Music Day - She

Picture this.

North American Christian culture, 2003. At this time it was still a very common belief that video games of any kind were spawn of Satan himself. VeggieTales' Jonah movie was the only film that millions of Christian children had seen in theatres because all the others were demonic in some way (Harry Potter had magic, Star Wars had magic, The Lord of the Rings was simply 'too scary'...), and were you really a Christian if you didn't listen to Adventures In Odyssey every weeknight at seven o'clock?

Into this culture came a group of three women who found instant popularity with pre-teen girls with their inspiring, poppy, uplifting (in every sense of the word) melodies. Behind trendy, pop art album covers in bright purples, whites, yellows, and oranges, they sang catchy, bright songs with slick production. Were you really a Christian girl if you didn't have a ZOEgirl album in your CD wallet?

In 2003, ZOEgirl dropped their best -- sorry, third studio album, Different Kind Of Free. The pop sound had matured along with their listeners -- now solidly into their mid-teens -- and the record took on an acoustic R&B vibe (probably influenced by BeBe and CeCe Winans, Nicole C. Mullen, and Out Of Eden, who were all big names on Christian radio at the time). Even the bright colours of ZOEgirl's previous offerings were muted, with a palette of blues and greys decorating the album.

DKOF still offered uplifting, poppy lyrics in the first half of the album. The album kicked off with their trademark energetic songs of dedication to God. This is a simple goal, but difficult to execute well. Executing these well had always been ZOEgirl's strength.

But halfway through the album, the subject matter takes a wildly different turn. The electronic bass, staccato rhythm, and lower vocal register of Wait was the only warning the listeners got of the shift. It was skillfully subtle -- I doubt most people realised what Wait was about, as the topic of suicidal ideation was absolutely never touched in churches at the time -- but to those of us who knew, we knew. Those of us who already felt the cold tentacles of depression tightening around our souls and minds knew that song was for us.

In an artistic move both bizarre (given the subject matter) and necessary (given the parents of the target audience), the next song was perhaps the breeziest and most carefree song of ZOEgirl's entire career. Feel Alright was a stylistic, if less manic, throwback to Upside Down from their first album. It was also the song I skipped over the most (despite loving Upside Down when it first come out), because it was the least relatable and the least intellectually stimulating. But they had to put it there, because the following song was a doozy.

She was a slow burner for me. My best friend at the time, a year older than me and a pastor's daughter to boot, caught the significance of it immediately, but she had no way of expressing to me what she saw in her life and in the song. I found the song too slow and boring and brushed it off as album filler. But as our ways parted and I saw the absolute worst the evangelical church had to offer in the wake of my calling and my cousin's death, I began to see what she had seen... enough that when I found Daniel Amos' brilliant album Doppelgänger in 2013, I 'got it' immediately: the church of North America was extremely broken. In Doppelgänger, I could see the indictment of the church in the lyrics clearly. But ten years had passed by then, and I had forgotten about that soft little ZOEgirl song which had sharp teeth.

The other day, out of nowhere, my brain started feeding me lyrics: She's alone / Caught up in the undertow / Where it takes her no-one knows...

I started listening, and the rest of the lyrics arose from my dusty memories from over half my lifetime ago. Then I dug the track out of the bottom of my iTunes and listened to it for real.

What a ballsy song.

To release a song not only about teenage sex and pregnancy out of wedlock, but to also use that song to point the finger directly at the failings of the church on an album specifically targeted to young teenage girls would have been CCM PR suicide if not handled with kid gloves. So they tucked it in one of the 'filler' slots (it's track eight out of eleven), mellowed down the music so it wouldn't attract immediate attention, and trusted God would open the ears of those who needed to hear. My guess is that most listeners, like me, assumed it was a typical 'don't have sex before marriage' song (yes, those are a thing in CCM), and completely failed to see that they weren't placing the blame on the girl, but on the church that didn't have compassion on her.

She went to them for help

But blindly they cast the first stone

They could have taken her in

But instead they left her on her own

All alone...

And it worked. No feathers were ruffled, DKOF is still regarded as their best album, and ZOEgirl made another successful album before calling it quits.

I just... I am in awe if the finesse they needed to pull this off, especially at that time, and it worked. Nowadays critique on Christian culture in Christian music is more common (and still sorely needed), but at that time for a Christian band to make a song blaming the church instead of the girl was revolutionary. It was countercultural. It could have ended their careers. They could have been excommunicated from the church for a song like that, but they did it anyway. They hid a scathing critique in plain sight for those of us who needed the warning the most and they lived to tell the tale. And those teenagers in 2003 are now the ones calling out the hypocrisy of the evangelicals.

Maybe that's why I can never quite let this group go. I've always chalked it up to nostalgia (which is definitely a factor in my enduring love for them), but the more I listen with my jaded adult ears, the more I realise there was more to this little pop-vocal group than any of us realised.

NaNoWriMo - End Of Day 21

Still struggled a lot this week a lot with the 'I know where this story needs to go, but I don't know how to get it there,' thing.

I knew who the villain was, and I even managed to plant some half-decent clues, but all the clues point to why the brother was murdered. I could not figure out how to plant a clue (or even what clue to plant) to bring the detective MC back to the kidnapping case that she was supposed to be working on. I've written kidnappings before, but this one seemed more difficult somehow. Maybe my standards are just so much higher now. I haven't even written a scene from the kidnapped kid's perspective in like 20,000 words because I just don't have any ideas. All she (detective) had was this 'sense' that they're connected, but absolutely zero proof of that, and I didn't know how to provide it.

MC was making a ton of progress on her brother's case though -- you know, the one she was not supposed to be working on.

