Monday 29 October 2018

Breaking the mould

A friend recently suggested that our sense of who we are is entirely dependent on what other people tell us we are. I was about to respond with some of what I've learned over the past four years as a counselling student, but then remembered something important.

As this was mentioned on social media, there was a lack of context. Taking a step back, questioning why I was eager to comment, and who that comment would have benefited, I decided to simply say that my answer would have been a long one (it would have - person-centred theory has a lot to say about who we are and from where our sense of self comes).

Recently, I've been looking at Buddhism or, more specifically, the Gelug school of Tibetan Buddhism. It was during some extra training connected with my work that I finally made the decision to look into this although, strangely, it had appeared on the periphery of my consciousness in various ways in the preceding weeks.

Some of the principles of Tibetan Buddhism have helped me to better deal with some challenges to my emotional health. The important thing here, however, is that looking into this system of belief was my choice. Given that I was raised in a family which was traditionally Roman Catholic, it also felt like an act of rebellion.

The things we choose to do teach us valuable lessons about ourselves, if only we have the wisdom to understand.

Last week, I attended a martial arts class that I've been attending for a number of weeks now. During that class, we had to perform a drill in pairs, in which one person would hold pads and shoot a left jab towards their training partner. In response to this jab, the other person would slip to the outside while countering with a left to the midsection, followed by a series of further punches.

I spent six years learning Wing Chun. I still practise the forms, though not as regularly as I once did. The point is, when I was expected to slip the jab and counter, I was trying so hard not to respond with Wing Chun that I froze and was hit a few times.

When I had finally managed to switch off my previously trained responses to the point where I could slip the jab, my training partner changed the jab to a chop to the side of the head. I complained about this, and the instructor replied that it was better for me to be hit in that situation than out on the street, where they wouldn't be so kind. "Out on the street", they wouldn't have had the luxury of knowing what I was going to do, so the argument wasn't valid. More importantly, my training partner had deviated from what we were supposed to do. I hadn't, but maybe I should have.

Had I responded with Wing Chun or something from elsewhere in my history of learning combat arts, this wouldn't have happened. The last time I did this, however, it led to a situation in which the instructor seemed to feel that he had something to prove. If I'm honest, the irritation I felt regarding my training partner's behaviour and the instructor's response said something of my own vulnerability to the machinations of the ego.

You may be wondering what lesson is to be drawn from all of this. Well, one requirement of the last counselling course on which I was a student was that each of us had the experience of being the client of a counsellor. During those sessions, the counsellor said something I didn't initially understand:

"You've learned to hide your power, because it makes others feel uncomfortable."

My training partner hadn't hidden his power. My experience of the instructor in the class, so far, has been that he's not the type to hide his power either. Both of them have been practising Jeet Kune Do for a long time. Where is my power in that environment? It's a Jeet Kune Do class and, though I have some previous knowledge of Jeet Kune Do, I don't have their experience of practising the principles and movements.

In trying to fit in with what they were doing, and actively suppressing my previous training, I was putting myself at a disadvantage - I was hiding my power. How often do we do this? In an attempt to be liked, accepted, or to gain approval, we take on the rules of our social environment to the point where we hide our individuality. We learn to wear various masks or personas, according to the situation. When we do this, are we valuing or respecting ourselves?

I forgot something important. Returning to martial arts, for me, wasn't about learning to fight. How easily I was dragged into valuing my experience on the terms of others! In that situation, all I had to do was avoid harm. Everything else was, as my recent exposure to Buddhism would suggest, a manifestation of the ego.

The condition of rigidly sticking to what has been taught is, I now see, unnecessary. It is imperative that we listen, observe and learn, but also that we respect and value our own experience. We are the sum of our experience, and so much more. Why, then, should we hide our power?

Friday 19 October 2018

Resistance is useless

It's a strange irony. We may know the things which restore us - the things which make us strong - and yet we resist them. Usually, this is explained to us as a lack of motivation, and various "experts" line up to advise us on how to conquer this lack of motivation. Occasionally, however, this proves to be entirely the wrong approach, because a lack of motivation is not always at the root of this.

Each of us have our own beliefs, values and attitudes. To some extent (probably more than most of us would like to admit), these define who we are as a person, and anything that contradicts our beliefs, values or attitudes threatens, to a greater or lesser degree, our sense of who we are.

I went to my first big dance event in January, and felt at the time that it would be the last big dance event I would attend. The pass for the weekend had been won as a prize in a raffle, and I wanted to fully connect with the experience and enjoy it, but things didn't quite work out that way. The prize had actually been two passes for the weekend, and a number of ladies had thought that they might be the recipient of the second pass. For some, not getting that second pass caused some resentment.

Before the weekend even started, I'd decided to take part in some stretching classes which were an optional way to start each day. As a dancer of advancing years, I reasoned that it would probably be a good idea to get out of bed early in the morning to take part in these stretching classes.

It's my habit to turn up early for everything. The instructor found this a surprise, because her experience had been that dancers generally turned up for the last ten minutes of her classes at these events. Her experience was repeated on this occasion too, meaning that there were fifty minutes in which I essentially had a private lesson in how to stretch.

The instructor talked as we both held various poses, about how the weekend had been for her so far, and asked how I was finding the weekend. I felt something I hadn't felt for a long time - I felt at peace. The same was repeated the following morning and, when she asked if I would like to take part in a yoga class in the afternoon, I skipped a dance class so that it would be possible to be there.

Let's look again at our sense of who we are, and how that is often challenged by our experience. Just a few years ago, I wasn't a dancer. That wasn't something I saw as a part of my identity. That first dance class - modern jive, as it happens - wasn't something I would have chosen to do, although ultimately I did choose to go along. I'd been asked to accompany someone who felt uneasy about going alone and, against my expectations, found that I enjoyed partner dancing.

Salsa also felt like something I wouldn't do. The salsa scene had the reputation of being exclusionary and elitist. I'd like to be able to tell you that it's neither of those things, but I can't honestly do that. Let's say that there are people who are very accepting, and there are those who wish to exclude anyone who doesn't fit their idea of what a salsa dancer should be. Nevertheless, being a salsa dancer is now one component of my identity, however much certain individuals wish that wasn't the case. Apparently, I'm quite good, which further irritates those who think I shouldn't be there.

It's said that grief affects our relationships with others, but also our relationship with ourselves. That's another change to my sense of self over the past few years. Going for my first experience of counselling, as required by my course of study, added to this.

Going back to the things that restore us, the things that make us strong, all of the above has been a learning experience. As previously stated, we can have this tendency to reject the things which restore us and make us strong. We can tell ourselves that they are not an authentic part of our identity.

Attending martial arts classes again, as I've started to do recently, is an acknowledgement of the restorative effects of this activity for me. Taking a break from that was effectively denying a part of myself.

