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?

"What Turning Forty Means to Me:  I need to take my pants off as soon as I get home.  I didn't used to have to do that.  But now I do." --Tina Fey

All jokes aside, I am three days away from turning 40. People have been asking me what I want to do for my birthday and I don't know what to tell them.  When I turned 30, we were living in Madrid and we planned a 30-hour party with our friends.  There was an itinerary that was distributed and anyone could join up with the party at any given time.  If you wanted to join us for drinks at 7pm, we were there.  If you wanted churros and chocolate at 6am the next day, there we were.  Most of the big details were planned out, with room for improvisation--we all came upon a playground at 3am, which led to this:

That was a fun weekend.  My friends still mention it every time they wish me a happy birthday.

​Now, 10 years later, I have no idea how to celebrate the 10-year anniversary of the 30-hour party. Things feel fuzzy.  The thought at the time was, "I'm turning 30 and I'm in Spain; it should be epic!". Now it really feels like, "Uh, I don't know...?".

Now, I don't want you to take this as me being negative about my age or anything like that.  I like that I'm turning 40.  It feels like an age with some character to it.  I get to say things like, "Kids these days" and "I can't be bothered" and mean it.  It's a great age.

I think the thing that feels nebulous to me is that everything is up in the air right now.  I grew up being told that a woman needs to have her life settled by the time she's 40--her career, her family, her home; every detail should be in place.

Hmmm.  But....what happens when you've chosen a career in the arts?  I'm not even talking about the financial questions that I know come up for everyone when they hear "artist", although those are very real questions.  I'm talking about art itself.  The simple act of creation is a constant question.  When I get up onstage, I never know exactly how the performance is going to go, especially with Flamenco since so much of it is based on improvisation and communicating with your cuadro* in real time. When I sat down to write this blog post, I had no idea what was going to come out.  I still don't know where this is going to end up.

And what happens when your husband suddenly gets a job in Africa and is gone for a couple of months at a time, in a region that is not particularly stable, working for an industry that is not particularly stable?  

What happens when you get diagnosed with a chronic illness that is known for being unpredictable?

What happens is the truth of life--nothing is certain.  Nothing can be "settled".  The moment you think things are settled, a tremor or an earthquake will hit and unsettle things.  Foundations crack. Structures shift or crumble altogether.

This is where being a Flamenco dancer has given me an edge.  I have been trained to improvise.  If things aren't exactly going the way I had planned, I listen for cues and shift until everything gels together again and it always does.  It may not end up coming out the way I originally envisioned, but sometimes that insecure moment leads to something even better.  Sometimes it doesn't, but it always leaves me more confident in my ability to handle what comes.

So this birthday, with so many things in my life feeling unsettled, it seems perfect that I just let go and see what happens for my birthday weekend.  So far, I've been asked to perform at El Cid on Saturday, the day after my birthday.  I know many of my Flamenca friends are throwing a brunch for me the day after that.  I love that the weekend has spontaneously come together and it feels very right that Flamenco is playing a big part in it.  

I also find it interesting that my actual birthday day is still wide open for anything.  I'm feeling a little unsettled about that, given that it's the big 4-0 and all, but I'm just going to breathe, listen for the cues, go with what comes, and know that it will be perfect.

​
*cuadro--the ensemble of Flamenco performers onstage.



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Are you turning 40 or have you already turned 40?  Feel free to share any insights or advice about this particular milestone.

If you have any other insights about aging or the unpredictability of life, feel free to share those in the comments below.

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.


What are ways in which you are thankful for you body?  Feel free to share in the Comments section.

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When I was still an intermediate level Flamenco student, I was given some of the best advice I have ever received, that stays with me to this day.

It happened when I was trying to drill a llamada, or opening "call" step that you use to call the musicians and singer in for the next section of the piece. Because they serve this function, llamadas are usually exciting and punctuated with percussive heelwork that comes to a well-accented close.  Then there is a breath...
and the next section begins.

So you can imagine, the llamada must be executed clearly, without hesitation.  However, when you're a student still in your early days, these steps often seem intimidating.  Thus, a fear can set in and this is where you can get stuck.

So one evening, during a rehearsal at the dance studio, I was stuck in one of these moments.  I couldn't get a llamada por Alegrías (the rhythm of "Joy" of all things) to come out, even though I had done it a bunch of times in class.  The stress of having to do it by myself while others were watching was just too much for me.  It just fell apart after the first few counts.  I was about ready to cry from anger.  It was the complete opposite of what I was supposed to be channeling.

