I Was A Dancer, Once.

I Was A Dancer, Once.

I’ll say it sometimes, dropped into the lull of a conversation about somebody’s graceful movement.

Or somebody might ask, ‘You know, what do you call it, that step?’ and I will answer without thinking, ‘that is the pas de basque’ or I will say, ‘that was a ballonné’ and keep to myself how the hands may have been more precise.

Then to quizzical and bemused faces, I will explain it quietly, ‘I was a dancer, once.

When I was a young girl I loved the feeling of my hip flexor stretched to pointed toe in a fluid, long movement. The smell of a new leather ballet shoe and the extension of my torso while my legs shifted into fifth position with hands at two; ready to leap into that old and elegant language of bone and body.

I craved the forward propulsion of movement that came from the pirouette and the barre exercises that dominated my classes. The discipline of dance taught me to prize technique in every aspect of my life. Everything I learn now starts the same way – the movement in completion, then breaking down the steps until I have mastered each technique before bringing it all together. Ballet taught me the strategy of moving artfully from one place to another, step by carefully selected step. Technique will take you places talent alone cannot, so now my fingers move over the keyboard as fast as my thoughts move and my knife can dance across a chopping board. In learning to dance, I learned how to learn and learned how to execute.

Then I learned at 5’2” with curved, wide hips and too busty for my height, I would never be a ballerina. So I turned my attention elsewhere, put my ballet shoes away and took two buses to music lessons instead. For a long time, if left to my own devices on an empty stage, the dance would erupt from within me, my body didn’t know I wasn’t a dancer anymore. I would shut myself in the living room at any chance, turning up the stereo to dance freely. I would commandeer the empty school assembly hall in the brief moments of early morning to practice the steps that were not yet faded from memory.

Last week, I found myself alone in the gym, looking at the open space and remembering I was a dancer, once. I did not resist the urge to cartwheel, leap, lift and spin my extended right leg into a twist and finish in a plié. No one saw or questioned, laughed or scoffed. I just danced, as I am prone to do.

As it turns out, I can still pirouette, precise and straight from east to west across the room, and land a leap with leg extended and toe arched into submission. I can still feel the fibre of muscle and definition that lies underneath the soft curves of my body that will bend when asked, into concave and convex shapes or spread into a split with ease. The difference is that now my body dances alone in the dark, unwatched.

In all my dancing, I danced alone. To dance together requires a shared language, an assented understanding between two parties. Regardless of whether you dance for an audience, if you dance with another, you must dance for them too. That is what I have wanted to learn.

The first time I was taken to the dance floor with a partner – my hips froze and my body found resolution. Resolution to not move, to not engage. I needed language that I had no words for and nothing to take the place of words. Words couldn’t tumble out of my lips to make sense of what I didn’t understand or the questions I couldn’t ask.

Alone in the room, with an empty floor and only my own rhythm to follow, I can effortlessly freestyle and push my body beyond imagined limits. I am unhindered by the thought of who is watching or with me. I can make my own steps and choose the most interesting ways to move across the floor.

When I am not alone in the room, each of my steps is a response and will be responded too. My breath must change to accommodate new rhythms. Patience and bravery is required in new ways. All of a sudden I am aware of my dance space and the space of another. My body is less willing to leap and spin so freely; for the first time I lose confidence in my technique. Technique that has never failed me before.

By now, you should know this is both a true story about dance and a metaphor. I am a paradox of confidence and innocence, sometimes imagining more quickly than I can learn and sometimes learning more than I can practice. But there are a few things I know to be true.

I am changed. Still insecure, wary of misstep, but also brave I step into rhythm; willing to try without the security of technique to guide me. I am intrepidly exploring trust that makes me brave.

In this moment of exploration and discovery, I realise how much I have missed being taught. I have missed instruction and the security of being guided to perfect technique. And my desire is perfection that bears creation, experimentation and re-creation. I want to move more than I ever have, but a new way of dancing.

These old moves have been my safety net, the trusted and known. Suddenly I am inspired to new rhythms. I want new language for my tongue to stumble over and finesse until I speak this language with ease. I find myself wanting to dance for another, to move beyond technique to intuition.

I want to practice as I have never practiced before, bending flesh to my will and making beauty from my sweat, strain and gasping breath.

