Everything Hurts

Hey there, humans!

In case you were wondering where I've been for the last week, I'm just chillin' like a villain in Victoria. You know how I be. Kirsten's cat, Thatcher, and I are having a great time now that we have been temporarily reunited.

I am super sore but oh-so fulfilled after spending the past weekend in Vancouver at LINDY BOUT! What's Lindy Bout, you ask? It's only the largest annual Lindy Hop competition event in Western Canada. NBD. This year was actually my first time attending this glorious event due to the fact that I no longer have to spend the end of April writing a billion finals and crying. Hallelujah. Lindy Bout was amazeballs. The music was fab, the people were super, and I was stoked to compete with not one, but two of my original choreographies for the Team and Short 'n' Sweet divisions. My tap shoes even made it onto the stage into for the first time in ~4 years which was pretty darn cool. I flung my hat somewhere backstage into Narnia, apparently, because it was nowhere to be found when I went to look for it after my number. In typical fashion, the stage felt 980767354095 times more slippery during my actual performance than it did during the floor trials. I almost died. OH WELL. I danced so hard this weekend, not that you would know it from what my broken fitbit recorded... However, I still won my weekend step count contest even though the darn thing only recorded half of my steps. I also didn't even get seriously stomped on until the end of the Sunday night dance, which is honestly the best time to obtain a majorly bruised ankle during a dance weekend.

That's not a shadow; that's a bruise. Ideally, I wouldn't get any body parts annihilated by a hard-heeled dance shoe, but if it has to happen... My feet also hate me now. The only thing that saved my muscles was my daily "stretch your freaking legs, Kate" alarm and the discovery of the hotel Jacuzzi with its miracle jets. Oh, sweet calf massage...

In other news, Kirsten and I ran our first Lindy Hop Switch class last night here in Victoria. It was a successful hour of making mistakes and figuring out fancy role switching moves. We both had a total blast sharing our knowledge with everyone who showed up and we are looking forward to our next workshop which will be taking place in Edmonton near the end of the summer! Check out our website here and the Facebook event here for more info! I promise I will only play "Switch" by Will Smith a reasonable amount of times...

Other than these exciting updates, I'm spending the next weekend back in Vancouver before flying back to the real world on Sunday. All good things must come to an end, I suppose. I've had a great vacation full of dancing, friends, and nearly getting crapped on by a bird. It's been a blast but I'll be glad to get into my regular routine again at home. Fewer birds in Edmonton, you know?

Until the next time!

Love and Swing-Outs!

A Second Cup Of Reflection

Sitting pretentiously by myself next to the window in a coffee shop and reading an old book of personal essays which speculate about the meaning of life, I'm suddenly struck by the sheer number of stories unfolding around me. Is anyone else noticing this too or am I the only one tuned into this channel in this moment? At some point, I've connected what the author of my book was writing about with the episode playing before my eyes right now. 20 something odd years later, I'm doing now exactly what this author must have been doing around the time I was only being born. How much has changed since the days he might have spent sitting in a coffee shop watching people live their lives while they unknowingly shared with him their stories?

Outside the window, an unofficial parade of pick-up truck floats decked out in Oilers paraphernalia is noisily roaring past. People lean out of their windows to cheer and encourage nearby pedestrians to share in their playoff excitement. The last time our city's team made the playoffs, I wasn't even old enough to enter most of the establishments located on Whyte avenue. In fact, I was nothing more than a dorky kid cutting "Go Oilers" into the lawn with scissors as I attempted to find a way to participate in the collective excitement over a sport I didn't, and still don't, care all that much about. Continuing to absorb the energy of the crowd through the large pane of glass, I begin to recall flashes of news images of the riots that engulfed this street following the playoff loss a decade ago. Some mobs revolt for worthwhile causes like political change; drunk and privileged Canadians riot over hockey. I'm realizing that tonight may not have been the best time to embark on a reflective journey in this coffee shop. However, I'm caffeine deprived and I've still got time to kill as the band I want to see doesn't get on stage for another hour and a half. I'm not entirely trusting in my ability to travel unscathed through the impending sea of rowdy fans, but I'm hoping I can go relatively unnoticed while their eyes are glued to an infinite selection of bar TVs. Outside, calmer spring-time couples amble by me hand in hand. A young man leans his bicycle trustingly unlocked against a pole and joins us inside to get himself a cup of coffee. Is anyone outside the window judging me the way that I judge strangers who sit reflectively inside coffee shop windows to write? I've never really understood the appeal of working in a public space until trying it now for the first time. I am beginning to understand how this hum of activity can be both inspiring and conducive to productivity. I am willing to admit my previous judgments about these coffee shop people have been misguided now that I have become one of them. 