Most recently, a connection with Buddhism became the latest challenge to my sense of self. Yoga, salsa, Buddhism - these all say something about who I am, but they are saying something about a part of me I find it difficult to accept. That difficulty comes from the judgement of others - those values, beliefs and attitudes we unconsciously take on board and allow to shape our expression of our identity. Each in their own way, however, is a source of strength or, in the case of the challenging scene that surrounds salsa dancing as an activity, an opportunity to prove to myself that I'm capable of great inner strength.

I suppose the message in all of this is that our strength comes, ultimately, from being authentic, from shutting out all those voices which tell us that certain aspects of our identity are unacceptable.

Monday 15 October 2018

Jeet Kune Do

I promised that I'd persevere until January, but let's say that my training in Jeet Kune Do isn't going well so far. A large part of that is due to a lack of fitness, and not having attended a martial arts class of any description for two years. Some of the hour is given to physical conditioning, as it should be, and the truth is that my physical condition is quite poor at the time of writing. I'll admit it - I'm struggling.

There's a more damaging component to my lack of motivation, however, and this may well see me looking elsewhere when January comes around. I wanted to train martial arts again for reasons other than learning how to fight, but this seems to be the focus of the instructor, and that's where it all falls down. See, I've been a martial artist for many years and, for reasons I can't go into from a legal perspective, I know how to adapt this stuff to a live combat situation. Unfortunately, Jeet Kune Do doesn't feel like it's how I want to fight. Put another way, as learning to fight is no longer my focus, it doesn't feel like how I want to move.

I've recently been using my experience as a martial artist, and a further knowledge of the principles of movement gained through dancing, to learn the basics of Muay Boran. I've no doubt that what I'm doing isn't absolutely correct, because I don't have the benefit of a qualified instructor. More likely, a lot of what I already know is getting in there, modifying the forms. The point is, it feels like an authentic expression of where I am as a martial artist; Jeet Kune Do does not feel that way.

There's the opportunity to switch to Muay Thai, which would be more in line with Muay Boran, but I promised to stick with Jeet Kune Do until January. I keep my promises. I'm also constantly examining my reasons for wanting to train martial arts again.

A video, in which I danced with a friend, came up in my memories on social media. Apparently, I posted it a year ago. This isn't as off-topic as it seems. As good a memory as it is, it also draws attention to how much I've changed in the year since. The change since I last set foot in a martial arts class is even more marked.

At an event in January, I took part in my first yoga class and, although my involvement with yoga is still limited, it feels like something I need to do. During training linked to my work, I heard some things about Tibetan Buddhism, and it was something that had been on my radar many times during the preceding week, so I decided to read about it. Some personal issues in the preceding years had changed how I saw the world around me, and also how I saw myself.

It's possible for me to do both. One of the students of the Jeet Kune Do class is also a Muay Thai practitioner. The feeling that Jeet Kune Do isn't an authentic expression of who I am remains, however. It's more likely that Muay Thai and Filipino martial arts would be the combination that I would go for - another possibility. Right now, I'm also deciding whether that will mark the point where dancing is no longer a part of my life. In January, there will be a lot of decisions to make.

Saturday 6 October 2018

Thought for the day: a sensitive soul

I'm still thinking about Thursday. It had been a tough day, and that's coming from someone who's had an awful lot of tough days. I decided to go out to eat that evening. Maybe that wasn't the best decision. Maybe it was poor self-care. As things turned out, eating alone would have been preferable.

I was the only customer for a while, so the restaurant owner decided to talk to me. In no time, she was talking about losing her grandmother over the weekend, and how she felt about it. Whatever it is that people see in me, which leads to them opening up, I wished for one moment where I could switch it off. I don't lack empathy. Seriously, I have empathy by the truckload, but sometimes it feels like a blade that anyone could plunge between my ribs, any time they wish. There are times when I'm carrying a heavy burden myself and sometimes, when people talk to me, it only leads to me feeling more lonely.

There are people who are just more sensitive than others. A part of that is being aware of things that often escape the attention of most people, and probably less aware of other stuff. Part of it is innate, and part of it is an adaptation to the environment in which we find ourselves in early life. You can spend a lifetime either pretending that things don't affect you, or developing defences against the machinations of those around you, but the truth is that you feel everything deeply, and it can overwhelm you. There are times when you need to shut down, isolate yourself or, if you're lucky enough to have one, spend time with that friend who somehow restores you by just being there. The loneliness is crushing, but is preferable to certain types of company.

You are prone to bouts of depression, and this saps your energy, meaning you have little to spare for dealing with other people, and then the self-enforced isolation bites, making you feel more depressed. No one seems to understand and, depending on the culture in which you live, your sensitivity will be seen as a gift or a curse. If you're male, then there are few places where any of this is accepted.

The funny thing is, you're strong. There's no way you could cope with all of this if you weren't, even though it can feel at times like you're not coping with it. There are ways to deal better with it, but others are more qualified to talk about that than I am. What I do know, however, is that learning to accept this part of who you are is powerful. You're a sensitive soul, and you're as deserving of love and compassion as anyone else. First, though, give it to yourself.

Tuesday 4 September 2018

Alone time

I feel like I've pushed it too far. Every so often, I need to spend time alone, and I don't think I've been doing enough of that. I never learn the lesson, though. By now, I should know that, when I don't know how best to deal with the people around me, it's a sign that I just don't want to deal with them.

We're talking about a fundamental part of my nature, rather than any personal issue with individuals, although any existing issues will be warped and magnified by how I'm currently feeling. The feeling I had when I first started learning to dance, from being in such a crowded room, was a message from within.

I need time alone. Sometimes I forget that.

Thursday 30 August 2018

Bowing out

On Saturday, it's my favourite monthly dance event, and it feels like the right time to take a bow, thank everyone for the dances and leave the stage, as it were. Maybe I'll take photos with a few friends, for the sake of having a few good memories, but it feels like it's all coming to an end.

I can't honestly say that the break is definitely permanent, however. The conflicting feelings are between a love for dancing and a deep-seated contempt for some aspects of the scene and a number of the personalities within it.

Maybe, somewhere within, it's always troubled me that learning to dance was never really my decision. I accompanied a lady to that first Modern Jive class at her request, not because I particularly wanted to go. I actually felt that I wouldn't enjoy the whole thing, but I turned out to be wrong. Things started to go wrong almost immediately, though, in the way other dancers perceived our interactions.

One of the few friends I made during that time dared me to give Salsa classes a go. The deal was that I had to go for at least six weeks, and if I was to quit before then, the consequences would be humiliating. Obviously, I stayed much longer.

At this point, I don't feel that I have anything left to prove to myself. The old adage about teaching an old dog new tricks always got to me, and kept me there, when I sometimes wanted to give up or felt like I'd never get it. There's a piece on the internet somewhere, within which the author states that many male dancers give up, just as their rate of improvement is about to pick up.

It could be that I'm just feeling particularly low right now. Earlier in the week, I got to talk with someone who is partly responsible for my development in my work, about everything that's going on, and has gone on, to make me feel the way I'm feeling. The response I heard was that the people who have the level of inner strength I possess are few and far between. It was nice to hear that, but I think I'm tired of being strong. Maybe it's not about being strong any more: maybe I'm just tired.

