do your thing

I had the pleasure of visiting my friend/aka my wife Thyra when she was in Toronto a little while back. Spending time with Thyra is a breath of fresh air for my nervous system. We talk frequently and deeply about whatever is going on at the moment. Calls usually involve laughter about nonsense and our spiritual practices. We’re well-aware of each other, and have spent a good bit of time together. I liken us to a double helix - we’re not on identical paths, but it’s typically for us to find ourselves in parallel pursuits. Our spiritual paths, if you want to call them that, cross frequently. As is often the case with intimate relationships, when one of us needs support, the other is typically fairly stable. 

I met up with Thyra after visiting with my friend Andrew’s family. Thyra had offered to take me to the CN Tower. I was like, “Do you want to go? I will totally go if you want to, but I don’t have any inclination to go to the CN Tower if it’s up to me.” And she said she didn’t want to go. She was just being thoughtful about what someone who’s not from Toronto might want to do there. We did our usual thing, which involved agreeing that we’re both easily overstimulated and (thankfully) easily satisfied, and that what we really love to do is sit in a cafe. Ideally together. So we got lunch, dropped my stuff off at her house, played dress-up with some great hand-me-downs from her fashionable mother, and went to the cafe wearing Thyra’s mom’s clothes. It was blissful. In part because I was in the company of someone I care tremendously for, and also because we usually want to do the same thing. Makes for very easy decision-making when two people are considerate and like to do the same thing. It’s a delight. We’re good at doing our thing.

At the cafe, we ordered beverages, wondered at how strange it was for nobody to be sitting in the small patio on such a gorgeous day, made jokes, and read. Something unexpected happened when Thyra got up to go to the bathroom: an animal joined me. Actually, two of them. Two raccoons scuttled down the tree and slowly began to explore the confined space. I wondered if they might be rabid but they were moving so slowly. They went away, and I figured they were just bold. Thyra came back and the one raccoon returned. He made his way down the tree, and then went around the back, disappearing for a moment. Then he peeked out at us from the other side. Thyra about died from the cuteness and I did not blame her. He was very cute but by this point I was wondering if we really should be hanging out with wild animals in an enclosed area. We decided to make a move.

After all that holding, singing to, and snuggling the raccoons, we agreed to see some live jazz. I got a glass of wine and Thyra had some mint tea. For me, it’s a case-by-case decision to go with the desire to drink alcohol or to abstain. I’m always grateful to Thyra, who doesn’t drink, for being neutral on the subject. She doesn’t judge me one way or the other. Or if she does, she keeps it in the downlow. The music was great. I love hearing and watching live jazz because jazz musicians are usually good listeners and make great faces at each other. There’s a sensitivity in the performance that draws me in. The volume also tends to be reasonable; I like not wearing earplugs.

I had two sketch pads with me, and it seemed right to draw the musicians. I remembered not to care too much about how it looked - just draw to draw. It’s not like I was being compensated. Enjoy it! I wish I had taken a picture. There is something magical in store when you let yourself draw things without much minding the outcome. The guitarist’s boot was a line of simple genius! When the band finished, I gave my drawings to the organist (the guitarist was off sorting out the money). We had a nice chat, the organist and I. Sometimes conversations with men (especially in bars) are too loaded for my taste. They feel pressurized, sexualized, and in the extreme, creepy. For example, the guy sitting to Thyra’s right that evening had the pressurized feeling. Not that he was being overtly creepy, but...perhaps expecting something of us? Attention? He might just have been lonely or recently divorced or bored - but regardless of the origin, that pressurized feeling is uncomfortable and I avoid it. 

To get back to what I was saying about the organist: the conversation was pleasant. I learned he’d spent a lot of time in Rochester, NY, where I live, as a music student. I gave him the pictures and we probably shook hands and then we went our separate ways. I went back to sit with Thyra and noted that it would be another 45 minutes until the next band played. I asked her if she wanted to go dancing. Surprise! She said yes! It occurred to me that, neither of us being Toronto residents, we didn’t know where to go. The organist was now talking with the drummer at the bar so I wandered over, and asked about good places to dance. Lula’s, they agreed, was a good place to dance. There was a beginner’s salsa lesson at nine, and then a live band for the rest of the night. Perfect.

We popped in an Uber and joked exuberantly until arriving across town at Lula’s. I wondered whether we’d made the driver question our sanity, but Thyra said he was laughing with us. Either way is fine but I hope he thought we were funny because we think we’re funny and it’s healthy to laugh. At Lula’s, there were around 30 novice salsa dancers mimicking the teacher on stage. She was maybe 45, had on a black bodycon dress, and many gold necklaces. She was bold and funny and self-possessed, and also probably tired. She was a great teacher and definitely a lovely dancer. 

