Snarked

Snarked
I have been suffering from a snarked-out limbic system. I think that is an official medical condition. And if it is not, then it is now.
I came to that realization during a retreat I attended this past weekend with 12 other women: many suffering from the heretofore undiagnosed condition of having a snarked-out limbic system. I think it comes with the territory of being born with a womb, and an instinctive and primitive desire to nurture, hold, feed, converse, laugh, converse, comfort, reason, converse, create, love, be loved, move, dance, fix things, connect, decorate, converse, communicate, be heard, be understood, worry and protect and heal and all the other stuff that accompanies the human condition!
Colleen O’Grady, the leader and creator of The Hidden Treasures retreat wrote a song entitled “All Mothered Out.” She sang it Saturday night, and by the time she got to the end of it, we were all on our feet joining in - raising our wine glasses high - toasting the God who thought of creating children in the first place, and, by some reports, Who actually was one at one time. (Hmmm, I wonder if Mary....? )
“Sooooo,” you ask, “Just what is a limbic system?” It is that “fight or flight” place in your serpentine, (primitive), brain that has been the source of our survival in the human race. It causes us to either “Ruuun!” or “Kill!” when confronted with a hungry saber - toothed tiger. And – the most fun part is that it also can make you fat, since we are “fearfully and wonderfully made”: when threatened, our bodies dump the stress hormone cortisol in order to produce an extra layer of fat to protect our vital organs! Sigh....Thank you, Lord. I assume “snarked”-(root word “snarky”), is self-explanatory.
My own personal snarked out limbic system has to do with Alpha males, of which there are 5 in my family; I have really wild, “adventurous” sons: All of them now men. Well, sort of...And all of them fathers. I am one of 6 children: 2 girls, (we were the first ones), and 4 boys. When my sister and I both ended up having all boys, (7 between us), and the fun of rearing them into manhood began, we got our prayers down to: “Oh God, please keep them alive, Amen.” My mother commented that we “should have had some girls to help us with the mothering...that we were having so much trouble with our sons because we had had all boys and no girls.” Now, that was helpful!!! Mother was a good for one-liners. She would proclaim something, and then leave the room. We were left standing there perplexed and staring at each other- wondering “Did we miss something?” (My other prayer was, “Let their wives worry about it now...” In retrospect, I probably should never have said that. But then, I was all mothered out.)
But we tried. My sister and I, that is. And we prayed, a LOT. Her eldest is in his mid forties now. That is many years of many prayers. But then came last year, ending with the Holidays from Hell that blasted me into 2012 and sent me reeling. After many epiphanies from this past retreat weekend, I now realize that I have a snarked-out limbic system. It is always a good thing to have a solid diagnosis. We heard a lot about brain science on the retreat. Helpful stuff, really. The sort of stuff that helps you identify things like: “Oooh! That is why I stood on the kitchen chair screaming, using all of my self control not to leap through the air at my son who was saying things like: ‘Mom! Chill! What is wrong with you??? It’s just a tattoo!’ ” (1998-the first of many; A tame example of one of many scenarios over the past 40 years). And answers questions like, “Now that explains why I did that, instead of being well, you know, ‘rational.’ ” Yeah. I have been living in my serpentine brain for like a whole entire year now. In survival mode. Non-stop. And God knows how many years before that. Tattoos are no longer on the list.
My mother had a father who did not exactly value women. In fact, my grandfather gave me a silver dollar when my eldest son was born. He told me “Now if you have a girl, you won’t get one of these.” Can you believe that!?#*!? (That would explain SOME things about my Mother). One of the huge things that happened to me when I went back to dance in 1989, after a 20 year hiatus, was being forced to observe how little girls interacted with each other. I found them curious little creatures. They giggled and wiggled in the corner, waiting their turn. They were clean and smelled good and did not punch each other just for the Hell of it. Or start belching or farting contests. And they cared about things like their hair, their tutus, and what color they were wearing, and what their favorite color was (pink). They told secrets, clung to each other in passionate hugs, held hands, skipped together, cried when their feelings were hurt, or when they were scared, (which was often). Some were even afraid of bugs, and thought spit was icky, and stuff like that! They were not snarked out in their limbic system...Well, with the exception of one little girl whose mother had just shot a Doberman dead with a .38 pistol. (The poor animal had torn up her garbage that morning just one too many times. She dropped her child off at class, and proudly announced her accomplishment...we sort of stared at her. Now, she was having a really bad, snarked-out-in-the-limbic-system day...)
When Colleen asked me to be the cook for the retreat this past weekend, it was a no-brainer. God knew I needed that particular retreat, and would really need it the weekend when it was scheduled, but more than that, being some sort of “chef” is on my bucket list: I love to cook and create-I am a frustrated Julia Child/nutritionist. So when she asked me to do that for her, (I may actually have begged her...I can’t remember now), I said yes, and started thinking about the menu from then on. The food was good. The incredible thing to me, though, was that all of the women were so grateful. And, they sat at the table-close to each other, crying because their feelings had been hurt or because God had done something loving and unexpected for them. They told secrets, whispered to each other, talked about clothes and make-up and giggled. But mainly they shared about their lives – their children, their husbands, and their Church; their disappointments and hurts. Their challenges. Their exhaustion. There were many stories, and I loved being with them. We laughed a lot – something I realized I had not done this past year. And they said things to me like, “Wow! That is really good chicken!” And, “I love that chocolate!” And “Thank you so much for doing this.” They cleared their plates, and loaded the dishwasher. Amazing! I left the retreat exhausted but filled, humored, and at peace for the first time in a very long time. My thoughts, now emanating from the frontal cortex, surfaced clear and creative, loving and hopeful. I was the Me again who had gotten so lost...
Then I came home. The re-entry was a little rough: My car was dead in the driveway: Where I had left it: perfectly well tuned and okay the Friday afternoon before. The gear shift was in neutral instead of first...Hmm: That was suspicious. I pressed the clutch and shifted to first gear. Turned the key in the ignition, gave it some gas...Nothing. No sound at all. Not even a click click click. I checked the gas cap. Loose. Not replaced correctly. Hondas are picky about that, and will shut down. Hmmm. The area around the car was muddy. Hmmmm. What on earth had gone on here? The automatic response to years of shenanigans started: The imaginary drama/trauma stories. And there was a lot of history to choose from. There was that time that my eldest showed up in the middle of the night holding the right side of the car. And then there was that other time that the youngest stole the (new) car and was stopped by the pine tree at the end of the driveway, (which is still crooked and bears the scar). My heart/breathing rate went up, etc. Like a stone in a pond I started to sink to limbic. But I paddled up; took a deep breath. Maybe I could have, (after seven years of driving the car, for the first time ever), left it in neutral instead of first, and then forgotten to close the gas cap and click it three times – for the first time ever, in seven years? It was possible. I made some calls to the guys: “Did anyone know what had happened to my car? No? Oh...it was me and I just forgot?” Hmmmmm. I did what I needed to do: I took a bath and went to bed. One son had unexpectedly arrived from Dallas. Another one was asleep upstairs. Breathe. So, I was not stranded. Breathe. The next morning they both went outside to “fix the car.” Breathe. I cooked. Breathe. Push out of primitive. Stop the story. Inhale. Exhale. And I watched them.
What I saw was two really handsome strong young men pushing my car down the driveway and aligning it up to check the battery and try to charge it...”helping Mom.” It was going to take more than that, but, I broke through. There they were. Two of my sons. Men. Focused together. Doing manly things. Taking charge. Protecting. “Mom!” “What?” “Do you have any of that retreat chili left?”