It would be remiss of me to not point out something else, as I'm bowing out, taking a break, or whatever this turns out to be. A relatively new dancer asked if there was anything I could tell him about the dance scene. I said that he shouldn't listen to ladies who have never learned to lead, when they tell him during a lesson that he's doing something wrong. It sounds silly, but it happens far too often, and I've seen far too many men leave dancing behind because they wrongly believed that they were terrible dancers and would never get it right. A few of these ladies, I've observed, use this tactic to eject men from the scene who don't meet with their warped ideas of what they'd like a Salsa dancer to be.

For me, the issue is that I'm a sensitive soul. There's a social aspect to dancing, and for some, that's their focus. For some, there's a sense of competition with other dancers. I'm just there to feel the music, dance to it, and enjoy a few moments in the company of others who want the same. Anything I ever had to prove was to myself only. The sensitivity I spoke about comes across in the way I dance, but it's also why I need time out, and may extend that indefinitely.

A friend once spoke about what dancing does for me and, more specifically, about what side of me it connects with. As stated, dancing connects with the sensitive, emotional side of my personality. Connecting with a dance partner isn't always a comfortable feeling for someone so introverted, but it's something that someone this empathic and intuitive achieves without much effort. "You're a good lead," some say. "You're a great lead," fewer people say. Both have been said enough that I have to accept the premise of those statements, but I know from where that quality comes, and I have to question what it costs me to connect in that way with the music, with a dance partner, and with how it feels to dance.

At a dance event in January, I got to take part in a Yoga class. I felt great during and after the class, but especially after. I suppose that, internally, I was contrasting the way I felt after that class with the way I felt when I danced. Sometimes we get these messages from within. That weekend happened to be one where it felt like everything was crowding in on me. It was a weekend which led to me doubting the motives of someone I'd come to think of as a close friend. It was a weekend that changed the way I saw a number of things.

The normal reaction, when people hear that I dance, is laughter. Perhaps they know what should be staring me in the face - I'm not meant to be a dancer. I've decided to join a martial arts class again, to go in a direction in which life seemed to be pulling me for a long time, but I resisted. Our days, our weeks, months, years, and our lives have a flow, and it's my belief that our suffering is caused by resisting this flow. I'm a martial artist, first and foremost. That's what I am, and that's what I have to be.

Am I a dancer too? It doesn't feel that way right now. Some time ago, I had the idea that I had to be both. I practised martial arts for a long time, and somehow it seemed to help me deal with being this sensitive, emotional being. I took a break, and it's possible that I needed to do that, in order to see what being a martial artist really meant to me.

I have to accept that none of this may make sense to anyone reading it. I'm okay with that. I know that the event on Saturday could turn out to be such a positive experience that I hang in there for a while longer - that has happened a number of times before. It could be that I just need time out.

I'm a martial artist. I accept that as a part of who I am. Can I say that I'm a dancer? Is that still something I can accept as a part of who I am? We'll see. One thing is certain, however - it will be my decision.

Friday 27 July 2018

Is it worth it?

There's a dance on tonight. The evening will start with a lesson in Bachata, and I love Bachata. The lesson is being taught by someone for whom I have a great deal of respect. All the proceeds of the evening will go to a worthy cause. I would be in the company of friends and...

I probably won't go.

If I go, it's a show of strength. A Bachata lesson means close contact with the ladies present, and one of those females (I can't use "lady" in her case) is someone with whom close contact feels like being smeared with faeces.

We were friends at one time. That was my first mistake. I told her that my sister was dying. That was mistake number two. There was an assumption that I would be in a vulnerable state, and my feelings could be manipulated. There was an assumption that, with my fiancée on the other side of the world, I'd be open to physical intimacy with another woman. That was HER first mistake, but one which would lead her to make a series of others.

I gave her the benefit of the doubt, and tried to fix things. This was more than a mistake - it was a fatal error. What this did was to make me appear weak, and give some legitimacy to her behaviour. Manipulation became coercion. The incessant compliments became accusations of fundamental character flaws. Drunken, abusive phone calls were made.

The point where it all came to a head was when, as I was trying one last time to make things right, I was accused of being controlling, manipulative and a narcissist. Recognising classic Freudian projection when I see it, and adding up the number of friends I'd lost in the time I'd known her, due to her manipulations and machinations, I knew that I had to pull the plug on this "friendship".

If you've dealt with a narcissist before, it won't surprise you to hear that, sensing trouble, she pulled the plug first.

The anger I feel about all of this - and, believe me, I've left out a lot - is largely directed at myself. I should never have become friends with her in the first place but, as that did happen, I should have pulled the plug sooner. I didn't do any of that and, as a result, my continued involvement with the dance scene is under threat.

The assertion that I was a great dancer, and would get better, was replaced by accusations that I was so bad that I was hurting her during lessons. In those lessons, she'd "instruct", stubbornly holding her limbs in the wrong positions so that she could tell me I was doing everything wrong and make further accusations of mistreatment. On the dance floor, she guided men to a space next to me and whoever I was dancing with, so that she could turn each turn, spin and flourish into a collision with me or my dance partner.

Off the dance floor, she had manipulated the people who ran the class into practically worshipping her and the entourage she had built by that time. From there, she targetted the few remaining friends I had, convincing them that I was a despicable human being.

In the end, I turned my back on Modern Jive. I wanted to learn Salsa but, knowing that she frequented the nearest class, I decided that one further from home might be a less hostile environment. I was there for over a year before she decided that it would become her regular class too - accusing me, in that first class, of hurting her again.

I thought that informing the people who ran the club of what had happened, and was continuing to happen, might change things. It didn't. Instead, it fell on deaf ears. I later heard that rumours were being spread, where I was the one at fault. As I've heard from many men within the scene, once the women start spreading rumours about you, those rumours are accepted as true, and you're essentially powerless.

A few members of the committee of that club, I discovered later, were actively involved in perpetuating the rumours. I left, due to the atmosphere becoming decidedly uncomfortable.

As an aside, the question about the smaller number of men in the dance community is often asked. Even as I started to learn Salsa, some of the ladies in the beginners' class were asked if they'd learn to lead - some of them did but, to my knowledge, none of them continued for very long. Still, I hear that "women just pick this stuff up more quickly than men."

Oh, you mean those women who have often learned to dance in some form from an early age? Those women? Do you mean the women who get to dance with leads of various abilities, while men are pretty much stuck with what they know at any given time? Isn't that the nature of a partner dance, where one leads and one follows? You mean the women who, from the start, are told that any mistakes are the responsibility of the lead? The women who move out of the beginners' class long before they have even mastered the basics, because they believe the rubbish they're told?