Technically, I know how to salsa dance. I’ve taken basic salsa lessons here and there over the years and been to enough social salsa nights to feel comfortable with the steps. Except that usually, there’s alcohol involved. And by the time we got to Lula’s I was no longer feeling the wine I’d had at the jazz club. I’m comfortable dancing alone without having had a beverage or two, but something funny started to stick when the partner dancing started. I can’t shake the following logic: If you’re dancing a particular style, there are guidelines. If you can’t follow the guidelines, you’re either a) abandoning the style, or b) making it difficult for your partner, who showed up expecting to dance within the guidelines, to do their thing.

The first person I danced with was evidently experienced. I immediately got stuck in my reforming perfectionist head; I couldn’t move with the rhythm or follow smoothly. I fell down a mini shame spiral. I wanted to explain to my partner, “I’ve danced salsa with no problem in the past! You should have seen me that night at Tapas! And that night at Laura’s wedding!” But I didn’t. The song ended, I told him it had been a while since I’d danced salsa and that he was a good and patient man (he really did seem to be both), and then I gently reprimanded myself for making an unnecessary apology.

The next person I danced with was a man who was a good leader but not necessarily a great salsa dancer. Ideal for me. We had a blast and did lots of spins and turns. We danced hard and for a long time. I felt a little like I was going to throw up, but in the good way that tells you you’re having fun. You know? That was satisfying and helpful. My spine loosened and I’m sure I was beaming. It’s so fun to really let loose and dance.

I got some water and wandered around until I found Thyra, who seemed to have discovered a pleasant partner. We were right up at the front of the stage, where band with a big rhythm section, a bassist who looked kind of like Johnny Depp in 2007, and a charismatic singer with very white sneakers were making me grateful for coming out that night. A fellow gestured and I nodded and we started dancing and I was a little miffed because he’d just finished a cigarette and I didn’t really feel like breathing cigarette smoke. He had a Spanish accent and was probably a native salsa dancer. There’s a mechanism in the proficient salsa dancer’s hips that mystifies me. It is not included when they teach you the basic steps. I know the basic steps, and they are not enough. I think I become less mystified and maybe my body even understands this mechanism when I’m relaxed and drinking and in party mode, but stone cold sober, I feel leaden and slow and clunky compared with those who have installed the proper salsa software. 

I told the guy about my salsa dancing, “I can do it, just not with a partner.” And I can - it looks like salsa, at least to the untrained eye. It’s just that the mechanism that happens in the leader’s hips throws me off and keeps me from being able to follow fluidly. He gestured with his arms for me to go ahead. I showed him my version of salsa, and he said, “Do your thing.” And we danced and I smiled at my irritation about the smell of smoke and laughed and went wild and it didn’t matter that I was missing the software because we were on fire for a few songs, until we decided together that it was enough.

Gifts in unexpected places. What if the man hadn’t recommended that I do my thing? I’d have continued to forget that my thing, as a rule, isn’t their thing. The context changes, but there’s a consistency to it: whatever everyone else is doing, I’m usually a little left of center. Or right of center. Or above or below center. Sometimes I get self-conscious because I don’t want people to think I’m trying to be different on purpose - just to be different. And then, in moments like this one, I remember (or am reminded): Do your thing. If you spend time in circles even remotely similar to the ones I hang out in, you’ve heard it ad nauseum: Be yourself! Be yourself! Don’t let other people change you! Don’t let what other people think keep you from expressing yourself! And like, I love a good spiritual meme, but there’s a big difference between reposting one about giving no fucks and actually giving no fucks.

It’s a process, right? So thank God, in the middle of that night where I was flirting with self-concepts around inadequacy (as if there were some reason I would excel at salsa, having not even attempted the steps in a few years…) and being impotently white and a bad partner...Lord help me...In the middle of all of that, this wiry guy with not-great breath energetically knocked me upside the head and said, “Do your thing.” Thank God! And I did my thing and it was so fun and sweaty and Thyra and her new friend were right there and we were laughing and it made the night absolutely magic. 

So thanks for making it this far. You’ve been a trooper! And my PSA is: DO YOUR THING. Maybe I’ll post a spiritual meme about it later, but meanwhile, seriously - don’t forget to do your thing. I will make one more point, because it’s just occurred to me that this would be a great practice: look for every opportunity to be dance partner and the earth-coexister who says, “Do your thing.”