Published Saturday, February 4, 2012
Dedicated to my father, Locke A. Plauche’ who, thank God, loved and valued women.

Back to the Garden

Back to the Garden

“We are stardust…we are golden…we are million year old carbon…
And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden”
- Joni Mitchell -

Previous to the present…..
The winter froze the garden again. I had not quite finished the restoration from last year’s multiple freezes and WHAM; a new Arctic blast hit my tropical colorful space…and stayed. I’m talkin’ snow and ice. Now this makes at least two winters in a row. As I have been told, “Freezing temperatures are only news in Houston.” As well they are – we are not conditioned down here to scrape ice off of our windshields, keep the heat on all day, and burn a full cord of wood in the fire place in less than two months time. Many a Christmas we turn the AC down really low, (…’won’t be doing that again!), and put a log on the fire. Not anymore. Thirty degrees and dropping: It’s a drastic change.
The worst part of all of it as that I forgot to feed the birds. Bad girl. Bad. Bad. Bad. And as I sit here – outside surrounded by the rusted mush of plants, (by the way – did you know that arugula is an evergreen? That stuff has GOT to be healthy!)…so, as I sit here in the temporarily warmed weather in the middle of February, I am grieved that my birds are not everywhere, competing with the squirrels for seed and food. I headed out twice this weekend after clearing off some of the dead leaves, (there are a LOT of dead leaves), with the specific intention to buy bird seed. I did the usual: I came home with all sorts of items and had forgotten the seed. A bird, (probably a scout), appeared on the fence late Sunday morning – singing his song for about a minute, and then flew towards the back of the yard…where the feeders, (still empty) are. I watched him…cringing….but repentant. Then he actually flew back to his previous perch on the fence – close to the kitchen window, I might add, and sang his song again. I felt awful. I was so busted. Late Sunday evening after two shopping trips to two different stores I came home with the seed. I filled the feeders – all four of them, and rang their dinner bell. (Thank you, Pavlov). Nothing.
Now the day is beautiful. I have turned off the AC/Heat, etc., and opened the windows. I am waiting. Sitting outside...Staring towards the back of the yard. Monday’s prayer partner has temporarily disappeared, so I found my Book of Common Prayer and went through morning prayers…on my own even. Many get covered today…or targeted-depending on how you look at intercession. So, peace has come. I ring the dinner bell several times. I reward myself with the last cup of coffee. As I write this now, I hear the symphony of all sorts of feathered tribes. One distinctive chirp gets louder. I hold my breath. And here he comes: His red flashing. His honey is with him. Ahhhhhhhhhh. I can breathe again….I have been forgiven.
And now it is Palm Sunday. (Only a week left to go.) It has been a doozie of a Lent. I am back from Church; various family members waiting for attention, -food mostly, except one: My six year old granddaughter. We had journeyed together to the garden center the day before. My mind is now on evergreens-enough of this ripping out every year…but she wanted to have a voice in what “we” were going to plant this year. We get out of the car. The little voice next to me says, “Are we going to buy the same flowers you always get, or can we get something different?” I am a little stunned at her attitude but have to laugh – at least she has been paying attention. So it looks like the pink and red begonias are out on this trip. “Well, what would you like to plant?” “Red daisies.” “All righty then – Red daisies it is.”
“Dear God, I am at the garden center with You-Know-Who. Please let there be a red daisy somewhere…and affordable ones. Thank you.” And Voila’! There they were; or at least a reasonable convincing representation. They were in 6 inch pots. 10 for 25 dollars. Sold! We toured around the garden center. ..(I was pricing Knock-Out roses and Azaleas and other plants designed to brave the elements and climate change and etc. etc. etc.) Her little legs got tired and she crawled in the bottom of the cart, and I got a really good work-out. Home, we lined up the plants like little soldiers waiting for assignment, and discussed where they should go, and when we could plant them: Tomorrow after Church. Palm Sunday.
And she was waiting when I came in the back door. We put on our messy clothes and headed out to the backyard prayer garden, and started to dig. For me there is nothing like the ground to ground me…no pun intended. It is the smell of the dirt, the soil-the stuff of which we are made and who we are. The miracle of planting something in the ground and then everything that can happen - it changes shape and form and produces stuff that is pretty and colorful and edible and grows larger. It reminds me of much and takes me back to a reality and truth –the cycles of life and death and transformation and life and then death, etc. I had had a manicure a few days before, and considered wearing gloves…but no, I just had to get dirty and messy and muddy….because there is just something about the ground…
Which brings me to the earthworms. I just love them. There they are - hiding down there, covered in the soil, and always shocked and surprised when they are unearthed…wonderful wiggling worms...attempting to bury themselves immediately back into the safety of the underground. Doing their thing: eating and aerating and pushing through the soil; Fertilizing, helping the process. We delight whenever we discover one. The rule is if you ever find one wiggling on the pavement, you have to rescue him from inevitable death, gently pick him up, and put him back in the earth…My granddaughter loves them too. Really - No squeamish squeals from her. ..Just pure delight.
As I work to transplant the pansies, and make room for the red daisies, I hear the happy squeal behind me. She is holding several…one is really long and desperately trying to dive out of her hand and get back to the garden…"Look! Look!" She pets and strokes the pitiful thing, and then kisses it several times before I can respond. I am wondering if earthworms can survive little girl saliva from too much affection. It’s not lookin’ too good. The earthworm’s wiggles slow down, and she holds it up to the sun to investigate…talking to it….cooing actually. I convince her that it is best to put him back in the ground. Now the earthworm is completely still…no more wiggles…maybe it is just playing dead…I sigh.
I poke a deep hole in the dirt and pick up a wad of soil, rubbing it between my hands to loosen it. “Here”, I say…”Here is a nice bed for him. Let’s put him back.” She places him there. The worm lies quietly. We sprinkle his “dirt blanket” over him. And we turn our attention to the red daisies. Who knows… …maybe he’ll be resurrected too.

