I'm going to be honest. 2016 has been a tough year. My husband's business slowed down significantly and I've had to continue learning to balance my own work with my need for self-care. Over this year, I have had to learn to accept that I cannot do as much as I used to. I have even had to accept an additional diagnosis. I know now that I have Fibromyalgia on top of the Lupus.

Yet, I am grateful. I can still do a lot. I'm still dancing. I'm even back to teaching regularly. This school year, I am teaching Flamenco to 7th-12th graders at a performing arts high school. I love being able to share this art form that I love so much and I love the kids. They are so funny and they are sponges too. I can't believe how much they learn in such a short amount of time.

Earlier in the year, I was ordained as an Interfaith Minister and I got to perform my friend's wedding in September. Along with my sister-in-law and some supportive friends and family, I also helped raise thousands of dollars for Lupus organizations. 

Even among the difficulties, a lot of great stuff has happened and I believe that very little of this would have been possible if it were not for my access to healthcare--my regular visits to the Rheumatologist, my lab tests, my medicines.

I am supremely grateful for my healthcare. I pray to continue to have access and I pray that everyone has that same access.

For many, including myself, 2017 brings a lot of uncertainty. There is one thing I know for sure, though. I am surrounded by love. The love of my very supportive husband, family, and friends. The love I feel for all of them. The love I show myself when I take things one moment at a time. The love I know I have for all beings, even if sometimes it is hard to express it. I know that there is an infinite amount of love that is always available, no matter what hardships may come.

For that, I am most grateful.



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Because of my recent activities, the thought of being of service has been on my mind. Recently I had one of those "a-ha!" moments onstage, while I was doing palmas along with my fellow dancer as accompaniment to the guitarist's solo.  We were all totally in sync, riding the waves of the rhythm and the notes, hitting all the accents, and resolving all the phrases together beautifully.  The guitarist was trying new things, complicated things, that he hadn't done with us before.  It all came out apparently easily; the audience had no idea we dancers hadn't heard this particular version of things before.  Our expressions of joy during our jaleos were not rehearsed, they were natural exclamations of delight at how it was all coming together.

When it ended, we all looked at each other with gratitude.  We dancers enjoyed the guitarist's playing, and he in turn, thanked us for giving him the support he needed to try the new material. These moments, where improvisation and collaboration meet smoothly, can only come from one thing--years and years of dedicated study.  These instances are moments when I feel pride for coming as far as I've come and gratitude for having the fortune to be a Flamenca in this lifetime.  I believe I live a very beautiful and privileged life.

Those years of practice have been a gift to myself, and I have often reflected on how I am sharing my gift with students and audiences, but I'd like to offer another thought.  For us artists, our years of study are a gift to our colleagues as well.  If you've been dancing, singing, or playing for a long time, you know how wonderful it is to work with a full ensemble of performers who are bringing their all to the collaboration.  There's nothing like it.

Often, we artists focus on our practice in order to prove something--to be the best, to dazzle, to get as much work as possible.  All of these things are important, but I'd like to propose a new consideration.  I'd like to suggest that we make our study and practice an act of service:  service to our students and the audiences who come to see us, service to the venues and customers who pay us, but also it is a service to our colleagues.  The more work we do to hone our craft, the easier we make it for everyone with whom we share the stage.  Doing this shows a sign of respect and reverence for our craft and for each other.  

When you come to work from this place, the place of reverence and service, the music flows beautifully and you all experience that sense of joy and gratitude and isn't that ultimately what work and life should be about?

Two years ago, I wrote A Love Letter to Flamenco and one year ago, I wrote Surrender.  It was interesting to reread them both and to think about all that has happened since.  In "Love Letter", I was recommitting myself to Flamenco after having a period of feeling a bit uninspired.  What is interesting about life is that once I wrote that letter, so many things started happening to make my renewed commitment more challenging:  I found myself needing to let go of a couple of regular gigs and I started having some physical pain that was limiting how much I could do, both in daily life and onstage.  I wrote about those challenges in Surrender, where I decided I would welcome the changes to see what I could learn from them.

