Against the Dark

Memorise the music for tomorrow and now dance.

Eek…

Nigh on 30 years since I memorised anything and I do not dance. 

Like, really do not dance.

Cumbernauld. A brutalist town between Glasgow and Edinburgh that saw better days a long time ago and was certainly never built for pedestrians.

But Cumbernauld has a beautiful – facilities-wise – arts centre, with a dance studio, a cinema and a small theatre space.

And Cumbernauld Theatre and Producer Ripple Arts in conjunction with The Dunedin Consort and the Marc Brew Company – a contemporary dance company that ‘fuses a fierce physicality with tender expression to explore an emotional narrative in dance…’ – are working on a show called Sonata.

We will start the day with some warm-ups with the dancers. Please wear comfy clothes for some light movement.

This was not the message I wanted to receive the night before. My anxiety was already sky-high about the unknownness of the whole project.

We pitch up and are told to leave our instruments in the theatre and go to the dance studio.

Fuck.

Before reaching the door I can see the dancers.

Stretching. Moving. With bodies that just know how to do that shit.

Without looking like dicks.

Holding tightly to my warm cup of tea and concentrating on my breathing I enter the room.

Some of my colleagues are already talking to ‘the others’ and I vaguely try to make eye contact while heading as far away as possible without seeming rude. 

I pretend to look at my phone while trying to take in all that is happening around me. Without appearing to be sizing up the situation quite as intensely as I am.  

One of the last to join the circle. There are 18 of us.

5 dancers. Marc (director), Susan (producer).

5 musicians. Edward (CEO), Aedin (Artistic Planning Coordinator).

4 members of staff from the theatre.

Name. Pronouns. Favourite dinosaur. Energy Level 1-10. Any need-to-knows.

I’m good at this bit.

My job facilitating for M/Others Who Make involves introductions every time. So I’m well versed.

I’m also an over-sharer. Or at least, I find it okay to share my thoughts and feelings. 

I write blogs…

I don’t have a very good filter for what might be good to share and what might be best not, but I find speaking openly helps me to process my own shit, while simultaneously giving others permission to go ahead and do the same. 

Rebecca. She/Her. Diplodocus. I had a pressing issue here, as I’m very sure there was some confusion about Brachiosaurus and Diplodocus – both long-necked vegetarians. Fortunately, I managed to keep hold of this observation, albeit with a lot of effort! 

I reported my energy level at a constant two.

And my need-to-knows? I am neurodivergent. Totally overwhelmed. Terrified. On the verge of tears. And SO unbelievably excited to be there, to be part of this project. A heady combination.

And then we have to get up and move…

Trying to put these feelings into words I find myself sitting at my desk with both hands and feet rubbing together. Fidgeting. There is a real unease in my stomach. My legs are slightly shaky.

My family have laughed at my attempts to dance forever.

This is not because my family are mean and nasty.

It’s because I am one of those people who does not move naturally or with any fluidity.

This isn’t unusual, right? Lots of people are not natural movers.

Remember that boy at the school disco who would appear over your shoulder, shuffling from one foot to the other? Well, I guess I was him too.

And now here I am in a room with seven dancers (including their ‘management’) and, well, seven of ‘us’.

The dancers were incredible. It’s so beautiful to watch. They move so smoothly. So organically. So infinity cooly. And with no inhibition.

We, in contrast, move – in the words of a child in the room – like chickens.

It is torture. And it goes on for 45 minutes.

Humiliating. Gutting.

But there is no denying the feel-good endorphins being created inside us.

The feelings of freedom, warmth and comfort created by moving.

Not being directed to stretch this leg or that muscle. 

Just to move. Or bounce. Or shake.

To adjust the space you are moving in. To move fast or slow.

To make eye contact with those passing by.

And eventually to make physical contact.

To climb on them. Yes. Really.

To be a pebble on their back.

To use their bodies as shelves. Any part of them or you.

Or even to stand on them.

So before we even have our instruments out of their cases we have shared how we are feeling – both inside and out – and made physical contact with colleagues – old and new – in ways we would never have dreamt of.

As we leave the room to warm up with our instruments, I suggest we find a way we can individually humiliate each of the dancers in front of their colleagues.