"I know the ladies were all perfect, but ladies, how did the men do?" - I've heard this one too. Imagine standing there, hearing that, while a lady with whom practising the moves felt like wrestling a bull pulls apart "some of the men" because she can't take ownership of her incompetence as a dancer. More than likely, she was one of the ladies who thought that focusing on the basics was unnecessarily holding her back.

Other men have spoken to me about this. One - a dancer of many years - said that a number of the women joining dance classes now feel a sense of competitiveness against the other lady dancers that is stronger than it was before. It has always existed, apparently, but the extent to which he sees it in a number of the new dancers is, for him, an unwelcome development. He concluded that this was at the root of many of the issues that are starting to plague the scene, and that he may soon give up something he's loved for a long time because of the unpleasant atmosphere that accompanies this competitiveness.

I got sidetracked, but all of this adds to what I said about my nemesis within the dance community, and the people she has managed to co-opt into her scheme to eject me. I don't doubt that, if I were to leave, she would continue to attack, and possibly be further encouraged by her success to do so. Messages that were sent by her to someone I love left me in no doubt about any of that.

So, if I go, I'm going into an environment that is largely hostile - so many people from my former club, where the bully took root and successfully ejected me, will be there. A number of them were actively involved in helping the bully, or at least making her feel welcome enough to push forward with her plan. She'll be there too, and a Bachata class involves close contact with the ladies present.

If I don't go, it's simply an acknowledgement that I may not be able to sufficiently push down my anger.

I drive a little further for Salsa lessons now. The standard of instruction is orders of magnitude greater. I'd like to say that's not a shot fired against a club that screwed me over when I asked them for help - a club which enabled a serial bully who is now, as I have heard and seen for myself, "instructing" any man who is relatively new to the scene and doesn't meet with her vision of how she'd like the scene to be. I have to be honest with myself, and admit that I take great pleasure in being able to honestly say that I'm getting better instruction. That's my victory against the bully, and I'm taking it.

Monday 2 July 2018

Compassion through acceptance

A great Buddhist teacher said that we can feel compassion for others through understanding. Compassion for those who have wronged us, he continued, can be achieved by understanding that the other person suffers too.

I don't consider myself to have any particular wisdom, but it strikes me that the aim is acceptance, possibly without first understanding. How can we truly understand another? We're subject to our own frame of reference, and see others through the lens of our experience. We project the things we find unacceptable in ourselves onto others, and see them as failings of that person's character. We transfer feelings we had for someone in our past onto someone in our present, simply because they are in some way similar.

Our understanding of others is limited, especially when we make assumptions rather than asking the questions which might correct our initial impression. Yes, we can achieve some level of understanding through putting aside our preconceived notions of who that person may be, but there's a point where we have to accept what we don't understand.

The inability to accept what we don't understand has real consequences. It troubles me to hear the way in which people from other lands are described by our print and broadcast media, and discussed on various platforms on the internet. I see fear, hatred and anger, rather than the compassion that our Buddhist friend rightly advocates.

How fully can we understand the experience of someone from another land, another culture, with values, beliefs and attitudes which may vary greatly from our own? Our understanding is likely to be limited, so we may ask them about their experience, their way of seeing the world around them. How likely are they to be open, though, if we don't first offer acceptance? How likely are we to listen, if we don't first offer acceptance?

Saturday 30 June 2018

Mold

I'm glad that I went to Theatr Clwyd (not a typing error - it's the Welsh spelling). It took more courage than usual to get me into the place, but one thing I've started to recognise is that I don't lack courage. I'm glad I was there, because it stripped away any illusion that I have friends within the Salsa community.

At another table, the group who were trying to eject me from the dance scene were enjoying their popularity, as bullies often do. I'd gone there with the intention of showing no reaction to this, because I'm old enough to know how these things work, and for once I also had an agenda that was separate from just being there to dance. I wanted to confirm things I'd long suspected.

I watched as ladies who knew about the bullying, and who was responsible, spent a lot of time in friendly conversation with the bullies, while I sat alone for most of my time there. I reflected that they were part of the problem, and had been responsible in no small way for the ease with which I'd been ejected from what was once my regular Salsa class. These same ladies later asked me to dance - some of them intercepting me on the dance floor before I was able to get back to my seat. I counted seven dances without a break, most of them to faster tracks, before I stopped counting.

You'd think it would be good to be so popular. You'd think it would be appreciated. My legs disagreed with that sentiment: after a while, they stopped working correctly. The requests for dances reduced in number, because I was no longer useful. This changed when I got up to leave. Twice I put on my jacket, and twice I removed it, as ladies asked me for one more dance.

Again, you'd think I'd be flattered. You'd think it would reinforce that thing which is said so often about me being a good lead. No. None of the above. Even now, I can't shake the feeling that it was no longer about dancing with me. Remember, the requests for dances had reduced in number, until I wanted to leave.

It was about control.

I'm not in the habit of refusing dances. It's not in my nature. I also know what it's like to be refused a dance, and it's an awful feeling. On this particular Saturday evening, however, this firmly held principle became a medium for self-sacrifice. So, I now see accepting or refusing a dance as a boundary issue. I still hope that I don't feel the need to refuse a dance, but it's no longer a given that I'll accept.

Actually, Mold reminded me of the realities of being a man in the dance scene. I'm not the first man about whom rumours have been spread within the community but, like all those others, there's nothing I can do about it. If you're a man, and a woman is saying that you're a despicable human being, then you are, simply because you're a man and she's a woman. You will get asked to dance, if you're any good, but you have no worth other than that.

There's likely to be a time where I grow so tired of it all that I leave it behind me. I've been there a number of times already, but I'm stubborn enough to tell myself that no one's ejecting me from the scene, forcing me to give up doing something I love.

Enabling the bully, and then stopping me taking a break from dancing until I'm exhausted? That feels like abuse.

Maybe I'm being unfair. Maybe the dark place in which I'm currently residing, mentally and emotionally, is affecting my view of things. The alternative is that I'm just seeing things how they are, and going to Theatr Clwyd removed the blind spots. Maybe I need to take a break, or I'll start to feel enough contempt for the scene that I'll leave and never come back.

Thursday 21 June 2018

Thought for the day - devaluing ourselves

When we devalue ourselves, we make it so much easier for others to do the same.

There are times when we find ourselves vulnerable, either due to sustained emotional distress from external factors or, more commonly, through neglecting some aspect of our physical, mental, emotional or spiritual health. The mention of the last of those often provokes much eye-rolling, as it is linked by so many to the notion of religious belief. Some express their spirituality within a religious tradition, but to me it seems to be something bigger than, and often separate from, those traditions.

The point I'm trying to make is that we often devalue ourselves by neglecting ourselves, and then we search for something that has always been within us by finding fragments of it within other people. When they also devalue us, we question our own worth. We might be better employed asking ourselves what is really missing, and where we might find it.

Maybe we search for kindness and compassion, and desperately cling to any sign that we are receiving these things. Maybe we do this because we haven't been offering these things to ourselves. Maybe we give freely of ourselves, to people who give just enough back to ensure that we keep giving. What clearer example could there be that we are failing to see our own value?