Well, as you know if you've been keeping up with me, I have since learned that I have Lupus.  The mysterious pains were because of the Lupus.  So I found myself welcoming Lupus in 2015 and like I said when I first announced I had Lupus, I welcomed the diagnosis because I finally knew what I was dealing with. Maybe committing to a year of "welcoming" in 2015 readied me for the news I had long suspected was coming.

I still feel I am in the same transition process that I wrote about a year ago.  I am not really sure what is coming up next for me.  I feel like I am barely catching up with myself now.  I'm just getting used to regular doctor's visits and understanding how the Lupus behaves in my body.  I'm just now understanding what my body is trying to tell me at any given time.

So this year, I want to write a love letter to my body.  I want to thank this body of mine for carrying me through this life so far.  I want to thank it for the simple things like allowing me to walk, to run, to see, taste, smell, touch, and hear.  I want to share my gratitude for this body that has allowed me to combine those skills and senses in a way where I could make music and art with it.

I want to thank my body for carrying me en compás* all of these years, enduring muscle aches, cuts, sprains, and all kinds of pain so that I could transmit my feelings, my life, through Flamenco.  Every twirl of the fingers, every snap of the head, every arch of my back, every remate, every stretch of my arms to the sky has been because of this body meeting the demands I have made of it. My poor body even put up with me when my demands were totally unreasonable, like the years I spent in disordered eating.  It has more than bounced back since I worked on healing that issue.

So now it is time for me to really repay my body.  Right now it feels like it's screaming at me, trying to get me to pay attention.  So I promise I'm going to try and listen.  I know that as a dancer, and therefore an athlete, I often push past the fatigue and the pain in order to deliver the best performance I can give.  The thing is, I don't want to give up dancing, and honestly, I don't think my body wants me to either.  In fact, I feel like I've had some of my best performances lately.  It's as if everything I've been going through has fueled a new level of emotion that needs to get out.  My body and I both need the catharsis.

So as long as this body lets me, I'll keep dancing.  What I do promise to do is to find balance around it. If I have a show one night, nothing else happens that day or the next.  I will eat nutrient-dense food, drink lots of water, get a lot of sleep, take epsom salt baths, get a lot of sleep, meditate, do yoga and my physical therapy exercises, get a lot of sleep, protect myself from the sun, wear my compression socks, keep my hands and feet warm, take my medication and supplements, and get a lot of sleep.

Most importantly though, I will learn to trust.  This body of mine knows what it needs and what I need. I will not be "cured" because there is no cure for Lupus, but there is a lot of healing to be done and I trust that my body knows exactly what that is.  All I have to do is trust and listen, the same way I have always trusted that my body would absorb the Flamenco I so desperately wanted to learn.  Now I want to learn about healing and I trust that my loving body will teach it to me.  

​* Definitions:

en compás--in time, in rhythm.

remate--a phrase of steps that brings a section to a close, usually in a climactic way.


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"You have had a rough year," is something more than one person has said to me recently.  I guess when you think about it, it's true. In less than a year I have built the following team of health professionals thanks to Lupus:  my primary care doctor, a rheumatologist, a physical therapist, an acupuncturist, a periodontist (plus periodontal care from my dentist), and a cardiologist.  I still need to add a dermatologist, an opthamologist, and an otolaryngologist (ear, nose, and throat doctor).  The latter two are due to side effects from my meds. Once I add two of the last three, I have enough doctors to form my own baseball team.

I am on three daily medications and I take prescription pain medication as needed.  I am on a bunch of supplements.  I have had at least two medical appointments weekly for the last eight months.  I put myself on a fairly strict anti-inflammatory diet called the Auto-Immune Protocol, and I have been retraining myself on how to schedule my time based on The Spoon Theory. Oh, and let me not forget that I now live like a vampire because I must avoid the sun at all costs, since UV rays are a Lupus trigger (as you can guess, one of my supplements is Vitamin D).

