Being the Pulse

There are things I do too seldom when I'm alone, even if they mean a lot to me and make me 'land' after everything I put my head and body through.

One of them is to lace up my tap shoes, find a resonant, empty floor space and just 'go loose' on it. (Floor spaces are hard to find if you live in an apartment building, but since it's final exam week at Chalmers, the university gym facility is - sacre bleu! - empty in the evenings. When things are like so, nobody gets bothered by the jackhammer sounds I invariably end up forcing out of my feet). So yesterday I walked in, found it empty (yessssssss) and decided to do some technique training and improvise for an hour, without music. God knows it was a long time since I did.

I always start with a warmup exercise I learned at a tap festival in Finland, with plenty of heavy heel action. I don't feel that it's bragging, but I have a pretty good 'bass' in my heels. It's heavy, low-ringing and grounded. A very pregnant sound, if you will. I get a pretty good THUMP down, and I'm old enough in the game to keep it steady. Yesterday, even if I was afraid it had gotten rusty, I still had the PULSE. I don't mean my own heartbeat; I mean the independent beat, the one that starts in the head, rushes down to the feet and while passing through the body decides to maybe change without warning and sound entirely different, but still be a version of itself. Creating a steady rhythm and playing with it for an hour on end. BEING the pulse. This feeling doesn't happen every time, but when it does, it's like finding that part of your (spine? soul? core? mind? All of the above?) is made of music.

There is no way I can be cynical, ironic, disappointed or while that pulse goes on, and I have total responsibility for keeping it alive. It's like an elusive animal that comes out to play. I have to treat it with respect, steadiness and concentration. I follow it, and sometimes I sidestep around it but still hear it in the gaps between the sounds of my shoes.

Sometimes I lose it, but I know that the rust that has resulted in my missing a sound or a beat doesn't mean I've lost sight of it. I know it's my own time and that making it come back just needs patience and some more work.

Lately I've forgotten how much I revel, thrill and thrive on movement and rhythm. I have tap-danced more or less for 15 years, admittedly with lulls of motivation and periodical lack of regular training - but despite the rustiness that results from this, I have always been able to shake it out of my feet eventually and revisit the feeling of joining the Pulse.

I have my own Narnia.