There's little more to say. If we feel that our relationship with others is unequal, and very much to our detriment, then maybe we invited a lack of respect by first refusing to acknowledge our value, or the value of our time and presence. If we don't see what these are worth, how do we expect others to see it?

I'll leave you with a thought about depression, and it comes from my own experience of the illness. Some of us continue to give a whole lot of love to the world, but direct a whole lot of anger and loathing towards ourselves. The effects of this imbalance are catastrophic, and the truth is that our anger would be more usefully directed towards another target, whereas our love and compassion would be more usefully directed toward ourselves.

You're worth something. You have value. You deserve love and compassion. Please remember that.

Saturday 9 June 2018

There is only perception

I exist in the light,
and in the darkness too.
There is beauty in the world,
but also things that are ugly,
and yet there is nothing.
There is only perception of these things.

I carry anger, and I carry peace.
I am the quiet one sat in the corner,
but inside I scream at the volume
of a thousand claps of thunder.
Beneath a dispassionate indifference
is a great passion.

Beneath my mistrust
is a need to place my trust in someone.
There's a fire burning within,
but the surface is much calmer and cooler
than the raging inferno.
There is only perception of these things.

T.R.G.

Saturday 2 June 2018

How does it feel?

I have a serious weakness as a dancer. Well, I have more than one, but let's focus on what gives me the most trouble. I've been trying to think of a way to explain it, and I think I finally have it.

I know very few moves, or at least I can't remember many. If I take part in a class, I'll struggle to remember a sequence that's being taught, and embarrassingly, I often get a little extra attention from the instructor. So, I'm weak as a dancer but, strangely, it's also in some ways a strength.

If you were to ask me about a very basic Salsa move, for example - let's use Kentucky - I would struggle to explain it to you. I know I go into it from guapea, and that I wrap the lady to my right side initially. I think I have to keep the left hand high and the right hand low at that point, but from there I'm lost. Ask me to demonstrate the move, though, and I'll show you. Ah yeah, I'll say to you, that's Kentucky - that's how it feels.

When I'm watching an instructor demonstrate, I'm trying to absorb what I'm being shown. Was that turn clockwise or anti-clockwise? Where are the instructors hands and elbows? What about the footwork? Whoa! Wait a minute! I'm not actually getting a lot of this stuff.

I'll try to mimic the movement, slowly, and eventually I'll know how it feels. Yeah. Remember that feeling, and recreate it. Then, one of the ladies will stubbornly hold her arm in the wrong position or turn the wrong way, and I've lost any sense of how the move should feel. Back to square one, with the minutes ticking away.

One of the ladies, who developed a good measure of contempt towards me, recognised this weakness after a while, and exploited it. She would stubbornly and deliberately react in entirely the wrong way during a class - Modern Jive at first, and then she started showing up at the Salsa club I frequented. It was easy to get me to leave two dance clubs, just by making sure my progress as a dancer came to a screaming halt.

I mentioned it could be a strength, didn't I? Well, if I've practised something enough times to know how it should feel when done correctly, or at least my version of doing it correctly, then it just comes naturally. I may not dance with a high level of technical competence, but I dance with feeling, because I'm constantly using how everything feels as a reference.

I blame Tai Chi. What I realised during my practise of Tai Chi was that the movements were performed slowly for a reason. At every position in the three dimensional space around me that a movement travelled through, my brain picked up how that movement felt. Something about the soft, flowing nature of Tai Chi also transferred to my dancing.

If other dancers had seen how I trained the basic footwork of Salsa, they might have found it strange. No music - just me counting, and counting slowly as I moved equally slowly. Actually, I was placing my left foot forward, stepping in place with my right and so on, at the speed of a Tai Chi form and with the same flow.

What I'm describing is an example of the Zen concept of mushin. Literally translated, it means "no mind", but it actually means to have practised something so many times, and have become so proficient, that we are barely aware of any conscious effort. We simply do the thing. I've found that this state requires a certain level of confidence, and a certain level of relaxation.

Anyway, that's it. I dance with feeling, literally. That's good with something I've practised hundreds, or even thousands of times. With something I've learned over the course of an hour? The feeling isn't so deeply embedded in my memory. I'm a good dancer, I'm told, but a bad learner. I accept that.

Monday 21 May 2018

Pushing against a door labelled "pull"

A friend said recently that I'd changed in the time she'd known me. I wanted to deny this, and say it was simply her perception of me that had changed, or that I had only stopped hiding so much of myself. She was correct, though. I have changed, or at least become more fully myself.

Dancing connects with my emotional side, somehow. I don't know whether it's the music, the movement or being so close to another person, but the sensitivity I've spent most of my life trying to hide is no longer hidden. To be honest, I don't know if I was ever really that successful at hiding it. My way of dealing with that part of my character was simply staying away from other people as much as possible, so I wasn't vulnerable.

When someone I work with heard that I was learning to dance, she laughed at first. A lot of people laugh at first. After a few minutes, however, she said she thought it was wonderful that I was connecting with my inner passion. Hmm.

Suffering as much loss, dealing with as much change, and having to cope with the amount of uncertainty I've encountered over the past few years has meant that I've had to change. Even now, I think that I still need to find other ways to cope. As a part of my training, I had to go for personal counselling, and it brought things into focus I would rather have continued to push to the back of my mind, so to speak. It took a long time for the counsellor to understand me, so maybe we didn't cover things as fully as we could.

I'm starting to think I should go for more counselling. There are so many things that are unresolved. If you know anything about the process, you know that we work most on our issues in the time between sessions, and also in the time after the sessions have come to an end. There are things I know I have to talk about, and yet a large part of my reluctance to return to counselling is being afraid to talk about them.

I've started practising martial arts again. I'm learning some Muay Boran sets. As usual, I'm not rushing my learning, because I want to understand everything thoroughly - to gain better understanding and to refine the movements. To be honest, I'm doing it mainly because it feels good to move this way again. It feels like an antidote to the emotional pot being stirred by dancing, or at least enables me to better deal with it.

So, yeah, I'm changing. I hate using this phrase, but I suppose I'm finding myself. I'm aware that every time I've been through difficult times, I've started practising martial arts again. There's something in that.

Monday 7 May 2018

Finding my path

Sometimes I feel a hand on my shoulder. If I hadn't won it as a prize, I probably wouldn't have gone to that big dance event. If I hadn't been there, I probably wouldn't have heard about the things that were being said behind my back, and I wouldn't know why, less than a year after the loss of my sister, people I'd thought of as friends were turning their back on me.

If I hadn't been there, I certainly wouldn't have done the stretching classes, which were an optional way to start the day. As is my habit, I arrived early, and the instructor informed me that dancers usually arrived for the last ten minutes of her class. She was right. For about fifty minutes, I essentially had a private lesson. As we were alone, she asked about my experience as a dancer, and I told her that I hadn't been dancing for very long, but had already found trouble heading my way. After she drew the story out of me, she gave me her take on what had happened, and also gave me some advice on how to deal with it.