Copyright Marie Plauche’-Gustin, April 23, 2011 Holy Saturday

Nine One One

Nine-One-One

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High God shall remain stable and fixed under the Shadow of the Almighty, Whose Power no foe can withstand.” Psalm 91:1 Amplified Bible

I probably should have died that Sunday afternoon. But I did not. I am still here. I am here with everything intact. I needed a really good massage with that great massage therapist who looks like a little sumo wrestler. I did notice that my neck muscles were a little stiffer than usual, and a week later I was sore all over, but I am here. People see me. I am eating, etc., and talking, and people talk back. Not a Dean Koontz moment at all. I am alive. I am grateful.

My friend Cynthia Clawson says that there are really only two prayers. Prayer Number One: “Help me, help me, help me, Jesus!” Prayer Number Two: “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jesus.” I have to agree.

I was faced with a potentially fatal car accident a few weeks ago. I was driving home from the Dallas area, and was on I-45 South. Two lanes, lots of trucks, SUVs, etc., and all going at least a minimum of five miles per hour over the speed limit. I was talking with my friend Melinda; I had dropped her off in North Dallas to celebrate her birthday with her parents who live there. I‘d gone to visit with my son and grandson and his family. We were on our way back to Houston and sharing our different weekends. I was in the right lane, and had slowed down to about 50 mph since I was behind “Mr. Pokey.” Mr. Pokey was driving a rusted black Honda. Melinda and I were talking about foccacia bread, and food, our favorite subject, and the fabulous meals she had had that weekend. I checked my mirrors: left, rearview, right, rearview and left, in that order, put my blinker on and accelerated to change lanes and pass Mr. Pokey. Melinda screamed. And it was then I saw the wall of silver metal on my left that had appeared like the night, blocking the sun. A big Chevy Suburban was just suddenly there, coming out of nowhere. You know the type. A Road Bully. We’ll call him, “Mr. Pushy.” They speed as fast as they can down the highway, come upon you with no warning, hang on your tail, and if you don’t move fast enough, they zip around you to pass as soon as they can. Then they weave in and out of traffic down the road, intimidating and pushing the rest of the drivers to move over and give them passage. I never saw him until it was too late.

I cut hard to the right to avoid hitting Mr. Pushy, and ended up back behind Mr. Pokey, who was still clipping along at 50 mph or so. So I braked and screeched and cut the wheel again to avoid hitting Mr. Pokey and went into a spin. It was the whole bit: the wheels skidded , the brakes locked and seemed to be no good, the car shook as it slid down the highway sideways, then careened from one lane to the next, back and forth, and “doughnuting “down the Interstate.

In the midst of all of this I heard two things, “Help us Jesus!” over and over again: That from the person sitting next to me. And then I heard myself yell, “Turn into the spin,” (???)… I have to turn into the spin!” And on one of the slides back to the right, as I was spinning right, I resisted the urge to turn left, and away from the right lane. I closed my eyes; I took a deep breath, and I turned the wheel right….into the spin. The car flew over to the shoulder, spun around and landed in the ditch, facing the oncoming traffic…BUT, we were off the highway and stopped. We sat there; and sat. We stared. We inhaled and exhaled. And then did it again. We waited in silence. Breathing; Listening to the loud thumping of our hearts, and whispering “Oh My God…Oh My God.” We waited for the five to ten cars that would stop with people who would help us and care for us and check on us. I imagined big muscle-y men in trucks – pulling over to the shoulder - racing towards us there stuck in the ditch to see if we were all right…. And so we waited for them, and breathed…in and out. And while we waited we went through the verbal examination and checklist, just to be sure. We were both holding on to the dashboard with our arms and hands outstretched. I said, “Okay, we’re alive.” “Yes.” “You okay?” “Yes.” “‘Airbags didn’t deploy.” “No.” “We didn’t hit anyone.” “No! And I do not know why not.” “No one hit us. “ “No!?!...It’s a miracle.” And we breathed…in and out…and continued to wait for our rescuers…the big men… rushing towards us…and it didn’t happen. No one stopped. No one came. Mr. Pokey was long gone. So was Mr. Pushy. It took a while for us to connect that help was not coming. I finally quit staring ahead and looked at Melinda. She looked at me. “No one is stopping,” she whispered. She was hurt. Surprised. Stunned. We were on our own. We watched and stared as the cars zinged by us one by one.

“No one is going to stop!” “I know…I can’t believe it.” “We’re stuck in this ditch facing the wrong way.” “Yes.” “Thank God we landed in the ditch.” “And not the road.” “Thank God I can call Triple A.” “We could have killed a lot of people and died too.” “I know.”

There had been enough drama on the way there. A few miles outside of Dallas, a huge thunderstorm broke out –a really big black one with lightning and noise and lots of water suddenly cascading down from nowhere. Melinda was a little “not afraid,” but aware…. cautious… concerned… and giving voice to that. And to that I’d said, “Don’t worry. Lightning might strike all around us, but God won’t let it hit us.” And with that, a huge bolt of lightning hit an electrical pole directly across the highway from us. It blew up, exploded and caught on fire, buzzing and hissing with all sorts of noise and fireworks and electrical display or wires twisting and snaking around in the air. I swear. Really. This is totally true. That was a tad sobering! And scary. Now, on the way back home, here we were in the ditch, facing the oncoming traffic, but with our lives.