Basically, my life has changed drastically in a short amount of time, and yes, it has been rough.  However, I feel it has also been a good year.

I welcome the changes.  After years of mysterious symptoms with no explanation, with doctors looking at me as if I was as crazy as the symptoms I described, I feel such a sense of relief.  Now when I go to a doctor, I say, "I have Lupus", and that's enough to get them to listen.  When she first evaluated me, the cardiologist said, "It's too bad you have this, but I imagine it feels good to finally be getting some answers".  Yes, yes, that's exactly it and it's wonderful to hear a medical professional acknowledge it.

I have received so much loving-kindness from my family and friends.  Ever since I wrote my original post about my diagnosis, I have received emails, phone calls, and regular "check-ins" done with such care.  I am so grateful to know such love and support.

I also welcome new contacts I have made.  I have gotten to know other "Lupies" through mutual friends, patient conferences, and a Lupus support group sponsored by Lupus LA.  There are social networking sites for Lupus patients such as My Lupus Team and Patients Like Me.  I have found a lot of resources in the general auto-immune community because of the lifestyle changes I've made.

I have been able to rekindle an old friendship because we both found out we were sick at the same time, she with Fibromyalgia (a related disease).  After years of not seeing each other, we spent a whole afternoon drinking tea, catching up, and comparing notes.  It was awesome and now we talk regularly.

I have also been able to deepen my relationship with my sister-in-law.  She was also diagnosed with Lupus shortly before I was, so we have been each other's main support group.  Although neither of us is thrilled about being sick, it has been wonderful to have someone to turn to for support for even the smallest of things like, "My feet are so cold, I'm wearing three pairs of socks" (see Raynaud's for an explanation of that one).

Most importantly, Lupus is teaching me to be mindful and to listen to my body.  I have had to slow down enough to pay attention.  If I mistakenly eat the wrong thing, the pain in my joints tells me so.  If I don't get enough sleep or over-schedule my day, dizziness and fatigue will drag me down.  

I'm not always fine when I do what I am supposed to do, but I do tend to feel better, and this is all I need.  Feeling somewhat better has kept me dancing.  Not only that, I have been dancing with a lot of feeling according to my colleagues.  After I had performed an Alegrías recently, one of my fellow dancers told me , "There was so much joy in your dancing, it was as if there was nothing else you'd rather be doing".  I told her that she was right.  That's what if feels like when I dance--there's nowhere else I'd rather be and there's nothing else I'd rather do.  It's apparently good for me too; the cardiologist said I would be worse off now if it weren't for the dancing.  So there you go.  I'll keep dancing so long as this body wants me to do so.

So as I go into 2016, I look forward to the continued changes.  I accept that I am entering a long and slow transition into something new.  I hope that this something new brings me to more growth, love, gratitude, and acceptance, and that I may use whatever I learn to help others as well--even if it's something as simple as telling you to eat whole foods, get some sleep, and do some dancing.


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I've been putting off writing this entry.  I've been putting it off so much, I did not even send out my newsletter last month.  I needed some time to process what I was feeling and how I was going to talk about it.  As I write this sentence, I still don't really know what I am going to say.

Last month I was finally diagnosed with Lupus.  I say "finally" because I've been dealing with mysterious symptoms for years now.  I've been going to doctors, having them run tests to explain things like hair loss, dizzy spells, heart palpitations, digestive distress, numbness and burning in my legs and feet, and massive fatigue, among other things.

About a year ago, my symptoms got worse.  After a very busy April full of several gigs, I ended up in bed for an entire weekend, frightened.  I had sharp stabbing pains in my stomach, heart palpitations, leg weakness, nausea, dizziness, and a fever.  I went to the doctor later that week, feeling horrible, and had all sorts of tests run.  Everything came back normal.  I was told it was "just stress".

