redirecting

In its most advanced and competitive form, Irish dance is highly technical, requiring years of study, weekly hours of practice, the psychology of an athlete, and the spirit of an artist.

The upper body must be still and tall and straight; below the midline, a dancer must have formed herself to do a multitude of things at all times and in all dances. The toes must point, the knees must be straight, the legs must turn-out from the hip, not the knee. The feet must not pronate or supinate - you must be perfectly balanced. The legs must cross. You must think extension, feel extension, and dance with extension. Nothing can be "choppy" or rushed. Give every movement, every moment, its due. Don't "slap" the ground. Give weight to your steps. Do it again. Be high on your toes. Higher. MOVE. Keep your body over your legs. Stop moving - your sound is muffled, aloof, lost. Where did your sound go?

Where did my sound go? For the past several weeks, I have been trying to find it, trying to reclaim it. My teacher's most recent class with us brought to light things I thought I knew, and lessons I thought I had learned. However, in my dancing, as in my recent life, I have been throwing my energy to the wind, expending precious stores of kinetic and mental resources, burning an inordinate amount of calories - and forgetting the most important technique: keep my feet beneath me.

The world's best Irish dancers fly around the stage effortlessly, bodies long and straight and tall, their legs in concert with the energy emanating from their core, with the strength of their posture giving form, substance, and balance to their movements. Nothing is rushed, nothing is overemphasized, overexaggerated, or over-baked. Everything is fluid. Everything is natural. Everything flows. And, while leaping and bounding across the stage, the dancer's legs remain perfectly poised underneath her body, toes point, legs straight and crossed. No energy being thrown outside the dancer's sphere, no limbs falling outside the column of her form. Everything is pulled toward the center, balanced, collected, calm.

And her feet remain underneath her. She never loses her grip on reality because her feet continue to touch down throughout her reverie, taking firm grasp of the ground and helping her find her center. And she returns again and again to the ground, to feet firmly planted and balanced beneath her, to a homing, grounding force that allows her to spring up again and continue her dance.

The student dances differently. The student has yet to learn to calm her mind, focus her thoughts, and remember the ground. The student has yet to refine the art of dialogue with the ground, to refine the art of foot-music-making, to refine the art of graceful and elegant boundless power. The student has yet to realize that all her rushing, all her running, all her pushing, and all her forcing are counterproductive; that they will eventually produce a backlash so great that she'll have to pause for days to get her bearings.

The student has yet to realize the beauty of keeping her feet beneath her. Of the richness and depth of the sound she can produce when her feet are beneath her; of the gorgeous crescent of a lift, leap, and landing she can enjoy when she takes off for the jump with her feet squarely beneath her. Of the breathtaking ease of dancing when you take the time to collect runaway bits of energy that your un-focused dancing has left floating about the studio: when you collect it, bring it back to yourself, back within yourself, and redirect it toward the proper channels.

Redirect it toward the ground beneath your feet. Nothing but you, the ground, your feet in dialogue with the ground, and the music to define the day's, the dance's, conversation.

Where did my sound go? It went to the wind.


Where can I find it again? In the ground beneath my feet.