We slowly came out of shock. I tried to start the car. Nothing. Then I heard myself say, “Well, you could put the clutch in first.” I did, and held it down while I tried to start the engine again. It started. Okay. Deep breath. I shifted into first gear, and the car actually began to climb out of the ditch. At best, I had expected the spin of the rear wheels digging parallel trenches in the soggy dirt on the side of the road. Surely that was going to happen….? But instead, it was as if several large men were pushing from behind as hard as they could. I pictured them with their heads down and their feet digging into the earth, the sleeves of their blue work shirts rolled up, their hands on the back of the car, pushing with all their might. We were amazed as we bumped and chugged out of the ditch, and up and out and on to the shoulder. However, I was facing the wrong way. Heart racing, I waited there staring at the oncoming traffic for the opportunity to gun the engine and zip the car around and get into the right lane, hoping to God I would not stall.. I was a little nervous about the car being still safe to drive. So I sat there focused on the oncoming traffic, thinking of all these things. Melinda was praying…constantly. Another SUV zipped by. Then there was nothing: Nothing in either lane. I let out the clutch, pressed the accelerator, and made a hard, 180 degree right turn into the right lane. I kept shifting and accelerating until I had reached fifth gear. No shaking. No shimmy. The steering wheel was steady. I couldn’t believe it. I never had to call Triple A…

We drove down I-45 South. “That was really bad.” “I know.” “It’s like that TV program, ‘What Would You Do…?’ ” “Yeah…” “No one stopped.” “I know…” “Do you hurt?” “No…but maybe tomorrow.” “Probably.” “Maybe we should take some ibuprophen now.” “Good idea.” I handed her the bottle in the side pocket of the left door. She shook enough tablets out for both of us.
Still shaken, we travelled a few miles down the road in silence. I eventually pulled over. We pulled over and found a Starbuck’s and a bathroom. We investigated the car, the trunk and the back seat. It was curious. There was grass caught in all the wheels, and stuck to the bottom of the car, and the chocolate birthday cake Melinda’s mother had baked for her had flipped out of her carryon bag and was face down in the back seat. Her mom had wrapped it tightly in clear plastic wrap. It was a little flatter, but no worse for the trauma it had endured. But that was all. We took the birthday cake into Starbuck’s with us. We ordered our coffees, found a table and a couple of plastic forks, unwrapped the cake and prayed. Lord have mercy, that cake was good…I mean really, really good. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, thank you, Jesus.”

Copyright: Marie Plauche’-Gustin October 2010

Repair the World...?

Repair the World…?

“Every act of loving human kindness, no matter how great, or how small, repairs the world…”
-Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D.*-

‘I’ve been a victim of.. a selfish kind of love… it’s time that I realize…I see the kids in the street.. without enough to eat… who am I.. to be blind –pretending not to see their need…?”
-Michael Jackson* -

I have been working on a “Repair the World” concert since January of this year. Well, actually the random choreography, that I had no idea what I would do with, emerged in January. It surfaced after an imposed four month break from teaching. This “break” came suddenly and unexpected in September of last year.
I had arrived to teach my class one morning, and the owner of the studio where I was renting space, unbeknownst to me, was packing up and moving. Imagine my surprise! And with that, I had three classes, and no place to teach. It was one of those disorienting, unanticipated changes of plans and direction that, more often than not, come after a major event in the life and lives of Bere’sheet Ballet. We had just completed a successful presentation and participation in a sacred dance workshop…our first-ever official one. That was on 9/11 and 9/12 of 2009. 9/14 found me staring at packed boxes as I went to pay the rent. The economic disaster of last year had finally found the studio in our humble neighborhood where all of us gathered. In reality, I had been presented with a Divinely orchestrated opportunity – a badly needed break that I would have never taken on my own…some “down time.” As my sister so lovingly reminded me yesterday, “God will often do for us what we will not do for ourselves.” So, I handled all of this by immediately signing up for two dance classes in other studios. It was my turn to be on the back row, be the student, groan through someone else’s warm-up, stumble through someone else’s choreography, wonder who’s body I was inhabiting and why I could not find my left foot, and, most importantly, to not be in charge. It was wonderful. And to affirm this new season, not one studio owner where I inquired for space was interested in renting to me. Some were downright rude. And that lasted four months…
January came, and Sonia, an original member of Bere’sheet Ballet, called me after her two year break and wanted to come back to class. It just so happened that she was still working in administration in a studio where I used to rent and, “Ta Da!” there was space available for me. Somehow I had not inquired there. So I showed up with some new moves, scheduled three classes a week and prayed people would show. Most of them returned. And those who did not were replaced with new gals. It’s all good. And we started to pray together as we always do…and play together and move and dance, and God showed up to join us…as God always does. Still drawn to Michael Jackson’s stuff and that mysterious impact of global loss-the redemptive themes I had been listening for manifested in his work, and with that, a renewed passion, consciousness and responsibility to “repair the world” invaded my heart.