By Thanksgiving, I couldn't empty my bladder.  After some testing, it was decided I would need physical therapy to regain proper function of my bladder.  It seemed unrelated to all the other symptoms, that my dancing was responsible, but now my team of medical practitioners seem to agree that the Lupus may have something to do with why my therapy is taking longer than predicted. Forgive me if it seems crude, but to put it quite simply, I haven't fully emptied my bladder since last Fall.

Anyway, after another busy April this year, I ended up with massive fatigue again.  After another round of "normal" test results, I begged my doctor.  I said, "Look at my face".  By now, I had developed a strange rash across my cheekbones, nose, and forehead, and cystic acne all over the rest of my face. He decided to run some other tests.  A week later he called me into his office.  "I think you have Lupus".  Two weeks after that, a Rheumatologist confirmed the diagnosis.  Besides positive lab results, I now learned there was evidence of arthritis in my joints and that mysterious rash on my face turned out to be the classic Lupus symptom.

I left that Rheumatology appointment and went straight to a gig.  I danced that gig with a new awareness of my body and my life thus far.  When you first start learning Flamenco, you are inundated with all of these new rhythms, each with different names, percussive accents, and melodic tones, even if the counts are similar.  The nuances are subtle enough that it can take a few years before a student can correctly identify what palo, or rhythm, they are listening to.  Then one day it clicks.  You hear the opening chords on the guitar, the first couple of accents, and right away you know that it's a Tientos, or it's a Tarantos.  It's a Solea or it's a Solea por Buleria.

This is how I feel about my Lupus.  I've been dancing with Lupus for years now, but not knowing it. You can only improvise, adjust, or choreograph so much if you don't know the nuances of what you're working with.  Now I know that I've been dancing with Lupus.  Now I know what to adjust for.  Now I know how to improvise around it.  Now I know how to choreograph with it.  Now I know.

There is such relief in knowing.  There is also wisdom to be gained from this point forward.  Just like in Flamenco, where there's a whole new level of learning once you've learned the basics, I am now looking forward to getting to know and understand this new rhythm of Lupus.  I'll keep you posted on what I learn.

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"I mean, writing is my craft and my profession, but the real, central journey of my life...has been trying to figure out how to live well. Trying to figure out how to not succumb to darkness. Trying to figure out how to be a better friend to people. Trying to figure out how to find destiny and live it in a way that feels bold and important.

That’s kind of what I’m about. Writing is—I don’t want to diminish writing by saying it’s “just what I do,” but writing is my vocation. But I think I have a higher vocation that I respond to, which is living." --Elizabeth Gilbert, Author of Eat, Pray, Love and The Signature of All Things.

This quote was one of the first things Elizabeth Gilbert said during an interview with Tami Simon on the Insights at the Edge podcast*.  Once I heard it, I was hooked.  I knew I found the beginning of an answer to a years-long meditation.

I've been wrestling with the question of identity--identity as a human being who happens to be an artist.  I love my art.  I love being creative.  I love sharing my creativity and my passion for my chosen form of expression.  What I do not love, however, is the way of living that comes with an over-identification with the label of "Artist". 

I do not love living in the world of "Who is better?" or specifically in my profession, "Who is more 'Flamenco' or 'Flamenca'?".  I do not love living in the world where this question then leads to constant gossiping about our fellow artists in an attempt to prove that we are the one who is "more".  I do not love living in the world that it so over-identified with the "suffering artist" or "suffering Flamenco" stereotype, that we spend hours abusing alcohol, ourselves, and each other, in order to prove we belong or don't belong--whichever seems truer to our artistry at that given moment.

Now before you think that I am sitting here in judgement of my fellow artists, please know that I am including myself in this honest critique.  I have been just as guilty as anyone.  I too get wrapped up in this, "aren't I amazing and unique and original because I've chosen this niche art form that is so niche it's hard to make money, but that's okay because that just means I'm a truer artist and Flamenca?  Aren't I, aren't I, aren't I?"