Inside, the man sitting just up and to the right of me has pulled out of his backpack, a set of headphones and an iPad, obviously well used but still being carried around in its original packaging. He appears to be watching a drummer's how-to video and following along with his own frantic tapping rhythms on the coffee shop table. Aspiring bongo drummer, perhaps? I am not about to ask now that he has begun to talk to himself. Besides, he probably wouldn't be able to hear me over the coughing noises coming from the man sitting immediately to my right. I'm concerned that this other stranger's lungs sound like they might break free from his chest and escape out from his throat at any moment. Will I be caught in the bodily fluid cross-fire?? Between coughs, he seems to be watching me as I glance over to check on his vital status again. I wonder what, exactly, he has observed other than my distressed facial expressions. Behind these two men, one of the baristas reacts like she has just received the most distressing news ever to land in her ears from the other barista behind the counter. She's crying like she has no awareness of the dozens of customers milling about around her. It's possible she simply doesn't care. Something in her world has been drastically altered, potentially permanently, and the rest of us are continuing on to drink our coffee like nothing has changed. She pauses briefly to bid farewell to the table drumming man, addressing him by his first name. "See you next time!", the baristas call as he waves goodbye. 

As I quietly observe these events occurring in this space, I feel the way I do when I watch a movie. I am an observer trying to piece all of the separate events into the larger puzzle picture. I am noticing things like the excessive number of coffee cups taken from various different coffee shops that a stranger is carrying in his walker basket. Has anyone else observed this or am I the only one wondering why the cups are there and what the man's plans for them are? Did he not have time to find a garbage can or does he collect these treasures like scavenger hunt prizes? Why do I take so much joy in these little moments? Life's truest Easter eggs never fail to make me smile whenever I stumble upon one of them. There is so much we fake about ourselves in front of others that it makes these refreshing seconds of mundane truth even more special glimpses into the reality of our shared human experience. Spending most of my time being disappointed by people, these quiet observances of unfiltered expressions give me hope. Witnessing the raw vulnerabilities of people around me seems to lessen the weight I so often feel in the presence of the evils which are so prevalent in the world. These strangers are as innocent to me as I wish to imagine, so long as I have no more knowledge about their histories and intentions. The realist in me knows there is a danger involved in ignoring these certain kinds of information, but the idealist in me is fulfilled for now. Every so often, it is necessary to indulge the latter to ensure the will to get out of bed still exists by the time the next morning rolls around. 

When I stop to take a break from reading and jotting down bits of my stream of consciousness, I discover a friend's first post of their new blog. As I read it, I think about the fact that everyone is out to tell their own stories. With movies, books, music, dance, writing, poetry, and creations of all kinds, we're all looking for the acknowledgement of our experiences. I am delighted when someone shares their tales with me, as I think most of us usually are. We spend much of our time seeking out storytellers, whether artistically or interpersonally, because it allows us to validate our own thoughts and experiences through those of another. Some people are natural storytellers whereas others prefer to listen. I would consider myself to be a story sharer. When I am quiet in a group, I am likely listening to the stories someone across the room doesn't realize they are telling me. When I nudge your shoulder to say, "look over there", I am extending an invitation to you to share in the story being told in that moment. As much as I love to say, "I hate people", I am often fascinated by others, especially when they are not thinking about being watched. To be the only one who witnesses a stranger stumble over a curb and then look around to determine whether anyone else noticed is to share a unique bond with this person you've never met. You know what they're thinking because you've been there too. Maybe they catch you looking at them, but maybe they don't. If they do, you share a smile that lets them know their secret is safe with you before you both proceed with the rest of your days. Life resides in these moments of understated connections. 

Well, with the not-so-subtle actions of the baristas wiping tables and stacking chairs around me, I can take the hint that the credits are beginning to roll. For now, it is time to leave my front row seat to continue on with the rest of my evening. As much as I have enjoyed taking in the stories of the people around me tonight, I now have the opportunity to share a few of my own on the dance floor. 

Until the next time, 

- Your Friend With The Pen