The quote from Dr. Remen’s book bears repeating, and in fact, I think, is even worthy of “ bumper sticker status”: “Every act of loving kindness, no matter how great, or how small, repairs the world…” I first became aware of Dr. Remen at the first “Womenspeak” held in San Antonio, Texas in March of 2007 …“Womenspeak”: a conference for women, and for a few brave, women-loving men), originated by the courageous visionary and author, Paula D’Arcy, founder of The Redbird Foundation, (http://www.redbirdfoundation.org/) . The event was one of those “game changers.” Then in 2010, March of this year, Paula did it again; this time in Mobile, Alabama. The focus once again, was “one woman can change the world.” It was held in Mobile to honor the historic and courageous Harriet Tubman, a slave in the South who organized the “underground railroad,” and helped free hundreds of fellow slaves from the Confederate South into the free Northern states. I attended as a guest artist. There was no way I would have missed this event, having been to the life changing conference that was the first Womenspeak, and mainly because Cynthia Clawson was also a guest artist and we were going to “sing and dance together.” And then there was God…and the surprise and awe of the rich spiritual meal that had been prepared for us.
As I sat there listening and entering in to the Spirit of it all, I was moved by the stories of one woman after another who had the power of God’s love and vision in their hearts. I was provoked by their life’s experiences to ask – “What am I doing? How can my life impact someone else’s for good? For changing this corner of the world?” How can my writing, my dancing, my singing, my music, my photography, my prayers, my position, my job, my public speaking, my medical practice, my priesthood, my friendship, my parenting, my cooking, my laughing and my crying, my love of God change the world for good? How can I be a part of healing the planet?
Back in the 70’s, there was a vagabond teacher/preacher who always encouraged his congregation and students to pray whenever they went somewhere to minister, “Lord, send the Lazarus…,” meaning that someone who was going to be the big impact to their community after a touch from God. Which meant for us, if we were simply faithful to do what our calling and passion was, and to “Be,” we could inadvertently empower a Moses, a Saul of Tarsus, a Gideon, a Mary Magdalene, a Martha or Mother Theresa. Their transformed lives could change a community…a world. Thus was the call to all of us who attended Womenspeak in Mobile: impact a person for good. Make a difference. Listen! BE! Follow your passion. Help repair the world.
Back at home, my choreography began to take on another layer of meaning, and about a month later, death and oil exploded into the Gulf of Mexico. At this writing, the foolishness of all of the top hats and junk shots has stopped. The well is capped, and somehow the oil in the Gulf has “disappeared.” We have seen multiple horrific pictures of greasy pelicans, dead ocean life, heard the fake and foolish non-safety rules of a huge and powerful company, seen the filthy oil-covered reeds in the marshes of Louisiana, worried about the eggs of sea turtles, seen the greasy black gooey globs on many sandy beaches, avoided eating Gulf shrimp and wondered. Now most of us have moved on. It will be a while before we feel the impact, but our lives have changed in many ways forever.
In her late 50’s my mother went back to college and got her Masters Degree in environmental science. This was long before awareness of our environment and the “move to go green” was ever accused of being political. Mother was a high school science teacher for years. I helped her grade papers, and grew up with many suspicious-looking science experiments in various parts of the house. One was the infamous Styrofoam cups buried in aquariums filled with dirt, as opposed to paper cups. We all know which one decomposed. It is how we grew up. No microwave ovens, no fast food, no preservatives; our medicine was nutritious homemade food, balanced meals, (I watched one of my brothers choke on hated spinach several times), and we were dosed with cod liver oil and liquid iron washed down with orange juice as we headed out the door to school; ‘never had a pop tart in my life. We were rarely ill. It was a way of life. When Hurricane Audrey hit Louisiana shores in the 50’s, since we had gas cooking and the electric power was out everywhere, we cooked all the food in the freezer, and fed the neighborhood. We took food to the hungry on a regular basis through the Welfare League, and when Mother, along with some of her cronies formed one of the first Ballet Companies in Louisiana and we performed The Nutcracker, she organized bus transportation for underprivileged school-aged children from all over the area so they could see a live theatrical production: Providing them with a cultural and beautiful experience, encouraging their dreams, expanding their vision. In the heated 60’s, she received threatening hate mail from violent students in her chemistry class who refused to do their homework. She did not balk. They turned it in any way or failed, and then she hauled her china and crystal to her classrooms for an end of the year party. She helped form the Children’s Museum, the Symphony, the Little Theater, etc., etc., and wrote publicity for the newspaper for different arts organizations, bribing the editor with her famous marshmallow brownies. When she died, her shoes were too huge to fill. I have quit trying…
But her greatest instinct was to “repair the world;” to make things around her better. It was how she coped with the various disappointments that life dealt her. And there were many. Or to put it her way: she was “Just doing my job.”
This morning I pushed myself out of bed. I am a chronic insomniac. I always have been. If I am asleep before 2:00 a.m. it is a successful night. Therefore, getting moving in the morning at the same time the rest of the world does, is a challenge. But today I did it, and faced the early morning not only around seven-ish, but with a cup of Jasmine tea instead of the pot of coffee I always have. I do not know how long this will last…Maybe just a day. This will take a lot of re-structuring. But I must tell you what I would have missed: Two hummingbirds battling for a purple bloom in my prayer garden, a bright red cardinal arriving to remind me of God’s flair for décor, the sun rising over the flower garden, illuminating the miniature black eyed susans, the sound of a blue jay warning everyone he was on his way, the squirrels cleaning up the ground around the statue of St. Fiocre, and a gentle breeze that has just a tiny seductive hint of a new season coming. I tried to meditate. Forget it. But I sipped my tea and watched the busy show. It was prayer; hope.
And now another September 11th remembrance has come and gone: this one warning us of yet another monumental cosmic shift. I teach class tonight in another new studio space. Thank God I did not have to wait four months for this one. It is time to get moving and repair the world -Whatever that means for you…for me.