They say the teacher teaches what she needs to learn.  I believe this is what is behind my writing.  I am writing about this because it is a struggle of mine.  I have spent the last few years working very hard on figuring out who I really am.  Through meditation, through reflection, through volunteering and even through my dancing and teaching of dance, I have been exploring what my life means if I am not "Flamenca" or not "an Artist" or not "Bohemian" or not "a Gypsy-in-spirit".

What if I were stripped of all these labels and I was just a human who happens to dance?

This is one of the scariest questions in my life.  I overcame so many obstacles in order to become a professional dancer.  I have done years of training.  I study various aspects of Flamenco and the Flamenco culture.  I have done and continue to do the work that gives me some modicum of credibility in my field.  I have dedicated so much of my life to Flamenco and dance itself that it seems crazy not to completely identify with it.

And there is nothing wrong with enjoying the accolades you receive when you have done all that work.  You should be proud of getting to a place that shows you've put in your time.  I have often had the joyful conversation with fellow artists that starts with "Remember when we didn't know anything?  Look how good we've gotten".  Those conversations are worthwhile.  Those conversations celebrate the process, not the labels.  Those conversations celebrate each other.

The problem comes when we lose touch with the process, when we lose touch with the time when we were just a curious dabbler, a beginner.  Do you remember the joy there was in discovering something new that was so amazing to you it piqued your curiosity and all you wanted to do was learn more?  Remember when all you did was enjoy your time learning and dreaming of when you'll be good at it?

In this same interview, Elizabeth Gilbert goes on to say that art is a place to process our pain, but that the process of creation itself shouldn't come from pain, but from joy.  She also says that the process comes from pain when an artist feels they have to suffer in order to create.  When art comes from a pained creative process, you're sharing that energy of pain with the world rather than sharing your love for your art.

In my experience, this is exactly what happens when we get caught up in the labeling and unnecessary competition.  We start to approach our art from a place of fear, resentment, frustration, and anger.  Doing the thing you love suddenly becomes a chore, even an annoyance. 

We often get confused, thinking that Flamenco makes room for the dark emotions.  After all, the mother of all the rhythms is the Solea, or the dance about loneliness, but that is not what I am talking about. 

I am the first to say that I prefer the jondo in Flamenco, the songs about sadness and anger.  However, when I create my solos or when I go to my shows, I always set the intention that I am channeling these feelings in order to tap into something greater.  I hope that I am stepping into some divine stream of consciousness where I can communicate the universality of my feelings with anyone who is watching because I know they feel this way too.  And I hope that together, audience and I, can find some resolution.  However, I'm also aware that this may not happen.  I could come to the most amazing resolution and an audience member can simply arrive at, "well, isn't that pretty?".

I love to remember this because ultimately, I am no more special than the non-dancer audience member who is watching me.  For all I know, they save lives.

So again I come to that question of identity.  There was a time when we weren't the professional artist we have come to be.  Who is that person?  The sister, the brother, the daughter, the son, the friend.  The audience member.  Who is the person beyond even those labels?  Who are you...really?

Yes, these questions are scary, but when you really think about them, there is so much freedom to be found.  There is the freedom to do what you love, simply for the sake of doing what you love.  There is the freedom to choose who you will work with, where you will work, and how you will work--the freedom to create healthy boundaries and relationships.  The freedom to create art from a place that heals you and others.

Finally, Elizabeth Gilbert quotes Tom Waits as saying that when he starts to take himself too seriously he reminds himself that as a songwriter he is simply making "jewelry for peoples' minds".  Nothing more, nothing less.  It is beautiful, yes, but it is adornment.  We artists make life more interesting and we do fill a necessary role, but we are not above and beyond anyone else.

While doing my hospice work, I always remind myself, "This will be you one day".  One day, I will not be able to dance.  In fact, that could even be tomorrow.  So then, why take my "Artist" self so seriously?

Instead, I would rather do what Gilbert says in the quote at the beginning; I'd rather "figure out how to be a better friend", daughter, sister, wife, aunt, teacher.  Even more than that, I want to figure out this human business.  And while I can, I'll do it all while dancing.

