Head: Talk to Feet

How often have I said to my now-20-year-old son when he spouted a negative attitude: "What's in your head? What are you telling yourself?"

This isn't airy-fairy new age nonsense. You are what you think.

As I take on the challenge of tap dancing at age 55, it couldn't be more true. From the first day of class, the instructor prodded us to talk to our feet. I knew what she had meant, but I didn't weigh the importance of this simple act until our first performance at the Harrisburg St. Patrick's Day Parade.

We knew the routine, a relatively simple one even for a New Beginner. (New Beginners are those of us who have never taken a dance class.) But, our instructor likes to throw in new moves, mostly at the last minute. While this improves the routine, it also befuddles and works up a lot of new dancers. What's more, our instructor added music to the number. We practiced without music and were told we would be dancing to the beat of a drum.

The morning of the parade, our instructor points to a vintage 60s red convertible, speakers hitched to the back seat, and with great joy, exclaims, "Dancers, we have music!"

Indeed we did. Who can resist "All Shook Up" by Elvis?

We had a few minutes of practice, where we were told to wait eight counts before beginning the routine. It all came together, there on the Capitol steps, as one hundred and twenty tappers slapped, kicked and wiggled our hips to the familiar tune. Yeah, we had it down.

And then we rounded the corner of Commonwealth to Walnut, suddenly stopped, turned and faced our first crowd. One hundred and twenty tappers, all wearing lime green tee shirts and black trousers,  a dance troupe there to bring the crowd precision and smiles!

The familiar bass riff began. From the corner of my eye, I saw my fellow tappers begin the routine. That can't be right. Sure enough, the center block of the group began a beat or two later, and those of us in the rear then launched into the opening slap steps. We looked like a lime and black version of "the wave."

What happened?

Those closest to the music panicked. The tape playing in their head may have sounded something like this: "Oh my god. There are people here. I have to perform. There's the music -- GO!"

The rest of us? "They started too soon. What do we do? Well, I guess we -- GO!"

We cleaned up our act on the next performance, and by the time we arrived at the judge's table, we were damn near perfect.

Talk to your feet.  Today is a great day. I'm going to nail that test. I'm in the right place. I'm a tap dancer.

Well, maybe not yet. But I'm working on it.

When You Try Too Hard, It Never Happens

Maybe there's a better word for this: obsession. Some may call it determination. I know myself -- it's obsession.

My mother-in-law once told me, when I carried her only grandchild, that whatever I chose to do, it was always something hard, something big, and eventually, something accomplished to the "Nth" degree. It was her way of telling me she had faith that I would raise her grandchild well.

I lock onto a goal or project and do not let go until it is exactly the way I want it and, if after giving something my all, it still does not measure up to my standards, I do not compromise. I move on. (With one exception -- my family. They all are a work-in-progress.)

Case in point: growing roses.

Way back when, I allowed my job as an advertising executive for a national housewares corporation to consume me. I woke up thinking about dishes. I went to bed thinking about dishes. I probably made love thinking about dishes. (Sorry, honey.)

Then one day, my ever-sensible husband said, "I think you need a hobby."

So, I decided to grow roses. Not just any kind of roses -- prize-winning roses. I planted and fertilized and pruned and picked off dead leaves and shriveled buds, annihilated any pest that dared suck the juice from my beautiful blooms, until the bushes produced fist-sized, fragrant flowers.

"You sure do pick the hardest things," my husband said.

Fast forward twenty years to tap dancing.

In my third month of lessons, I am technically proficient with the steps we have learned so far. I remember about 99% of the routine, 99% of the time.

Still, it all feels too mechanical.

Because I enrolled in two classes a week, and not the standard once a week, I had set myself up for having to learn not one, but two dances. My Wednesday night class members all began at the same time, in January. We're all learning the same dance. But my Thursday morning class members began in September, which meant they had a three-month jump on me, and a different dance, well rehearsed. Rather than stand by the sidelines while my Thursday morning tappers joyfully slapped, shuffled, and Irish-stepped across the floor, I bought the instructor's DVD, where the dance was broken down, step by step.

I practiced at home at least an hour a day, five days a week, until I learned the combination.

The greatest reward was to be able to keep up with my tappers when it came time to rehearse the routine.

With all this effort, you would think I float along that floor effortlessly. Not so. It's more like -- can you "hear" me count every step? Did you see me catch up to the rest when I missed that shuffle?  Is my big toe still rigid?  (I joked one day that my big toe thinks it's on Viagra.)

"You're trying too hard," my ever-patient instructor said. "You know how it is when you try. It never happens."

And to that she added (you already guessed it, didn't you?), "Relax."

Reference post Number One, April 7.

Relax

Today is tap class. I wait for it all week, the steps spinning round in my head, causing my feet to burst into a jerky kick-ball change or slap step at weird moments: in a grocery store check-out line, a parking lot, the tiled kitchen floor.

I am discovering, however, that tap dancing involves far more than learning steps and combinations. It is another reminder, for me, of the axiom: "How you do some things is how you do everything."  Tap dancing is the GPS to what makes you tick, how you go about your life learning new things, allowing yourself to grow, giving yourself permission to indulge in an art -- the mastery of which is light years away, and even then, will not result in a plum musical theatre role.

At the age of 55, I am still learning about life and how to navigate it.

The first lesson of tap appears easy: Relax.

Relax while making your feet perform steps you'll have to remember as part of a sequence, in eight-count timing and perfect unison with the rest of  your class, AND in front of an audience.

You can't fake this. A fake puts you a count behind or ahead. A fake helps you avoid learning the true step.

A fake messes up your fellow tappers.

Relax.

I have not relaxed from the moment my steel tap resonated off the tiled floor. All my concentration poured into mastering a slap, a shuffle, a rif, my big toes rigid as a cramp in the kid glove leather of my spectator tap shoe.

Consciously, I know my foot must resemble a wet noodle for an effective, snappy tap. But...how you do some things is how you do everything. I do not allow myself the slack to relax until I feel mastery of -- something.

Blame it on the nuns. Blame it on the curse of an over-achiever. Blame it on the hang-ups of a '70s "new woman."  (Remember this one, girls? "You can have it all.") It doesn't matter what's blamed for my inability to relax when I'm learning something new.

Relax and enjoy the process. The critical element in dancing across the floor with what appears to be no effort at all.  It's like the sugar my grandmother sprinkled into her tomato sauce to temper the tartness.

Relax.

I'll make a note it.