Starting up again

Hello after a while! What better time than a black, sleety night than to begin my blog once more? I failed recently on a project to launch a personal Web site, and while I'm giving up for the time being, I'm going to continue trying to make it happen. In the mean time, this blog will again become my outlet for sharing things that I deem unsuitable for Facebook.

This year, I am teaching in Wels in Upper Austria. Wels, being a fairly large city by Austrian standards, affords me options I didn't have in Tamsweg, but it also lacks the possibility for kindling close friendships, a possibility that is a welcome obligation in a tiny hamlet like Tamsweg.

I dearly miss my colleagues and friends in Tamsweg, but the year as it was could never be again. I will treasure my memories and the lessons I learned there, and rely on them as I enjoy this final year in Austria.

I leave you with the naked man, one of many at the "Nackte Maenner" exhibition in Vienna.

Blocking the block

From Phone Shots

Huge crowd just meandered past on our street. They must be heading to a game at Europark. Lazy Sunday afternoon no more: They were setting off loud firecrackers.

Me, a Scottish Country Dance teacher?

 Excerpt from "Home Movies" featuring an important Highland Dance moment in TV history:

(The full episode of "Cho and Amy Lee" is available on Youtube)

I can relate a lot to Coach McGuirk's nostalgiac pangs when thinking back to his time as a Scottish Highland Dancer. I didn't have an overbearing coach like he did, but I did spend a lot of time in high school in a kilt, and I liked it that way--dancing for competition, for performances in bars and school convocations, and for practice brought me great joy and fulfillment, and allowed me to make some of the best friends a person could have asked for.

But there was a darker side to my love of Scottish Highland Dance--the prejudice against the related dance form, Scottish Country Dance.  (If you don't know the difference, no worries: the key is that Highland usually requires you to dance alone and wear a kilt, while SCD dancers can wear dresses (women) or kilts (men) and usually always dance with a partner). We agile, powerful leapers looked looked down our noses at the seemingly stiff, aging crowd doing the decidedly less hard-core form of dance. That dance was for sissies, Scotland-nuts, grandpas and grandmas, and anyone not good enough for Highland.

As a proud Scottish Highland Dancer, I remember my unbridled disrespect for the SCD performances at our annual Burns' Night Celebration. Granted, I was never rude outright, but disparaging remarks and witty putdowns were definitely said between friends.  It wasn't about character, or about personality, it was about style and honor: that just wasn't dance.

Stick envy! Me competing in the jig in Scotland, Stirling 2004

Well, I retired my kilt long ago, but I never gave up my love for dance and for Scottish culture. So when I came to Austria for the first time, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw an advertisement for a local SCD group. I knew I had to join: sure, moments of my previous disdain flashed through my thought process when considering the group, but growing up has a way of erasing a lot of petty teenage stigmas, including the one I had against SCD.

I joined the group and learned that while very different, it provides its own joys and opportunities for performance and making friends. The SCD community, like the Highland community, is a world-wide group of kind, interesting, and quirky people, a group I'm happy to be part of. In this way, SCD became a fixture of my abroad experience and my fellow dancers became some of my closest friends in Austria.

 Getting ready to film a video of one of our dances, part of The Flying Scotsman SCD Group, 2009

Now that I'm back, I try to go to the group as often as I can, although that usually ends up being only twice a month. And I've even taken it to the next level: This year, in an attempt to give back to the community in the Lungau, I'm teaching a 10-week course on Scottish Country Dance in Tamsweg. I couldn't do it without the help of my dance friend and mentor, Regina, or the support of my teachers here who connected me with the right people to make my idea a reality. And I also couldn't do it without my amazing years learning dance technique and forms as a Scottish Highland Dancer.

Maybe younger me would do a spit-take if she knew I were teaching SCD, but I think she'd also be happy that I found some way to keep the Scottish dance spirit alive, and not just in memory.

Bedridden no more

Last Thursday, I woke up with a lung-lacerating cough that turned into a fever by noon, and a full-blown flu by 1. I stayed in bed nearly the entire time since then until today, and let me tell you: it sucked.

Of course, being sick can sometimes have its upsides: who didn't secretly enjoy getting to skip school and watch Price Is Right reruns with a bowl of jello in hand?



Or, have Peter Falk read you a story that has everything one could want. As you wish!