A long time ago, I wrote a poem about learning to dance. I find myself here, nearly twenty years later still learning and wanting to learn.

there’s a peace coming for a time
we will listen to the air for a while
competing and combining in breath and gasp
from two sets of crimson lips
tarnished hips and bruises
from this dance you teach 
teach me how to breathe
and move again
I will not run or hide 
I will try a little harder
keep slightly closer,
follow you and watch myself
imitate and learn this rhythm
you already know
and i have yet to learn
but there is peace coming 
neither will care who
knew what when we began

this will be our dance for a time
circling, entwined
i will learn the things you speak
and never speak
that from limb and soul
peace does grow
what is new to me
can be new again for you

i will make it so
a gift to another, my other
your gift to me new language
for one who knows a thousand words
a thousand more will rise and descend
in sweet and heavy songs
and the ghosts will go
leaving us to dance
speaking to only each other

How To Become A Whisky Girl.

How To Become A Whisky Girl.

People often ask me, ‘how did you become a whisky girl?’ Mostly, I imagine they expect it was my father or an ex-boyfriend, perhaps a favourite university professor who shared a dram with me and set me on the path. But they’re wrong to imagine that. Sure, I’ve shared plenty of whisky with my dad and step-dad, the odd professor and mentor but they weren’t the ones that led me on the path.

At a push, I’d say it was Chase, dear friend and bartender who gave me permission to explore and accompanied me on a journey through the top shelf at my old local, but even then, it’s not entirely true.

It was Curiosity that did it. The kind that Albert Einstein talked about when he said to never lose a holy curiosity. I have had that quote written on my wall and almost every journal I’ve ever owned.

The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvellous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery every day. Never lose a holy curiosity. – Albert Einstein

The truth is while I was on the way to becoming a whisky girl, I was learning a lot about life and so here it is, the lessons so far. Apply them liberally to whisky, love and friends. You won’t regret it.

For more lessons and a personal introduction, join me at The Jefferson on Wednesday 31 August for the first Women & Whisky tasting. Tickets at $80 and include a cocktail and 5 whiskies influenced and shaped by women. It’s an ideal way to explore a range of whiskies, hear some great stories and learn more about your own palate and preferences. Email rsvp@thejefferson.co.nz to book or message me for details. 

How To Become A Whisky Girl

Rule #1: Stay curious. Enjoy discovery more than knowledge. There are some people for whom the pleasure is in knowing. But once you know something or how you think the story ends, you stop paying such close attention. Stay curious and let your pleasure be in discovery.

Rule #2: If you will let discovery be your pleasure, listen more than you talk. Listen to the stories you hear from the people around you. Listen to the makers and the bartenders, to the lovers of single malt and the fans of Japanese whisky. Listen to the stories of brand ambassadors and people who once drank with someone who worked with a guy who visited a distillery one time. Listen – because the language of whisky is story.

Rule #3: Ask more questions. Ask more questions of the people behind the bar and beside you. Ask questions about what happened before they got to the bar and afterwards. It’s always better to enjoy a good drink with good conversation and questions are the way to get there. Practice asking questions more than you practice ordering.

Rule #4: Learn how to taste by paying attention to the details. Learning to taste is less about learning to spit or swish or swallow than it is about paying attention to the detail. Give your attention to something for long enough and the detail will emerge. What once tasted like hot, peppery alcohol will become curried apricots or butterscotch and oats if you just pay attention to the details for a moment or two. Learning to taste properly will help you to appreciate that which you may not love but can at least see the artistry in. This one is also particularly good to apply to people.

Rule #5: It’s never too soon to share what you know. There’s no real joy in holding onto knowledge without sharing it with someone else. Everything I learn is usually helpful or entertaining for someone else and it’s how we keep our stories alive, retelling them over and over.

Rule #6: A good story in good company can make the dullest edge shine. And that my friends, is self-explanatory.

It turns out that a whisky girl is happy to sit at the bar alone or make conversation with whoever turns up alongside her. She’s picky about her drinking buddies when she has something to say, but she can turn her attention to someone who needs a friend in a matter of seconds – because she listens and pays attention to the details. She asks a good question, so she’ll get to know your soul as well as she knows the whisky in her glass. She’ll not judge you for drinking Johnnie or Jack and she may only have one favourite drink. But a drink with her will open your eyes to something new and leave you coming back for more. Because a whisky girl knows that whisky lessons are good for life too, and she lives it well. Lives it large. Lives it small.

There are lots of romantic ideas about whisky girls around these days and I hold more than three of them to be true in my own life. This whisky girl is romantic, passionate, always learning, relentlessly curious. More than anything else though, this whisky girl became so by learning how to walk in the confidence of knowing who she was, who she is and who she’ll be and becoming braver and braver to ask for what she wants, what she likes and what she needs. That’s who the Whisky Girl is… vulnerable and brave enough to tell you, she’s not done yet figuring it out or learning what she wants – but you’re invited along for the ride. And that is everything you need to know.

See you at the J for a wonderful night.