*If you identify with any of what I'm saying, I highly recommend listening to this interview:  http://www.soundstrue.com/weeklywisdom/?source=podcast&p=9535&category=IATE&version=full

Before I even really knew what Flamenco was, I knew the name Paco de Lucia.  He is considered one of the greatest Flamenco guitarists (arguably one of the greatest guitarists all around) and many of my generation of guitarists credit him with being the reason they dedicated themselves to Flamenco guitar.


One of the beautiful things about Paco as a person, was that he chose to honor his mother by choosing the stage name, de Lucia.  He was born, Francisco Sanchez Gomez, in 1947.  His mother was Lucia Gomez and his father was Antonio Sanchez, a laborer and a guitarist himself.  If you want a more detailed biography of Paco, please visit his website: www.pacodelucia.com

What can I say about Paco?  He was a virtuoso, but his playing went beyond technique.  It was amazing technique perfectly fused with soul.  This combination, and his willingness to explore new terrain, while staying true to his Flamenco roots, were what enabled him to take Flamenco to the world.  He has given so much to the world of music, though his collaborations with international artists, and he is also credited with bringing the world back to Flamenco.  One of the biggest examples of this is when he and his Brazilian percussionist, Rubem Dantas, brought back and adapted the Peruvian cajon to Flamenco.  This box-like drum is now a fixture in most Flamenco shows, so much so, that newbies are always surprised when they find out how recently it was introduced into our art form.

For me personally, because I love cante so much, some of his greatest collaborations were with the legendary singer, Camaron de la Isla.  Together they brought Flamenco to new heights and to the world, including me.  I am forever grateful. 

Paco passed away from a heart attack last month, on February 26th, 2014.  His heart stopped and the hearts of all other Flamencos broke that day. 

We will miss him greatly, but his music lives on.  Below are some clips for you to enjoy.  Have a beautiful day, surrounded in music.

If you've been following my newsletter and my blog for awhile, you know that I say I've been married to Flamenco for X number of years.  Right now it's 18, but it will be 19 sometime in the Spring.  Unfortunately I don't remember when our exact anniversary is.  I just know Flamenco and I finally found each other in the Spring Quarter at UCLA in 1995.

Like in any marriage, we have had our ups and downs.  The downside?  Impatience, anger, and fear.  Conflicts of the ego, where I was getting ahead of myself, wanting things to be other than they were at the moment, an unwillingness to commit.  I've mainly been the problem.  I can admit that.  Flamenco has always been there for me.  When times were tight, Flamenco bought groceries.  When I was grieving death or heartbreak, Flamenco sang to me and held me up in its rhythmic waves, to the point where I've learned to breathe and float while resisting pain.

Flamenco has also taught me joy in small things.  The satisfaction that comes from the perfect arch of the eyebrow, that slight shoulder bounce on the 10 in Bulerias, that perfect hip roll or head roll.  The fun of shaking a scarf or my hair at the audience.  Flamenco taught me how to flirt and how to own my sensuality.  It didn't teach me to do it in a cheap way either, but in a badass way.  Alluring and defiant at the same time.  As a teacher told me once, "You're saying, 'You can look at me, but if you touch me, I'll cut you' ".

Flamenco taught me patience, hard work, and care for my craft.  I honestly believe I would not have really understood mindfulness meditation or yoga if I hadn't been through the rigors of Flamenco training first.  It literally has been blood, sweat, and tears.  Toenails ripped off, bruises from falling or hitting myself too hard when doing a slapping step, a busted knee that left me on a cane for awhile, cuts on my hands from the palmas or even my castanets, a sprained toe that turned black.  That one also left me on a cane for awhile.  There were hours of staring at myself from every angle in a mirror, hours of going over the same step over and over again to get the counts or the feeling just right, hours and hours and hours of classes.  The expense and experience of selling off your stuff, packing up the rest, and moving to another country for years, just to spend hours every day honing your craft.  So now, understanding that I am a baby at meditation is really easy to accept.  Flamenco was my first practice.