But not when it's anything worse than the common cold, or when one is over the age of say, 13. After that, for me, being sick didn't mean getting to skip, it means missing out. This week was no different. I missed a ceilidh in Upper Austria, something I had been looking forward to as a highlight of the semester, and a ski trip with one of my schools, which would probably have been my second and last time skiing this year.

One thing sickness couldn't keep me from: texting and aim chat on my phone. Although it was sometimes a stretch to coerce my fuzzy mind to form words from letters, it was my only contact to life (read: George) beyond napping and watching pirated movies.

Being sick abroad does come with one other perk: the opportunity to learn about interesting new healthcare protocols (although at the time I could not have cared less who walked through that door and what he/she said, as long as it meant relief from my pain). This sickness allowed me my first-ever house call from the kindly old local doc, complete with feathery gray hair, crystal blue eyes, and a cute chestnut brown leather doctor's kit. He was very sweet and even shook my hand at the beginning and end of the check-up, lending sick monster me two moments in which to feel human again.

My fairy godmother in it all was my housemate, Marlies, who called Dr. Sweet'olguy and also went to get my meds for me. Only one of my prescriptions was exotic: the codeine drops for my cough, which had to be shaken from an unwieldy little brown apothecary's bottle and tasted faintly like Novocain.

But enough complaining and pity-wallowing--I'm feeling much better today and that means I'm back to the Interwebs again. Now to get back to work....

Blog Retrospective: December 2009

“If I didn't define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive.”
-Audre Lourde

The above quote is the sole content of my post on December 12th, 2009.

I was in Austria at the time, in the first year of my masters, and my life was much different than it is now. I was living with a roommate who was my good friend, exploring buddy, and confidante. We are now completely estranged for myriad unfortunate reasons. I was a student, with great hopes and  about what the future of my degree would hold for me. Now, finished with my studies, "when I grow up" is now, and I'm struggling, like many American 20-somethings, to figure out where it goes from here.. I was learning about the German language, as well as how to live in a foreign country, with greater intensity and frustration and joy than ever before. This year, I am more confident, capable, experienced, and bold, and while each day offers challenges, daily life isn't a stress--I don't worry about having to go to the doctor or the employment office, or about an unexpected conversation on the street or at the bakery.

This post from 2009 is one of many others peppering my blog that trace a subtle yet distinct path in a life that I continually try to divide into disjointed chunks. Many hurdles I tried to leap then still stand in front of me; many moments of joy and peace I enjoyed then I can still enjoy now.

Reflecting on such blog posts, much like reading diary entries from years gone by, is thus a humbling and enlightening experience. The reading shows that failure and achievement are not forever; growth is not always up, but sometimes sideways; and big problems or goals often require repeated examination from time to time, rather than a quick or easy fix. 

This quote by Audre Lourde offers one such example of a theme in my life, and I am certain in many others' lives, that requires frequent revisiting.

I can track my progress in trying to achieve what Lourde prompts all the way back to a car ride on the way tap dance class when I was perhaps 7 or 8. I knew there was a student in class who was favored by the teacher over me. My intense desire to be thought of well by my teacher spawned fear, worry, and emotional upheaval within me. I couldn't stop thinking, perhaps obsessively, of what I could do to prove to my teacher who I really was, what I was really capable of.

Growing up, I remember my father repeatedly telling me not to care what people said or thought--that it didn't matter. Unfortunately, the lessons of wiser humans can't often be passed on in telling alone. I couldn't simply turn off my obsessive worry.

Now, almost 20 years later, I struggle with this constant nagging worry that social media has only exacerbated: What is the image of myself I'm projecting? Will others like it, and should I care if they don't? Most recently, this theme has appeared again my life as I seek to find inner peace with my definition of self, my preferences for activities, personalities, and life goals. For example, I must fight against myself to stop worrying how others will feel if I don't take part in this or that event, or if I'm honest about how I spend my time.

There are certainly positive sides to this theme. Approval or disapproval from your peers can be a signal that perhaps your choices aren't the best and something should change. The same social media that has exacerbated the requirement for labels and classifying individuals has also allowed for those with niche interests or particular personalities to overcome isolation and often loneliness.

Despite the advantages, however, getting trapped in this cycle of unproductive worry is an unpleasant byproduct I almost constantly suffer from, so I must constantly re-confront the root: an exchange of power in defining oneself and the consequent degradation of human complexity.