The second morning, I did the stretching class again, and the instructor asked how my lessons the previous day had gone. We talked again, and she explained a few things about the dance scene, as she saw it. After about thirty minutes, other dancers started to arrive, and her focus shifted more to instructing. I decided to leave early, so that I might get to my first dance class on time. As I was leaving, she said she would be conducting a yoga class that afternoon, if I was interested.

That yoga class, and the two stretching classes, were little spells of calm in what was mostly a trying weekend for me. As it happened, I'd won two passes to the event, and had brought a good friend with me. Those moments were good too, but I found that stretching in a relatively quiet part of the venue was particularly restorative.

This morning, I ordered some books relating to martial arts, and particularly stretching exercises relating to one South East Asian martial art. I did two yoga classes since my experience at the dance event, but fate decided that back problems would put me out of action for a while. The yoga classes had been good, and again the feeling of yoga being restorative was repeated. During the practise, though, there was also the feeling that it was drawing me towards something familiar. Pieces of the puzzle were still missing, and it was for me to fill in the blanks.

I still don't have all the pieces in place. Maybe parts of the puzzle will always be missing, or maybe the puzzle keeps changing. What's clear is that I'm a martial artist and, however much I try to diminish the influence of that aspect of my identity, it's a fundamental part of who I am and who I'm meant to be. I just have to work out what being a martial artist means for me - there are so many paths leading through that forest, and the journey taken is arguably more important than the destination.

Wednesday 18 April 2018

The dark side

I must admit that I'm on the fence right now, regarding this idea that there are 16 basic personality types. I'm talking about the whole Myers Briggs thing. It's based on the theories of Carl Jung, who is something of a hero of mine, but I don't know just how seriously to take it all.

Apparently, I have the INFJ personality type. If we take the root of the theory, this means that I have certain preferences in the way I process things and use cognitive processes described by Jung. This, accordingly, affects how I express myself, and therefore what people perceive as my personality.

When I look at other INFJs, I see areas of commonality. Actually, I see so much that I have in common with them that it's difficult to outright condemn the whole Myers Briggs thing. What I see as a difference between the greater INFJ community and myself, however, is how much they are connected to their spiritual side. Furthermore, there's a darkness to so many of them that seems absent from my own life. I wish I could put that darkness into better words, but I can't.

What scares me is the realisation that what I see in other INFJs, and deny being present in myself, are things that I've learned to suppress. As a private counsellor said, I've learned to hide my power. I pretended for a while that I didn't understand what she meant, and I almost fooled myself into believing it.

The darkness doesn't scare me so much. What I have come to recognise is that the darkness is an INFJ simply expressing their authentic self, and this includes what Jung called The Shadow. It should scare no one, really - least of all me. Well, actually, it should be of concern to anyone who's screwed me over, but that's another story. Accepting our darkness makes us strong. I don't know how true that is for other personality types, but it's true for an INFJ.

The spiritual aspect may be more of a challenge for me. I was once told by a new age type that I had a purple aura, which meant that I was inherently spiritual. I don't believe in that kind of stuff, but I found it strange that more than one person said the same thing to me. I don't know how it would feel to fully connect with my spiritual side, or what the outcome of that might be.

Here's to finding ourselves!

Thursday 5 April 2018

Achieving balance

In terms of my progress as a dancer, I seem to have hit a wall. When this happened to me as a martial artist, taking a break for a while seemed to help matters and, as much as I love to dance, I can't discount it as an option. The other option, as I see it, is to move down a level in the lessons.

It's known that some of the ladies in dance classes anticipate what the lead is going to do, rather than just following it. Obviously, this goes wrong when they guess incorrectly. Unfortunately, some of them manage to convince a lead that he or she was the one who erred, and a minority even try to instruct a lead on how to improve, though they may never have learned to lead. I often forget a sequence during a class, and it is most often for these reasons.

The key point is, this will probably always happen to some extent, and other leads seem to cope with it better than I can. I should be sure enough of what I'm doing to be able to offer some resistance, but I'm not. Clearly, some of the ladies have areas where they could improve, but so do I.

My worry about moving down is that I'll be seen as a poor dancer (which is what I feel about myself right now anyway), and the ladies who like to instruct, correct and otherwise advise leads on how to lead will do so all the more. Right now, it happens enough to make me question my continued involvement with learning to dance; if it worsens, the question will have a definite answer.

I've worked out why I have such difficulty with learning new sequences of movement. A full explanation would involve a lot of explanation of cognitive functions and personality theory. In layman's terms, dancing connects with parts of me that haven't been needed so much in the past, and therefore haven't had so much time to develop. The same can be said about the social aspects of dancing.

So, what I've come across is a weakness or, to put it in less negative terms, an area in which I'm not so strong. Let's not forget that I was asked to attend that first dance class, and did so under protest. Me being there is something of an anomaly.

As recently as a few months ago, I believed that a big event in Liverpool would mark the end of my involvement with this relatively new hobby. Now, I've realised how much it challenges me, and that's exactly why I should continue with it. I also feel, however, that it can no longer be as big a part of my life as it has. The challenge of it has pulled me in, and the reality is that I'm not able to dance often enough to progress in a way where I'll feel that I've met the challenge.

There's certainly the feeling that I should learn to walk before I run. Taking a break is still a possibility.

Monday 19 March 2018

Today's random thoughts, or maybe feelings

I listen to a lot of people, most of whom aren't at peace with themselves, and some of whom are incapable of making peace with themselves, or anyone else for that matter. You'd expect that, with the work I do, but I'm not talking about my work.

I had to go for personal counselling. That's an expectation of those of us who are training to do what I'm training to do. I talked mostly about how I see myself, and how I interact with others, and I'm still coming to terms with the implications of what came out in those sessions. Fate, the universe, or some higher power decided I would be a sensitive soul with a philosophical mind. Neither of those things make me the kind of guy that people seek out at parties.

I once said to a friend that I felt no one really understood.

The anniversary of my sister's death is coming up. It will be my birthday soon after that, and then my current course of study will come to an end. The last few years have left me with a sense of things not just being temporary, but ephemeral, uncertain and ever-changing.

I have to accept it all. I have to learn to accept myself. My experience of Zen tells me that it is not people, things or events that cause our suffering, but the meaning we attach to them. Well, maybe I have the bad habit of searching for meaning in everything.

Monday 12 March 2018

Burning out

Towards the end of January, I was at a big dance event in Liverpool. At that event, I learned that things were being said about me behind my back. It doesn't matter what was said or by whom: what matters is that I'd usually cope with such news much better than I did. Before I even got there, though, I'd picked up a few people I knew through this hobby, and they had the misfortune of seeing me become disproportionately angry about the difficulty we were having with finding the venue.

It's important to note that there were many other things in my life which were causing me to feel stressed. This is not the place to discuss them, but let's say I wasn't at my best.

