A Memory Transformed

Two Sides to Every Coin

I could no longer continue to repress a memory. A few weeks ago, it relentlessly kept entering my consciousness. Finally, I became still and anchored enough to face it. I never could have predicted what happened when I did.

On Easter Sunday, Dominick and I drove up to Beaman Park for the first time and went hiking around. We found two trees that were the right distance apart from each other to tie the straps of our hammock. It was a nice spot to rest in front of the creek that was flowing along the trail.

I really enjoyed the movement and views of the hike. The fresh air was medicine to my body and soul. I leaned back in the hammock and shifted my gaze to the branches of the trees and the birds flying overhead.

The memory.

I was disarmed, completely relaxed in nature and the hammock. I was not in fight mode. I was in my sacred, protected temple of the outdoors, my “happy place.” I allowed the memory to approach me in the temple. I let it speak. I listened. It played from the beginning.

I was in ninth grade. I was still taking regular dance classes outside of school. At church one Sunday, I saw an announcement in the bulletin that they were holding auditions for dancers who were interested in being a part of the Easter service. I remember the feeling of my heart. It was as if my heart jumped out of its chamber and fluttered down into my stomach and back again.

“I’m a dancer.” I thought. I knew I was going to audition.

I picked out my song, and I started planning my choreography. I vividly remember practicing in my bedroom, feeling too cramped in front of the dresser. I remember that practice so vividly because it was my last one before going to the church that night for my audition.

There I was on the stage. It was massive. The lights exposed me. My song started, and then I started. I began to dance, but the dresser wasn’t there. My soft bedroom carpet wasn’t under my feet. Everything felt different. My body kept moving, but my mind went blank. I panicked and forgot all of my planned choreography. I remembered a few combinations, and kept on with variations of them, just wishing so badly for the song to end. I have no recollection whatsoever of the people watching or what they said to me when I finished. All I remember was desperately waiting for the cue that told me it was okay to exit the building. The next thing I remember is sitting and crying in the car. My mom was there to pick me up, and she comforted me in her loving way, as always.

In the coming days she encouraged me to follow up with the group that held the auditions. I had already made up my mind that I would never try anything like that again.

It was at this point in the memory that I found the hole. All the way back in ninth grade, I was the one who made up my mind to cut off the audition process, before even hearing back from anyone or following up. Nobody took anything from me. Nobody embarrassed me on purpose. Nobody rejected me. I took the chance away from myself.

The breeze swung me back and forth in the hammock at Beamon Park. I watched a butterfly flutter across the air. I contemplated how beautiful it was without trying to be. Tears started to stream down my face as the realization flooded over me.

You kept dancing.

You finished your song.

You finished your dance.

You knew what to do, and you danced.

I bet you danced beautifully Jeannie.

I bet they enjoyed watching you.

I replayed the memory objectively.

There I was on the stage. It was massive. The lights illuminated me. My song started, and then I started. I began to dance, and the dresser wasn’t there to make me feel cramped. I could move as expansively as I wanted to. My soft bedroom carpet wasn’t under my feet. The hard stage was the real deal. I belonged on that stage. Everything felt different. My body kept moving, but my mind went blank. I loosened my grip on the planned choreography. I remembered a few combinations, and kept on with variations of them. I let my body lead instead of my mind. It was not what I planned, but I finished my song. I finished my dance.

I bet I was beautiful, just like the butterfly.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

A memory that haunted me is now a memory that blesses me.

At the end of this month, I have an audition. I will be auditioning to teach at my home yoga studio. This is the studio where I started my first regular practice. It’s where I did my yoga teacher training. It’s where I found the depth of my breath. It’s where I found my edge. It’s where I found my yoga community.

There is a part of me that wonders if it’s not quite time yet. For some reason I have thoughts that maybe it’s not quite time to start teaching there.

If I was still haunted by the memory, I may have talked myself out of it by now. I could have strung together some reasons to not try out. You need more training. You’re not like the other teachers. They don’t have space on their roster… your mind is going to go blank at the audition. You need more time to practice. You need more time. You need more. You need… what, Jeannie? What else do you need to convince yourself you’re not good enough?

I’ve shared this before. Someone very dear to me once said that if I’m trying to prove something, it’s probably not true.

If I’m trying to convince myself of something, it’s probably not true.

When I try on positive affirmation, I don’t have to convince myself. I simply have to practice saying it because it hasn’t been my default.

I am good enough. I am a yoga student. I am a yoga instructor. I am new. I am starting to teach. I am going to audition to teach because that is a good next step in the process. I am present for the process.

A memory that was relentlessly entering my consciousness reminds to recognize the things that make my heart jump out of its chamber and flutter into my stomach. I am learning to listen to that feeling, even if it’s scary. I knew I was a dancer, and I knew I would audition. I know I am certified yoga instructor, and I know I will audition.

After meeting 14 year old Jeannie there in the bedroom, on the massive stage, in the shelter of the car, in the darkness of perceived failure, she emerged to show me the victorious light of it all. She let me see through the hole to the other side of the memory. It revealed the possibility of the dance being more beautiful than what I prepared. It reminded that I can trust my body and trust what I know.

Sure, my dancing still may have not been what the coordinators were specifically seeking for the Easter church service.

Sure, my yoga teaching might not be what my studio is looking for.

But those aren’t the minuscule details we’re talking about right now, are they?

No, we’re talking about a miracle.

We’re talking about a memory that used to haunt me becoming a memory that blesses me.

We’re talking about looking through a hole in that memory and seeing the truth about myself.

If I can see the truth about myself and love her and trust her, then I can do anything.

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I stream playlists on Spotify when I write. I was stunned when I suddenly noticed the lyrics of the linked song playing while I was finishing this piece. The specific part plays at the end of my voiceover. The lyrics are:

You're dancing now in my room

You will be the end of me

And you ask me to dance with you

You will be the end of me