*My Grandfather’s Blessings, Stories of Strength, Refuge and Belonging, Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D.
*Man in the Mirror, music and lyrics, Michael. J. Jackson

Copyright Marie Plauche’-Gustin. September 2010

Ode to Betty Jo - "It's About the Heart"

Ode to Betty Jo –“It’s About Our Hearts”

It was possibly as early as 1982, surely no later than 1984. I remember dates according to which baby was on my hip at the time, and whether or not I was still breast-feeding him. Since my youngest son travelled with me back and forth to Rosenberg for some of this time, (I remember putting him in the babies’ nursery and his resistance to that), I am going to assume that is was 1982 or ’83.
I was in a stand-off with God. It happens. This position is not always a wise one, I can tell you, but I can also tell you that it is proof of God’s eternal grace and patience with us…that is, that I am still here and alive to even tell you that I was in a stand-off with God. I was trying not to have any relationship with the “Eternally Divine One” for any reason; ‘didn’t happen.
My trusted friend and side-kick of many years, Cindi, observed this, and in her mercy giftings hauled me out to Rosenberg with her. She’d “discovered” the teaching ministry of Betty Jo Frank. Betty Jo and Gene, her husband, had founded a church out there: “The Church of Living Waters.” On the “Church Calendar of Historical Events and Markers,” (that exists in my mind), this type of church, being “led by the Spirit,” was springing up in many places across the nation. Leaders and followers separated from the comfort and constraint of their traditional denominations to venture out into uncharted waters, lift their sails, haul up the spinnaker, and with the wind at their backs, propel outward and onward and upward. But, as we all know now, new waters always have rip tides, swells and occasional tsunamis.
We did that a lot back then: venture out. Cindi and me. Skeptical and cynical, with a closed heart and mind and spirit, I entered the sanctuary where the Bible Study was being held. They were singing those “songs I had grown to hate.” Choruses of casual verses were now triggers for me, stimulating memories I was trying to forget: Tsunami moments. But too tired to fight Cindi, I went, I stood and I sang anyway – though in my heart and mind and inner child, I was sitting down and silent.
Then “She” got up and began to speak. Her first words pierced through all of my defenses, and like the proverbial sheep tangled in the barbed wire, cornered and rescued by The Shepherd, I was caught, placed on those really BIG shoulders, and was being brought back to the safety of the flock. Only the likes of Betty Jo Frank in that moment of the “Church Calendar of Historical Events and Markers,” would have had that sort of impact. She was the one. And over the years, as I have watched with wonder when so many other sheep entangle themselves in the barbed wire, I have either said to them or thought to myself, “What is needed here is a big dose of Betty Jo.”
Back then, Betty Jo’s message was based on the text from Hebrews Chapter 4 in the New Testament. She taught from the whole chapter, but the body of the message was from Hebrews Chapter 4: 12-15. I just looked it up in the Bible that I have had for about 34 years, and would have used back then. Those verses are carefully underlined. As I recall, the name of the teaching series was “Possessing the Land of the Mind, Will and Emotions.” She used the Greek word, “marismos,” the “dividing asunder,” to refer to the entire text, her teaching and the process. The intention of the teaching was the inner healing of the soul, the psyche, and identifying roots of pride, fear, religion, anger, rejection, etc. that so often motivate our behavior. They were the “counterfeit voices of the Spirit,” masking themselves as truth that often justified our bad behavior, cloaking it in religious righteousness. Betty Jo had done her homework, having steeped herself in the teachings of the likes of such sages as Watchman Nee and others, who, back then, were respected and sometimes revered for their deep wisdom and insight by many seekers and sailors.
For me, it was a moment in time for transformation from the inside out, and I parked there for about two years, I think. The life-changing experience was filled with monumental moments. I remember Betty Jo’s wisdom; the timbre in her voice. Her classic one-liners accompanied with her physical antics that were often met with great hilarity and joy, have come back to me on several occasions as reminders. We were able to laugh at ourselves in our healing process. I could probably quote much of her teaching on “Possess the Land…” I won’t . It not only would be worth it to anyone who is exhausted from wandering in the wilderness of their present circumstances to search this out for themselves, but also it came to me through my personal filters and history, hitting the target where I needed to heal at the time. I highly recommend her teaching from the early 80’s. Betty Jo was a major marker, and her wisdom is eternally relevant. For me, the revelation of the difference of being led by the voice of the soul, (the mind, will and emotions), versus being led by the Spirit, was an opportunity for a metamorphosis both intellectually and spiritually. It was a great epiphany, and to date, some of the most powerful and effective teaching I have ever heard. She often referred to her daughter Keitha in her talks, telling her, “Keitha, it is a matter of the condition of the heart”… “It’s about our hearts.” (i.e. as opposed to being religiously, doctrinally “right”).
Part of the purpose of the teaching was a restoration of who we were, are, and were intended to be, and embracing those gifts and talents. I, ironically, ended that season by dancing all around the sanctuary. The Spirit at that time knew better than my soul, that somewhere down the line, dance was a gift, that God, for some strange reason, would have me explore again…my dance needed reclamation. At the time, it was bewildering. So, I have Betty Jo to thank for that too.
Betty Jo Frank and her daughter Keitha were brutally murdered by her son-in-law, Keitha’s husband, this past December between Christmas 2009 and New Year’s 2010. All four of the grandchildren were present and witnessed the murder. He was a guard in the prison system out in Rosenberg. At this writing, he is still on the loose, and has made the list on “America’s Most Wanted.” The more details emerging from this horrible situation reveal how deeply sick, psychotic and troubled this man is. He is a serious danger. I was out of town celebrating the holidays with family when I got the call from Cindi. We are both still in shock about it all. She told me what she had heard, (also reported on the local news), that Betty Jo confronted her attacker, her son-in-law she had loved and tried to help. He had already stabbed Keitha, her daughter, (as she slept). But Betty Jo, urging her granddaughter to call 911, stood between him and her grandchildren, his children, saying, “You need help. God can help you. Even now, you can come to God; Even now.” She died an horrific death with God on her lips.
Of course I have wrestled with God about all of this, as all of us who knew her have, wondering “God, what were You thinking!?” I certainly asked God that when I first began the exit from the fog. In my denial and shock and need to understand, I personally wish Betty Jo would have used a shotgun aimed at a very specific anatomical area of his body, and prayed for him later. But that was not Betty Jo. I write about this incident because it has to do with domestic violence and abuse, and women’s’ special healthcare needs, and is directly related to the mission statement of Bere’sheet Ballet. In my longer-than-I-care-to-recall history with victims as well as perpetrators of domestic violence and abuse, and let me interject here, that many of the victims have been male as well as female, is that the primary and primitive instinctive and initial response of the victim is: “It must be me. I deserved this. I must have done something to make him (or her or my parent) so angry. ” That is one of the signs. It is usually the one being abused who is trying so hard to change and adjust.
The comment that I have most often heard about the murderer in Betty Jo’s case is “There were no signs. The abuse had only been verbal.” Since verbal abuse is, well… abuse, I assumed that is where it always begins. But not always. I have recently learned, after talking with a couple of therapists, though the verbal abuse can be the precursor, it does not always end in physical abuse. A friend of mine, who is a marriage and family therapist, says that in some extreme cases, nothing can really be discerned without a Mood Survey, which reveals more than outward behavior. In addition, she added, there is nothing wrong in feeling anger: “It is a secondary emotion,” meaning, behind the anger is another problem that is driving the anger. The possibilities there are numerous. “It is the problem that is under the anger that needs to be taken care of.”
Another therapist I spoke to allows couples in counseling to argue, but they cannot use abusive or angry words, curse words, foul language, profanity, accusations, shaming, embarrassing phrases, sarcasm, mocking, and cannot shout or yell. It has a tendency to take the fire and the fury out of the fight, but still allows the expression of the anger and frustration. (There is not a lot of sting in expletives like “Phooey,” “Gosh Darn it”and“Geez”). Both therapists know that in couples counseling when one of the spouses, (for example, the husband), has abusive behavior, and is taking responsibility for it, the other person, (the wife) has to look at “her own stuff.” Does she have any responsibility here? What is her part in possibly provoking the frustration? And vice versa.
Author, (I Don’t Want To Talk About It), psychologist, and psychotherapist, Dr. Terrence Real makes a distinction between a 21st century male and a 19th century male: Since men have been in power for so long, they have been slow to realize the dramatic changes that took place in their immediate world, (to them), almost overnight. It is his observation that over the last couple of decades, generally speaking, “…women have changed and men have not…” Often times the man is confused and overwhelmed with the emotional needs of his wife, and her criticism if he has not met those needs. Somehow he has to guess what that is. Males who are “verbally castrated” become highly dysfunctional. Generally speaking, with females usually the more articulate, it is easy for a woman to overwhelm a man by just talking too much: “Logorrhea,” and by nagging and criticism. And of course the reverse is true.
Chronically critical, controlling, angry and frustrated people, who talk too much, end up dominating, intimidating and controlling others with words. Perfectionists, in their demand for perfection, fear of losing control, and obsession with being right, intimidate everyone around them, because no one can ever “get it right.” It is why all of us, (viscerally), want to “get away from them.” They put out negative energy, to say the least. It was what Betty Jo exposed…those roots in our soul…fear and anger and pride and control….soul forces that bring death.
“Life and Death are in the power of the tongue.” Betty Jo challenged us often about what was “Coming out of our mouths?” quoting “Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks. “ Were we “speaking life?” ..."The Spirit, (not the soul), always brings life.” We all know that physical abuse often can be provoked by verbal abuse: By being bullied and belittled either verbally or physically. We have suffered horribly as a nation from children gone mad and violent who had been mocked and bullied, and one day they explode.
Keitha’s situation was well advanced beyond all of this, but had its beginnings and warning signals early on. Obviously her husband is a seriously sick, paranoid and dangerous person, had been that way a long time, and needs to be caught and incarcerated. It is a tragedy beyond belief that Betty Jo’s own daughter, Keitha, did not effectively get away. It could have saved many lives.
Abusive relationships: both the abuser and the abused require specific, professional help: Counseling, behavior modification, and inner transformation: metamorphosis. Metamorphosis and marismos brings me back to God and Betty Jo as a person with spiritual power and authority as a minister and her place in the “Historical Events and Markers on the Church Calendar.” She has a place there. The word “martyr” surfaced in the days of calming down after the news. During a prayer time the other morning, in my imagination, I saw her focused and intent on saving the lives of her grandchildren, standing between them and him, confronting the enemy with the hope of life in her mouth.