Then the words that have stuck with me for years came out of my fellow student, a tiny, but fierce dancer.  She smacked one fist into her other palm and said, "In Spain when that would happen to me, my teacher told me the problem was that I was afraid of the step and that as long as I was afraid of the step, it would never come out.  You actually already have it in you; you just need to let go and let it come out.  So just go for it.  Just do the step.  Don't fear the step.  Don't fear the step!"

Don't fear the step.  Just go for it.  It's already in you, you just have to get out of your own way.

How perfect is that, not just for dance, but for life?  That's why I still remember it.  I have continued to use that advice throughout my Flamenco career and studies, but I also think of my fearless friend when I have a challenge in other parts of my life, such as this new Lupus diagnosis.  The fear is what keeps me stuck, but when I am willing to let go of the fear, I get out of my own way and find that the step I am so afraid of is what will lead me to the next breath, the next verse, the next calling.

Now remember, there will always be steps in dance or in life that are more complicated than you are technically prepared for, and you will have to do the work to acquire those skills.  But when you know you have diligently done the work, and something still isn't quite right, it might be time to ask yourself, "Am I afraid of the step?  Do I need to just let go and see what happens?"  I bet you'll often find that's all you needed to do to get through that step and into the next breath.

And yes, by the way, that is what happened for me that night.  I let go and it turned out I did have the step.  And yes, I breathed a big sigh of relief and got a good joyful laugh too.


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Is there a step you know you need to take, but you're letting fear hold you back? How do you think you can "let go" and just take the step?  I'd love to hear from you in the comments section below!  Let me be your cheerleader!

The meditation center I go to has an annual intention-setting ceremony on New Year's Eve.  I haven't been to it yet because usually, I either have to work or I go to a family party.  However, last year one of the teachers held a daylong class in January where she held the same ceremony.

Basically, rather than listing New Year's Resolutions, we picked one word that described our intention for the year.  For me it was "welcome".  With my husband beginning his job in Chad near the end of 2013, we were barely turning the page to a new chapter in our life together.  Transitions are hard. This was the first time in our then 12 years of marriage (15 of being together) that we would be apart for a significant amount of time.  Due to extraneous circumstances, we essentially moved in together after only three months of dating, so you can imagine how this change has been shocking to us.  

Add to this that before now, I have never lived alone for an extensive amount of time.  Suddenly, not only is my husband far, far away, I am now fully confronted with what it is like to live with me.  There is no one else to direct my attention toward.  In the silence I hear all my thoughts, fears, hopes, desires, joy, and rage.  It is sometimes deafening.

Through my practice, and through Flamenco as well, I have come to learn how to be in the moment and accept what is, or at least to try.  So I decided to fully embrace it.  Hence, "welcome".  In 2014 I welcomed the new lifestyle, the new challenges and struggles it would create, but I also looked forward to the new opportunities.  One amazing opportunity was my visit to Chad: 
https://mercedesfinallymakesittochad.shutterfly.com/

However, over the last year, I had to learn that part of the practice of welcoming, is to welcome the unwelcome.  In July I was hit by a drunk driver and my new car needed tons of repair (luckily I manged to escape with just a bruise on my arm).  I also had to make the choice to leave behind some of my regular gigs because I felt they were not serving me, either financially or spiritually.  On my way to Chad, my original flight was canceled and my replacement flight left me stranded in Istanbul for two days.  Throughout all of it, I had to remember "welcome".

Now I am starting the new year with some physical complications that are due to a possible back injury.  I am still dancing, but I am now making the choice to only do work that serves my whole well-being.  In the meantime, I am also navigating a health insurance system that still wants me to jump hurdles to get the care I need.  Welcome.

It has not been easy.  I have been struggling the whole way, sometimes crying, sometimes ready to hit somebody, all the while wondering why I have to be so gracious. Yet, when I remind myself to welcome everything, there is a subtle peace that comes.

So in this process, I realize that in order to welcome anything new, I have to be able to let go, to stop resisting, to surrender.  So for 2015, my intention is to surrender.  

I remember more than a decade ago, in my early years as a Flamenco student, a more senior student once told me that the reason I was not getting a step was because I was afraid of it.  She told me, "just let go and do it".  So I did; I surrendered to the step and finally got it.  In that moment, I welcomed myself into a new understanding of my craft.

So now I surrender to my latest reality--to living two-thirds of the year alone, to dancing in fewer, more meaningful gigs while experiencing some pain, to growing.  In doing so, I hope I will truly make way to welcome whatever lies ahead.