I'd won two weekend passes to the event in a raffle. As the woman I love wouldn't be in the country, and isn't a fan of partner dancing anyway, I'd had to ask someone to accompany me to the event. In the end, I chose to bring a friend who had been one of the few women in the room who hadn't suddenly changed her attitude towards me due to my good fortune. Obviously, I wanted the weekend to be good for her, but I was also aware that it would quite probably be the only one of these big dance congresses I would attend. I wanted it to be good for me too. When things started going wrong on the first evening, I started to go wrong too.

Going into the first full day at the congress, where I'd be taking part in some dance lessons, I decided to start with an optional stretching class. As is my habit, I arrived early, and for most of my time there, it was just me and the instructor. In effect, I was getting a private lesson. What was important about this time was that it left me feeling a lot calmer.

The following morning, I attended the stretching class again, before the dance lessons started. As on the first morning, I arrived earlier than others wishing to do the class. Again, I felt calm. When the instructor said, as I was leaving, that she would be conducting a yoga class that afternoon, I said I would be there.

The yoga class had already started when I arrived. Even so, I felt the same sense of calm come over me. I promised myself that I'd join a regular yoga class on my return home.

On the way home, I was driving with just one passenger: the friend I had chosen as the recipient of the other weekend pass for the event. As I was leaving, to drive the rest of my way home from where she lived, I gave her a hug, and I didn't want to let go. In truth, I didn't know if or when I'd see her again. At that moment, I didn't know if or when I'd carry on dancing. Actually, I was pretty sure that I wanted to take a break.

I didn't realise it at the time, but I'd burned out. Going there, I didn't know what to expect. Arriving there, I realised there were more people than I had expected to be present. The hotel room wasn't great, to be honest, but it started to feel like sanctuary. There were times when I got to spend a little time with a good friend, and that was good too. Actually, it was great.

Some time ago, I got to spend some time with another friend I knew through dancing. A class ended early, due to circumstances beyond anyone's control and, as I drove her home, she told me she hadn't eaten before she came out for the evening. It didn't matter that we ended up in a fast food outlet, or that the wind kept blowing the door open, meaning we were hit by frequent blasts of cold air. What mattered was that there were few customers, it was relatively quiet, and we talked so much that it took us much longer to eat our food than it should have.

It's commonly thought that introverts like to be alone. I certainly prefer that scenario to the company of a lot of people. The sweet spot, however, is spending time with someone with whom I feel I truly connect. Yoga, meditation, and simply spending time in a quiet environment play their part too. All of these things help me to avoid burning out.

Tuesday 6 March 2018

One Sunday

A few weeks ago, on a Sunday, I drove East along the A55 with the intention of stopping at one of the service stops. Once there, I went into a branch of a well-known coffee shop, and ordered a cinnamon swirl and a hot chocolate. After a few bites of the pastry, I thought that I'd take a photograph, to remind me of something important.


I realised that, the last time I had been there, I'd had company. On that occasion, the stop had punctuated a longer journey: a journey that had been, for me, all about spending time with a dear friend. As the memory came to me, I felt conflicting emotions.

Being there was an example of self-care, and I'd taken the photograph to remind me of the importance of this. These service stops, to me, feel somewhat disconnected from the rest of the world: they are visited by various people coming from here and there, going to here or there, and it's unlikely that anyone will know or care who I am. Somehow, that's important to me.

Still, the memory of being there with a friend, having one person I knew with me, and both of us being unknown to everyone else there, struck me. On one hand, I liked the solitude, the relative peace and quiet. A part of me wished that someone was sat at the table with me, though: someone I felt that connection with.

I finished the pastry and the hot chocolate, and left. I'd learned something about self-care. I'd learned that, even for an introvert, it's not always about time spent alone. Sometimes, it's about spending time with the people who make you feel that you're not alone.

Tuesday 27 February 2018

Getting into Kizomba

I struggled with Kizomba. I'd already been learning Cuban Salsa and Bachata for a while when I went to that first Kizomba class. Most of us there were Salsa dancers, and were told that we were learning a dance that was decidedly African, rather than Latin, so there would be marked differences.

Something still felt off. The first thing I had to get over was close physical contact with people I either didn't know very well, or that I'd come to think of as friends. That's still not easy for me. At least a part of my difficulty with Kizomba is nervousness. For some reason, I just wasn't connecting with the dance. Occasionally, a song would be played which was somehow easier for me, but I didn't understand why that would be.

When I dance, I try to picture where the dance comes from, and where it would be danced. With Cuban Salsa, or Bachata, I may be in a bar or a club in the North of England or Wales, but I mentally place myself in a club in Cuba or the Dominican Republic, or maybe I put myself there emotionally. I've never been to these places, but the feeling of being there is what's important. I don't know if that makes sense to anyone, but at least it makes sense to me.

I have difficulty remembering sequences of movement, and I'm not the most technically gifted dancer, but I try to connect with the feeling of the dance.

I couldn't place Kizomba. I bought a few compilation albums, to try to get a sense of what the music was saying to me, but it didn't seem to match up with the dance. Then, I started listening to an internet radio station which plays this kind of music.

A lot of what I heard was similar to what I'd heard before, and this placed Kizomba in a city at night, which didn't feel right to me. Some of the music, though, had quite a different feel.


I didn't really know the difference between Kizomba, Tarraxinha and Semba at the time. I assumed that what I was hearing was another style of music, but I tried dancing the basic Kizomba I knew to it. This was where I finally connected with the dance. The music gave me the feeling of dancing in the open air, in a town at the edge of a desert, as the sun was going down. Is that Kizomba? I honestly don't know, but the imagery gave me a feeling that I transmitted into the movements, and it felt right to me.




A video by a highly respected Kizomba instructor stated that most of what we hear as Kizomba music in this part of the world is actually Ghetto Zouk. I'll admit that a smile came to my face when I heard that. There had been a valid reason for me not being able to connect the music with the dance.

I'm not for one minute saying that there's anything wrong with Ghetto Zouk. It's likely that, if I danced that style, I'd connect with the music in that way. It's also likely to be the style of music I have to dance to in Kizomba rooms, but that's okay. I know how Kizomba should feel now, even though I'm still not that competent, and I still get nervous about the close contact.

What bothers me is that I bought Kizomba compilations which actually contain little or no Kizomba music. To me, that feels disrespectful to the genre, and a little disingenuous of the people producing the compilations. Getting my hands on real Kizomba music seems to be difficult.

Saturday 24 February 2018

Surprise!

I got a pleasant surprise today. Reading the blog of a close friend, I realised that she had mentioned me in one of her posts. The reason it affected me was that I hold the belief that no one really thinks of me when I'm not there, and learning that someone had - someone I hold in high esteem - felt good.

What was more surprising was that she credited me with helping her, in some way, through a difficult time. The truth is, I was going through a difficult time myself, so I'd doubted whether I had been much help to her. To hear that I was is great.

Even though it's now evening, and it's dark outside, my day feels a little brighter.