Right now, martyrdom is the only answer that brings me any measure of peace, which is a tiny microscopic measure. Martyrdom is something that we in the Church in America have been able to escape for several years. We prefer to read feel good books written by positive thinking Christian ministers, goading us to be and do and obtain our best and the best…instead of Fox’s Little Book of Martyrs. I know that applies to me! When that word surfaced I remembered one morning when we were “out at Betty Jo’s.” She shared her trip to the Holy Land, and how “convicted, “as a Protestant Evangelical, she had been when she had visited the sacred sites. A little nun shooed her away when she was standing on “holy ground” as a casual tourist, unaware of the significance of where she was. In her transparent way she told us the story, confessing her blasé attitude and ignorance about these holy historical places, newly realizing the respect they deserved.
And now she deserves the same. Maybe she'd visited Rome and saw the ground in the ruins of the Coliseum…

Betty Jo, thank you. Thank you, God for the gift of Betty Jo and the time she was here.

Copyright: Marie Plauche’-Gustin; Ash Wednesday, February, 2010

If you or anyone you know: (a Senior Citizen, an adult or child), may be in an abusive situation, or a victim of domestic violence, here are some sources for help:

~Adult or Children’s Protective Services of Harris County in Houston, Texas at 713-755-5000

~The Houston Area Women’s Center, 1010 Waugh Drive, 713-535-6331.

~ Mental Health America of Greater Houston Area: 713-522- 5161

~MHMRA: 713-970-7070 ~Crisis Hotline: 713-HOTLINE ~For help and support with destructive behavior at any level, and/or addiction of any category, another option is attending group support at a “Celebrate Recovery” meeting which meets in several places : (http://www.celebraterecovery.com/)

~In an emergency, call 911.

Losin' It

Losin’ It…

Well, I thought that I was done, and the ridiculous, irrational phase I had regressed into since the “sudden and unexpected death” of Michael Jackson was over. I could exhale now. Live again. Move on. But, no.
I was sitting in the darkened theatre, early enough this one time to watch the previews, and without warning, from the dark stillness, playing low at first, came the unmistakable reverberating bass notes from the intro to “Billie Jean.” The sound slowly came up, and then from somewhere in outer space he appeared in the center of the darkened screen, exploding and spinning into life, and in a split second, he just as suddenly and mysteriously put a brake on his spin, freezing into the now famous pose: his legs crossed, his feet in parallel, his long arms extended upwards in a “V,” his hat low on his brow.
And then like a wave from nowhere, the tears came from a deep deep place, my hand went to my mouth to muffle the noise I was surely going to make; I shook my head “no” slowly back and forth. How could he be dead? It just could not be. These responses have been embarrassing, to say the least. I was, yes, fully aware of how foolish I looked, as I observed myself from that distant place, from the wings, where I’d been watching me all summer. I mean, “What the hell is wrong with you?” I’d been asking myself. This was not helpful. My primitive self was in charge now.
There are surely many logical reasons why I was truly losin’ it this time, but none that can really explain the depth of sorrow I had been experiencing the last almost four months. I had been thinking about him constantly, reading about him, processing the information, listening to the news commentary, listening to his critics, listening to his family – learning all kinds of things I never knew-looking at all of the pictures, black, white, normal, bizarre and otherwise, and listening to his music for the very first time. It was a sudden, uninvited, insane need to understand and to connect the dots. Why, I do not know. Because I absolutely never paid any attention to him before; never gave him a second thought – not a positive or gracious thought at any rate. I never cared. I was one of those mothers who “encouraged” her children not to buy or listen to, (to my knowledge), his music or his videos, and just dismissed him. Oh, yes. I dismissed him a long time ago as an artist, as a singer, as a songwriter, as a dancer, as a performer, as a human being and as a real person. How stupid was that?
Now, like an old woman having an affair with a young lover, I secretly started collecting his CDs, DVDs, MTV performances, listening and watching on the sly, and getting to know him for the very first time, studying his every move. I was on alert. It seems to me that his life is like a tragic Shakespearian character. Lord, have mercy! And I confess I’m obsessed. I just pray that I am not po-ssessed.

