“What If?”
“What
if I had kissed her?” “What if I had stayed in L.A.” “Should I have
spent more time with my grandpa?” “What if I tried in school?” “What if
she didn’t leave” “what if…?” Another night stuck in a restless mind.
Eyes closed wanting so badly to shut off the tyrannical retrospection.
Replaying memories, It’s almost as if thinking about them hard enough
might be able to travel back in time and fix the memory itself. It
always takes a while to realize that I am doing it again and then I
become some yogi
master thinking some sleeping position is going to conquer the mind and
subdue it into sleep. “OK Charlie don’t think….am I doing it…no I just
said that in my head…OK think something sleepy…go to your happy
place…when you were younger... Power rangers were so much cooler that
Pokemon!” and the cycle continues.
Legacy,
what will I leave behind. Legacy absolutely consumes my thoughts. My
mind runs freely through memory and hypothetical situation screaming
what if and what will people think. I often wonder if there is a type of
mental discipline that would help me with this only to be ironically
stuck back in a world of theory, where I imagine all the things that I
could accomplish if I were to have that mental discipline and were able
to control my thoughts.
One
way this gets amplified in my head is the dance world. As a dancer I am
forced to face with my rapidly approaching expiration date. “How long
will I be able to do what I love?” my mind runs through every little
injury and peccadillo. I clutch my shoulder. My whole shirt has a
streak of grass stain. I ignore the pain and gloat with a flag in my
hand. I totally sacked the schools star QB …in flag football. I am
fourteen in gym class with my first injury. Still don’t have full range
of motion. what if this injury come back and stops me from being able to
dance? My mind moves on.
Sweat
is dripping down my nose. “People used to gather for these moonlight
dances”. Two memories play at the same time, one being the words of
Elizabeth Gilberts Ted talk. I am bent over, lungs with a healthy sting
of having been used to their full ability. “It was like time would stop,
and the dancer would sort of step through some kind of portal” My dress
shirt transparent in places from perspiration, and a smile so big that
it gives me premature wrinkles in my eyes is stuck on my face. Elizabeth
Gilbert’s words articulate my memory of a good night of dance “he
wasn't doing anything different than he had ever done, 1,000 nights
before, but everything would align.” I am in a crowded room that is
electric with energy. Personal space has been thrown to the wind, a
small circle clearing in front of me, empty, from the fall out from a
dance battle. the kind of dance that every step up movie tries so hard
to emulate. My ego is indulging in the feeling of all the eyes looking
at me with amazement. This is the best day in my life. I am amazed that
these people are affected by my dancing. “He would be lit from within,
and lit from below and all lit up on fire with divinity.” Elizabeth is
still talking; she has a black turtle neck sweater. I am wearing a
purple argyle sweater vest remembering the novel idea of entering
battles dressed as a nerd. “They would put their hands together and
they would start to chant,” The people in the room dressed up for a
night on the town, are smiling too. I remember their smiles, "Ole, ole,
ole," the powerful conclusion to her talk is a story that has happened
to me. Their smiles are still in my mind. Maybe it will happen again
some day. Before I am “just an aging mortal with really bad knees, and
maybe he's never going to ascend to that height again” as Elizabeth
says. Maybe I am never going to ascend to that again. “The most painful
reconciliation you can make” Elizabeth Gilbert's words haunt me. How do
I affect people the way I did that night? Can I do that on stage
somehow?
My mind goes on.
“good, just remember hands shoulder with apart and finger tips forward” I say in my best Dora the Explorer
voice as a group of six to fourteen year old kids are standing in two
straight lines taking turns going across the hard tile floor of the
local Community Center. Poorly drawn geometric shapes and scribbles
hang on the wall. They are only recognizable after the three foot tall
owner of pigtails removes her fingers from her mouth long enough to say
“it’s me and my mom on mount Everest.” It’s summer I am teaching a
Breakdance class to a group of Nigerian refugees and traveler kids in
Ireland. The failure of my ability to capture their attention collapses
in on me when “can we play a game now?” come from the throng of heads at
arm pit level. My mind is replaying this memory, taunting me. Sometimes
my mind is relentless in reminding me of my faults. Sometimes, it is
more gracious as it allows me to see the intent and let go of the
outcome, which is often beyond my control...but what if? “Did you do a
good job?” my mind starts up again “Do they have a little bit more self
confidence because of your class? Will they even remember you? Did they
even learn anything? ” If my body won’t last forever that maybe I can
inspire a group of kids, show them the joy of life to be found in dance.
“What if I am a bad teacher? I am a bad teacher. No those kids loved
me. But they didn’t get any better.” I remember their smiles and my
mind goes on.
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