Flamenco has been gifted to me in this lifetime and honestly, I feel we've been together before.  It's the only thing that explains why I've been practicing snapping on multiple fingers ever since I was a little girl.  I've recently been a little out of love with Flamenco.  Again, it's not Flamenco's fault.  I think those of us who are married to Flamenco often abuse its sacredness with getting caught up in unnecessary stuff.  Pettiness, insecurity, avarice, fear, anger.  All of these things get in the way of our contract with Flamenco.  And it is a sacred one.  No one can tell me Flamenco is not sacred.  It is a musical form with roots that go as far back as 900AD.  It came together from a merging of various cultures, led by people who were resisting persecution.  They took their pain and suffering, faced it, and channeled it into beautiful music and dance that gave them a moment's freedom.  To me that is a gift from the divine, the cosmos, the universe, the collective consciousness, however you want to look at it. 

So Flamenco, I am now working on falling in love with you all over again.  As our relationship enters young adulthood, I am looking to mature.  I will be bringing in what I am learning from my mindfulness, loving-kindness, and gratitude practices to infuse our relationship with a renewed love and respect.  I will embrace the divine feminine that you have allowed me to channel more than ever before.  I will remind myself of your grounding force every time I place my nailed feet onto the tablao, acting as a tree, rooted in the earth.  Just like a tree, I will stretch my limbs to the skies, and like the wind that blows through its leaves, I will float across the floor with the aire that breathes me every second of every day. 

Flamenco, I vow to you to honor our sacred contract.  I am grateful to you for these almost 19 years.  I want to extend my gratitude to all lovers of Flamenco.  In the present, and in our future, may we always be mindful of our service to others through this art and that we may be of service to Flamenco itself.  May we all be happy, may we all be at peace, may we all be free.

I attend a weekly meditation class and we've been doing a gratitude practice. There is a lot that is going on with me lately, that I will be writing about soon, but I'm not quite ready yet to reveal all of it.  In the meantime, I think this practice of gratitude is a good one to set the stage for my future writings and announcements.  Also, it's Thanksgiving season so the gratitude practice is very timely.

Our class' practice has consisted of writing daily lists of things for which we are grateful. I figure I will do the same here, but keep it within the scope of Flamenco and dance.

I am grateful for:

-the training and study of music and dance that I had as a child. Without it, Flamenco would have taken even more effort than the massive effort it has already taken.

-Intro to Flamenco being the only class that fit my schedule that Spring quarter at UCLA back in 1995.

-my teachers throughout the years, primarily the most influential:  Raquel, Marta, and Nelson, my piano teachers with whom I spent the first half of my life; Ms. Brown, my high school dance teacher who planted the seed in my mind that I could be a professional dancer; Liliana de Leon-Torsiello for being the teacher who introduced me to Flamenco and started me on the path; Gabriela Garza for continuing me on the path and for giving me my baptism by fire in the tablao; Inmaculada Ortega for introducing me to the world of study in Spain; Manuel Reyes Maya for giving me the professional level skills that gave me the confidence to dance at a tablao in Spain and to return home to pursue my career, and finally Linda Andrade, for spending a year coaching me on the details that have made me the dancer I am today. 

-my husband because he is an adventurous spirit who dropped everything and went on the Spain adventure with me.

-our four years in Spain and all the growth we experienced there.

-all the friends and family who have supported my Flamenco life.

-the studios and studio owners that gave me a chance to teach.

-the students who have attended my classes.  I have learned as much from them as they have learned from me and they are the ones who have made me the teacher I am today.

-all the audiences throughout the years.

-all of the venues, the venue owners, and the producers of the shows of which I have been a part.

-all of my fellow Flamencos and Flamencas. No matter what ups and downs we have had in our community and with each other, no one else in this world fully understands the love we have for this art form that we do. We are a family.

-all of those who have come before us for preserving the art and passing on their knowledge.

Ole a todos.