When he first died, before this Thing took hold of me, my close friend, grieving appropriately for him, in her chronic-merciful-gracious and loving manner said, “How sad. You know I really think that he was innocent.” I was silenced by her comment, and, feeling the Heavy Hand of God on me, I was very careful in choosing my words of commentary…i.e.: I “bit my tongue.” But I ended up patronizing her, rationalizing that she thinks most people are victimized and innocent, and I made some comment towards the contrary, as gently as I could, citing some of my acquired information on particular psychological disorders and consequential behavior, and finishing with the, “we are all sinners and have weaknesses, but God loves all of us” postulate. She listened patiently, quietly, sighed, and said, “You know, Donald Trump says he is innocent.” I knew to shut up, and changed the subject.
The following week I had an appointment with two people, a married couple, who I have worked closely with over the past several years. I love them, but in their radical conservatism, I have learned to reserve my energy, and keep my opinions to myself; to sit still and listen and nod at the appropriate time. They are strong, verbal and opinionated. ( I know the type well). When I got to their home, they were both in grief - over him; Crying; Carrying on. “We failed him,” she wailed. “We failed him as Christians; As the Church. I think he was a prophet,” and she talked on and on about what “the Spirit had been showing her about Michael.” When she managed to take a breath, her husband punctuated her ranting with short barks and minimal phrases of agreement until she started in again. I sat silently, looking from one to the other. Well, I was stunned. Driving off, I asked the fun question, “Lord, what is going on?” And yet another journey began.
It was a few days later as I was crossing the kitchen, that the thought, “What if he was innocent?” attacked me and stopped me in my menial task. I did not have time for this. But, as I stood there, I considered that question. Then the years of mockery, newscasts, tabloids, weirdness, trauma, broken relationships, derision, judgment, began to play before me in slow motion. Like a photo montage, pictures large and small came at me from every direction: Pictures of his handsome face, the original ‘fro, then the beautiful dark curly hair, cappuccino skin, dark eyes, beautiful mouth, perfect teeth, the Pepsi Cola commercial disaster, the pictures of his face deformed by too many surgeon’s knives, creamy darkness slowly fading then gone altogether, hair straightened, chin clefted, lips lifted at the corners, and reddened, cheekbones protruding, appearance deformed, and the nose…goodness!….going from a handsome young black man to a person who my youngest son, after we looked at a magazine together, said, “He was a good-lookin’ woman too.” Androgyny. So strange. But the “What if?” lingered, nagged, disturbed and convicted. So, I began to ask people: my massage therapist, both of them, my friend Cindi, and my other friends-many others, my prayer partners, and my partners in crime…and yes, they were all feelin’ it. Oh, the implication of that epiphany! Oh the dark heart of us all…
I turned on the news and began to track it all. Every day; Every channel; First thing I checked on in the morning, when I came home from work or wherever, last thing I checked on at night. All the stories being told over and over again: the scandalous tales from Never Land; The plastic surgeries; the physical abuse when he was a child; the emotional abuse. I read all the magazines put out about him, and read their stories both present and past: The severe arrested development; The crippling shyness; the isolation, the weird pets and animals in his personal menagerie, the jealousy of his siblings, the jealousy of his business savvy as he observed and absorbed the production activity around him from childhood on, and the demands of his father as he became the cash cow of the family; The innocence and naïveté about girls; women. The visual onslaught of his brothers’ sexual escapades with the “Dirty Dianas” who hung around backstage when he was still a child, and still thought a pillow fight in the Green Room was more fun than anything else… the threat and the loaded gun sent to him along with a note to kill himself by a crazed fan, who inspired the legendary “Billie Jean.” No life outside of his rehearsals after school – no buddies, no pals or basketball practice, no debate team, no school band, no drama club or choir. Just demanding rehearsals and trips back and forth between the Hall and his home, and fame, fame and more fame resultant from his raw self-taught talent – confined, refined, marketed into money-making miracles for so many many many.
So I watched and listened and sighed. I bought The Rolling Stone Magazine that reviewed all of the articles and interviews with him and about him from the past. I read every word, more than once, and looked at every picture studying his eyes and his smile. How sad. I bought another publication and did the same all over again; then his music CDs and then the DVDs of his music videos, greatest hits and "The Dangerous Tour." I was captivated. I marveled at his dance. His body, his legs that were so fluid and elastic, flexible and strong all at the same time. His over-sized hands flung into the air like birds set in flight. His over-sized feet supporting his every move, always shod in the black loafers. As God made Michael Phelps’ body for swimming, Michael Jackson was made for this dance that exploded out of him. He seemed to be without bones or any physical hindrance as he gathered energy from that other place, abandoned himself, and released his being. I studied him in performance. He gave and gave and gave when I thought for sure that he would collapse from exhaustion and depletion – all his energy spent. He poured it out over and over and over, spilling it out in raw sexuality, and gentle, innocent tenderness and compassion all at the same time. The power of it all, the freedom, the trust, the deep loneliness and yearning; The cry. The despair...
I missed the moment. I missed the moment he was in history: Alive, spinning, singing, whooping and leaping. How could he jump that high? I had missed it. My children didn’t. They knew. They snuck off to their friends’ homes and watched “Thriller.” “I was terrified,” confessed one of my sons, now thirty-four, “and had terrible nightmares, and couldn’t tell you because I saw it at Ivan’s house.” He was visiting me from out of town, and we were driving around town together listening to the greatest hits CD. “But it was so brilliant when you look back on it, and we all wanted to learn the dance.” His baby son was strapped in his car seat in the back, waving his arms and feet and squealing. We were listening to “Beat It.” I reached for the volume control, thinking it was too loud for the baby. “No,” my son said, “we rock out to MJ all the time. He loves him.” I drove on in silence listening to Michael Jackson sing, my son sing along with him, and my grandson shrieking and laughing in the back.
After they left to go home, as I drove each day with the accompaniment of his songs, I finally had the courage to play the CD in dance class-select pieces that is. (They're a picky lot). By that time, I had done a lot of “active listening,” allowing my own inner voice to connect to and listen to his inner voice and soul cry. I took the CD home and played it full volume on my stereo system. “Earth Song” was towards the end of the CD, and it took a while before I listened to it for the first time. The writer of an article in Rolling Stone Magazine had referred to it as “sentimental glop,” and in comparing its gospel genre to his earlier songs had judged it as insignificant and invalid, citing it as evidence of Jackson having lost it all. Since I had no expectations, my ear was different. I was perched to hear redemptive themes in his work, listening for the hints of what was in his heart’s center; of what was his truth, his anguish. Perched to hear what God was up to this time. So, when the choir backed him up with the repetitive, “What about us?” above his guttural cries, challenging our apathy, I was caught up in the Spirit, and pierced in that deep central place.
I hit the repeat button-several times. I turned it up as loud as I could without distorting it –and put my head down on the kitchen table, closing my eyes, allowing the sound and the power go through me. Uninvited, the beginning choreography of a dance came, and the next class I started experimenting with the movement. Saying nothing about the intent or content, I watched in the mirror as my dancers worked. No one commented or questioned. Like soldiers called to duty, they all stepped on board, feeling the message, the passion, entering in to the moment, helping to create the message with their bodies, honoring a co-creator they too had never known. It was a sacred moment. The thought occurred that we would be doing the moon walk a lot in the future…
So here I am back in the theater, watching the previews, all these memories surfacing. The loss of such a talent and a wounded colleague has become even more magnified; the unreality of his death; the wrongness of it all…
We buy advance tickets when we leave the theater… Weeks later four of us go and see “This is It.” The very next day two of us go again…The third time we saw it together, just before it closed, it was as if we had never seen it before, there was so much to absorb, to process, as he became the embodiment of the music, knowing each instrument, conducting each note and each rest and each nuance with his skinny frame, his gentle voice….preparing for the show of his life.
We left the theater weepy but empowered with new mantras:
“Let it simmer…”
“I’ll sense the sizzle behind me…”
“You might want more booty in the music…”
“The earth is trying so hard to compensate”… (for all the damage we have done to it)…”we

have only four years to get it right…”
“It’s about the love, the L-O-V-E… "

Whether I have lost it or not, no longer matters…I just cannot get enough.

Copyright 2009 Marie Plauche’-Gustin