I am just joking. 

But…

This is the start of the most beautiful week.

The company have already been in Cumbernauld for a week.

They started out with a playlist of tracks for which we have the music.

They have been improvising. Getting to know each other.

The non-disabled learning how to dance with the disabled. 

Combining their different original dancing background – ballet, contemporary, non-disabled or using a chair.

They are mesmerising to watch.

We were astounded, when we found out several days later, that they hadn’t met before that week. Their bond was palpable. Their support and rapport, immediately extended to us, was beyond warm and embracing. Beyond anything I have ever experienced at work before.

And if this screeching around a sharp bend and crashing into a change of subject so suddenly, seems harsh and uncouth, then maybe you can feel a small fraction of what I am experiencing today.

I wrote the above yesterday. I fully planned to continue today.

And here I am, but in a surprise and generally unexpected overwhelm of grief.

And since rather a lot of my blog, in general, seems to have charted grief – if all its different forms – it would be disingenuous – to say nothing of mentally impossible – to just ignore what is happening for me right now.

Today is the anniversary of my Mum’s funeral and cremation.

It is also the funeral and cremation of my husband’s colleague Alan.

39. Two young kids. Killed on the A14.

Same crematorium.

I am not attending the funeral as I didn’t directly know Alan.

But I am the transport for my husband and friends.

I somehow thought it might be some sort of therapy. Time to process, time to reflect, time to think, time to pause.

I would drink coffee in the cafe and write.

On waking this morning I knew I had underestimated and badly miscalculated how I was going to feel today.

Grief is such a slippery fella.

Often I have wondered whether I’ve spent enough time with him.

Wondered why grief never happened as I expected.

When Dan died (see Bunk beds and superheroes), because of the sudden and horrific shock, I experienced a full-on body smash against a brick wall. 

Life stopping dead. 

And reverberating off that wall. 

The wounds sustained by the impact being nursed for so long after.

And maybe I expected that to be how grief felt when Mum died (see Without my Mum).

But there was no brick wall moment.

There were numerous (a gross understatement) fuck awful rollercoasters to ride first.

And a long drawn-out slowing of the cars before it eventually stopped.

And grief didn’t visit in a sudden, uninvited way.

He just slowly crept in and gently sat beside us.

And today as I approached the crematorium I remember how tightly I was holding on to him. 

Not for comfort, but in fear.

If I let go, maybe he would creep his bony fingers around my face and neck – piercing my tear ducts, with no care whether I would ever stop the rush of tears that ensued.

I managed the cafe for about a minute before I realised that the overwhelm was too much. 

The space to sit at a distance from the very raw and recent loss was not there.

I knew lots of these mourners and my grief – though absolutely feeling all the warmth love and sorrow for Alan’s family – was misplaced right there.

I left in haste and stumbled to a nearby coffee house where it was possible to be anonymous in my own headspace, sadness, processing… and writing.

Seatbelt on, I’m taking a very sharp turn back to dancing through last week.

Hold on tight…

Now, where was I?

Cumbernauld, having the time of my life.

The week continued with honest check-ins, long physical warm-ups, bonding breaks, games – why were the dancers so much better at these too?!

And slowly, very slowly, moving in front of one another became more of the norm.

The humiliation slipped away – never too far away, mind. There is no doubt that we didn’t, alas, become natural movers in those few days.

But on Thursday I volunteered to speak on a video being made about the devising process of the show.

I have never volunteered to speak on camera before.

Maybe I never will again.

But, fostered by the inclusive, fully integrated and all-encompassing experience we were having, this was my moment. 

A moment I never saw coming.

And later that day Floran – one of my dancing colleagues – observed ‘You musicians move so awkwardly until you hold your instruments and start playing. 

And at that moment you all move naturally and freely.’ 

Maybe we do have it in us.

Somewhere. Well hidden.

On Friday evening we gave a work-in-progress performance.

To a moved and emotional audience, we danced, we played, and we shared the stage in a really magical way.

We can only hope that the next stage in the process – funds and gigs – can happen soon so that we can share the results of last week with more of you.

Watch this space… 

Photo credits Marc Brew, Susan Hay, Benjamin Pfau and me.