Regardless of how long I worry about a certain decision,  I stumble again and again upon the realization that in this process, I have figuratively passed the power for defining myself, and my priorities, onto others, whether they wanted it or not.

I allow myself to be "crunched" into someone I may not be, and to actually enjoy it. This person isn't always someone I wouldn't want to be, but she is someone who I am simply possibly not. The consequence of this crunching is, according to Lourde, the process of being eaten alive, which I think of as the disintegration of the mosaic whole that is the human personality. Deconstructed, it's easy to spot pieces that could be destroyed or refined, to dwell on them and ignore the whole.

My authentic self is in and of itself a very problematic idea--for even if I decided who I was and wanted to be, and defined myself based on my own fantasies, I would not be isolated from the input and  influence of my peers. This self is dynamic. Following past blog ruminations allows me to see  certain common threads in the pattern of this self, but they can appear interwoven with others, hidden at times, showcased at others, and sometimes even cut out of the tapestry completely.

I believe this journey toward being able to attain inner peace about my authentic self begins with insisting on keeping the power to define myself thoughtfully and the right to change my mind when confronted with criticism or when noticing room for improvement. It will continue, then, in my ongoing struggle to accept that not everyone will like this person, nor approve, and that's often ok. Unfortunately, it's easier said than done.

Let's get all fancy, shall we?

Fasching is not heavily celebrated in Tamsweg, but the kids and quite a few teachers did dress up for class today on Faschingsdienstag.

The creepiest costume award definitely goes to the boys of 5b in the HAK (Christoph and Kevin, and a third lurker who was with the other group).
 When I first saw them, they were standing in a row in the hall, hands clasped in front of them and still as the grave. They didn't respond to any questions I asked. The only trace of movement was in the sparkle of their glistening eyes behind Guy Fawkes masks.

Later, when we got to class, they agreed to take off the wigs and masks, but only with great hesitation.

They are pictured here with the rest of the group from our class today.

Less butt and more skill: Skidding down Fanningberg

Today, I went skiing, or what at one point could only be described only as highly concentrated yet completely uncontrolled horizontal sliding. But damn if I didn't try to keep a smile on my face.

I did survive the knockout punch to my ego, and even improved my technique, thanks to the patient and compassionate help of my friend Agata, a masterful skier (who did it without poles, which should not be forgotten).

At the start of my two-hour ski session, before I had even put on my skis, my stomach burbled with anxious excitement. I couldn't wait to test out my "snow legs," sample the drug du jour of the Lungau ski junkies (adrenaline), and soak in some sun and gorgeous mountain views. I repeated to myself what I'd been saying since the ski season opened--I haven't done this in over 10 years, but skiing is like riding a bicycle, right? And after all, I have fairly fabulous balance.

"Pride goeth before the fall" was never more literally applicable to my situation.

After about five minutes of skidding down the mountain, punctuated by wild moments of uncontrolled speed followed by family-heritage-shaming falls, it was clear to me that despite the masterful and careful tutelage of my two ski instructors, I just sucked.

Realization having dawned on me, and confronted with a "really quite narrow" portion of the slope 10 feet ahead and the concerned look on my protective tutors' faces, my self confidence collapsed like, well, like me about 2 minutes before: suddenly and passionately. There was no way but down, and no honorable way but on skis, and by god, I was going to make it happen. But how many others would I take with me on my rampage, or knock over when I fell down and blocked the path? Or send careening off the edge?

I needed a moment to compose myself.

In that moment, I knew a woman shouldn't be deterred my such nonsense as acute mortification and fear. Sniffing and huffing, my goggles fogged and my skis akimbo, I went for it. And I made it without bodily injury to others or myself. I let go of all the worry and started to focus on my instruction. I started to actually ski.

My friends had equipped me with helpful mantras and they became my whispered prayers:  Lean forward! Don't lean up the mountain! Bend your knees! Less butt! (At which point Juliana, my other helper, gingerly poked my postier.)

Half-way down the mountain, now able to stay on my feet for longer stretches and turn back and forth,  we passed an Almhütte (a small log cabin ski lodge) where a group of imbibers heartily cheered me on. I couldn't help but smile, knowing there would surely be more embarrassment (and there definitely was), but also proud of how far I'd come.

Agata and I paused to take some pictures after I had fallen off one of the tow-up lifts and had made it to the top again.

Teaching me to ski really took it out of her. :)