Friday 16 February 2018

Recovery

Everything that's going on right now has brought me to the point where my emotional health has hit the floor again. I think about the things I've said, and the way I've been behaving lately, and I know that I'm heading for trouble.

The fact that I don't know how to explain it, or what to say, tells me that this is my old friend burnout, and I probably need to limit my contact with people for a while. I've been giving too much of myself, and it needs to stop, now.

Thursday 15 February 2018

Incomplete thoughts; suppressed feelings

In psychodynamic therapy, there's the concept of splitting, or seeing things in terms of absolutes. It most often presents as a tendency to see others, and ourselves, as either wholly good or wholly bad. When we examine this, there may be a need for us to see ourselves as wholly good, because experience has taught us that being seen as bad comes with consequences. As a result, we might find ourselves projecting those things we find unacceptable in our own character onto others, and becoming irritated by some of the things we see in them but to which we are blind within ourselves.

A more holistic approach would be to recognise that people are capable of being both good and bad at the same time. We are not without either vice or virtue, and the same can be said of others. Also, our perception of what is good and bad has been given to us, at least in part through values we have inherited from parents and others who have had a marked effect of our view of the world, and in many ways will be wholly ours, and ours alone.

Ideally, we will learn to accept our perceived shortcomings, and those we perceive in others. It will quite possibly be uncomfortable for us, but all lasting change has that same quality.

I'm as guilty of this as anyone. During a recent car journey with a friend, I talked about the faults I found in a number of other people, and judged them to be bad. As I'm trained to be non-judgemental, and practise this quality on a regular basis in my work, it seems surprising that I'd act in such a way. The worst part of it, for me, was that I knew my friend was feeling the need to withdraw from the company of others for a while, and my negativity probably wouldn't have helped matters. Actually, I'm concerned that I may have made matters worse.

Within minutes of saying goodbye to my friend, and being alone with my thoughts, I realised how judgemental I had been. Then, I considered that I hadn't been merely judgemental: I'd been downright nasty. I felt bad, and my mood dipped. I felt that I was a terrible friend, and a terrible person. As much as I valued her as a friend, she'd be better off without me. The downward spiral continued, and I ended up thinking that I should isolate myself from others, because I was clearly a terrible human being.

There were mitigating factors, but those aren't for exploration here. The important thing is that I was seeing some people as wholly bad, and voiced this to someone who probably didn't really need to hear it. I then felt guilty for doing this, and immediately labelled myself as a terrible person. I blocked out all the good that I may have done, and focused instead on the feeling that I was bad, wholly bad, with no redeeming qualities.

Again, there were mitigating factors. Again, I'm going to put them to one side, because identifying them will get in the way of what was going on for me in the moment. I went on the attack. That's the truth of the matter. Why did I do that? It was because of a general feeling that I had come under attack myself. In my own way, I was trying to voice this to a friend who meant a lot to me, but rather than owning my feelings, and identifying the hurt I felt, I sought to highlight how the actions of others had led to me feeling that way.

In reality, my friend already knew what had been happening. I didn't need to add any more detail. I didn't need to go on the attack. I still feel that I let myself down there. What really mattered, and what I should have been open about with my friend, was how I was feeling about it all. It was just easier to focus on others.

I have to accept that those I see as my enemies may have their good points, which I'm not able to see. Likewise, I may be blind to some of the qualities my friends possess which are not so good. It seems like a very personal manifestation of a kind of confirmation bias (weeding out things which contradict our beliefs, in favour of those that do).

So, the question is not what happened, but how I feel about it. I feel that other people have let me down, whether it is actually true or not. I own that as my feeling, rather than an accurate summation of what has occurred (it might be, but that is another matter). I feel hurt by the actions of others. Again, I have to recognise blaming, and shift to owning my feelings instead. So, I feel let down and hurt. I also feel alone. Strange then, that my reaction to seeing myself as inherently bad was the thought of further isolating myself. Is there, behind it all, a feeling that I deserve to be alone? Is seeing myself as bad a justification, or rationalisation, of feeling alone? Is justifying my loneliness a reaction against, or rejection of, an underlying notion that the loneliness is fundamentally unjust?

Splitting is a defence mechanism: it is a defence against exploring unconscious processes which may cause us pain. I believe I've given a good example of this. In my case, I concentrated on the behaviour of others, and used this focus to actively avoid exploring what I was feeling.

What is causing me the greatest pain, right now, is the belief that I have to be wholly good and, just as importantly, the belief that my idea of what is good is wholly accurate. As hard as it is, I have to let these things go, and concentrate on accepting the parts of myself that I currently find unacceptable.

Thursday 25 January 2018

In Spanish, it means sauce

Of all the places for it to happen, I wouldn't have expected it to happen in a Cuban Salsa lesson. I was at a Salsa, Bachata and Kizomba festival in Liverpool and, of those styles, Cuban Salsa was the one I'd danced the most. Yes, in Cuba they call it Casino, but that obviously causes confusion in this part of the world. I know some call it Salsa Cubana, but to me that sounds like a cocktail - the kind you drink and then wonder why you've woken up in your wardrobe, clutching a note in your own handwriting which tells you that Narnia doesn't exist.

Anyway, I'm calling it Cuban Salsa and, when this happened, I'd been dancing the style for almost two years. The class hadn't been particularly challenging, but I'd been off my game for most of the weekend. I was there mainly because I'd won two passes for the weekend (the other one meant that I was accompanied by a good friend), and was determined to make good use of my prize.

I remember winning the passes, and being shocked by my good fortune. I remember the lady who was telling me about what I'd actually won saying that I didn't look very happy, but I didn't fully understand what was happening. To be honest, I feel a little uncomfortable in that kind of situation, and I'm always glad when it's over: I suppose, in that respect, it was a little like hearing a song by Justin Timberlake.

I was distracted. It's no excuse, because I know Cuban Salsa well enough, in theory, to avoid accidents like the one that happened. I also have no idea how it happened. I was going through the movements that had been shown to us at that point in the class, and the young lady in question wasn't the first to go through that part of the sequence with me, and yet my finger still went up her nostril.

I recoiled. I was aware that my finger had entered a strange woman's orifice and come into contact with bodily fluid. If it's still the same as it was when I was in my early twenties, then the polite thing would have been to buy her dinner first. I also thought that I should phone my fiancée and tell her how much I loved her.

The best way I can describe the immediate discomfort I felt would be to compare it to the time I saw a photo of a particularly creepy uncle in a pair of swimming trunks. I've no idea what the photo was doing in the swimming trunks, or to whom the trunks belonged, and those factors contributed in no small way to the feeling of discomfort.

After the class, I approached her, and apologised for the violation of her nasal passage. She replied that I had actually done her a favour, because one of the men had been wearing a particularly nasty cologne, and our little accident meant that she could no longer smell it so strongly. She also said that, as special as the moment had been for her, it was something we should never talk about again.

Other than that, it was quite a good weekend.