lot of tea and stumbling over my words. Students were still keen to learn, though. I taught a two-part series on turning technique, which was astonishingly popular. People here clearly want to dive into the nitty-gritty details of dance mechanics, and I’m very happy to oblige. While they’re all business sometimes when working on their dancing, they also appreciate the importance of community and having a good time. We wrapped up the weekend classes with a heart-warming, community-focused class that involved a lot of student discussions and massage circles. 

The event formally concluded on Sunday evening, with no party that night, primarily because we were reasonably far from the city and people had to work the next day. I was perfectly happy with this arrangement, because it meant I could go to bed at a reasonable hour. After dinner among a smaller core group of people (primarily organizers), we went out to meet and feed the alpacas and pony on the farm.

The alpacas had been freshly shorn a week ago.

Monday was a perfect recuperation day, primarily spent lazing about in the sun. I wandered about the farm, taking photos, sipping tea, and chatting with people. By midday, we departed to briefly visit a winery (so delicious) and then stopped by a nearby beach for a couple hours. After the intensely packed weekend, I was all too happy to let the hours slip by without my eventfulness.

With the increased peacefulness, I did find myself returning to more somber thoughts of life back in the US, of current struggles, losses, and sorrows. The contrast between the beauty and joy of the weekend and the emotions I was presently feeling was stark and uncomfortable. I’ve come to expect these sort of post-event depressions, even if they’re brief, it’s a natural way of my body balancing for all the endorphins I’d been creating through the weekend. Not to discount the reality of my thoughts, but at least I could acknowledge the context of them feeling particularly painful in the moment, because of me recovering from the weekend. Still, I appreciated the wonderful company shared with a few friends whom I trust. Walking along the beach, I tried to open my heart to the world in some hopes the sun’s summery rays would penetrate all the way through and light me from the inside. It helped, just a little.