It's turning into another church drama, which I guess was the point. Apparently I really like those -- exposing the sins of a so-called 'perfect' institution. This was a theme in my writing even before the church ever really hurt me. For this story I'm drifting from my usual Baptist one (Baptist churches are the worst for sweeping crap under the rug and spraying lethal amounts of Febreeze over it when it starts to stink) to a more word of faith-style church -- which I think is what a lot of Baptists have bought into anyway and that's why they treat people so badly and are so resistant to change or even admit that they might possibly be wrong (how many Christians on your news feed are both anti-vax and anti-mask right now?).

In addition, my formerly trusty Neo 2 word processor, Lila II (she was the second one), died on Day 17. This means that I can't write at work (I would get anywhere from 300-800 words in a single lunch break), and this has upset my momentum significantly. I went from easily making over 2k per day to struggling to make it to the minimum 1,667. I am still way ahead in my total word count though (currently at 45.7k, goal for Day 21 is 35k). Some very kind souls in the Discord forums sent me some resources, so I may be doing some Neo surgery come December. By my own diagnostics, it's either a loose wire or a broken/damaged trace, although I'm going to try replacing the button cell battery that I didn't know Neos had until said kind souls sent me said resources. I was at least able to back up all of her files to my computer, so I won't lose anything. If surgery goes well, I'll try to resurrect Lila, my original Neo 2, which died in 2019 following similar symptoms.

Also, the word tracker is SO helpful. I'm really glad I'm using different colours because it really makes the tracker easier to follow. And it's still really satisfying to colour in the progress bar every day (even though it's so long now that my hand gets tired. I guess that's a good problem to have). It's also come in handy when talking to people about the project -- all I have to do is flip to the spread and show them what the minimum goal is, and where I'm at in relation to it. It's all right there in one graph, and it's easier than trying to explain all these numbers to people who have little to no context for them (it also makes being 10k ahead far more impressive). I've actually had people ask to see it by way of an update. Definitely going to be doing the tracker thing again next year (and I would also really like to figure one out for National Choreography Month in January).

(And now, back to our feature presentation...)

Last night, my husband and I were talking about my stuck-ness and he mentioned footprints at the scene. And that was all I needed.

I planted the child's footprints at the scene (which also boosted my word count because then my detectives had to figure out/explain why they didn't see the footprints the first time they studied the scene) and also got the idea of the detectives re-interviewing the kid's best friend. He is proving to be much more informative than he realises -- he unwittingly gives them not only the name of the villain, but the motive behind the kidnapping.

I also know exactly how justice is going to come about now. I'm at the point now where I've tipped the starting domino of the climax, and my job from here on out is just to write like the cold snowless wind outside to keep up with the coming cascade of events. This part is one of the best parts of National Novel Writing Month. I still remember the Day 30 rush of writing 10k in one day back in 2012 not because I was that far behind but because there was so much coming together and it was beautiful and fascinating to watch. That's the moment I live for every year. That's the reason I put myself through writing an entire novel from scratch every year. And that was what I've been missing for the past seven years.

NaNoWriMo - Intro

National Novel Writing Month.

I started last year and petered out before I hit 20k. I was depressed, I was struggling both emotionally and in my marriage, the creative well was completely dry. The two years before that, I hit 50k only by pure determination and I hated every word I wrote. The year before that, I took a hiatus. The year before that, school commitments cut me off at 37k (though I did go back the next July and add enough to push the novel over 50k). The year before that was 2015 and I wrote 50k of a half-decent story in a fog of indescribable pain and grief. The year before that, I wrote Kyrie.

It's been seven years since I was able to enjoy NaNoWriMo. Seven years ago, M and Brittney were both still alive. Seven years ago, the world was pregnant with possibility and I had not yet become this broken, hardened, cynical, angry shell of the vibrant and hopeful person I used to be. Sometimes I wonder if it's even possible to write anymore. That Kate is so far removed from who I am now, and I wish that wasn't so. I miss who I used to be, and I don't know how to go back.

But we're going to try. Maybe that Kate hasn't completely died -- hope springs eternal, apparently.

So, about the story...

I got the seed of the idea from a 'plot bunnies' NaNoWriMo forum AGES ago. I think I still have the username written down somewhere, so that if I ever do publish it I can give credit where credit is due. As it stands now, the plot follows a police detective who's just lost her brother in a drive-by shooting. Said brother frequently volunteered at the youth drop-in centre run by the local megachurch, pastored by a larger-than-life man who has been a pillar in the community for several generations. Police detective is obviously not allowed to work her own brother's case and is instead redirected onto the case of a child reported missing by her foster parents. But the more she digs into the girl's case, the more names she recognises from her brother's life... She begins to suspect that if she can find the girl, she can find out who killed her brother. But of course, she can't take her suspicions to her superiors, because then she'll be taken off the girl's case and won't get another chance to bring his killer to justice.

It's a story with a few big twists. It's also very much in the same vein as my 2016 story -- a modern-day parable following a child who society would rather ignore, highlighting how backwards the world can be... the ones who should care and protect are the villains, and the 'evil' ones do the right thing.

I have a bone to pick with Christian evangelical leadership, and since I've been expressly forbidden to do so with other human beings or on social media, I'm going to do it in my own private novel that nobody will see for approximately 65 years (and that's if I do end up publishing the thing). Writing has long been my only safe place to say how I truly feel about things (that's actually how this blog started), and I guess that's going to continue. Maybe when I'm dead my best friend will send it off to a publisher and then people will understand. Or maybe it's just going to languish on my hard drive and in flashes in this year's NaNoWriMo forums and this blog. It has the potential to be a really good story, but I just don't want to face the inevitable backlash from my in-laws (my biological family has long since gotten used to my 'quirks' and have stopped trying to change me into a hyper-positive Barbie doll because they've recognised that it is literally NEVER going to happen). This story is for me, at least for right now.

I'm still scared to do this without M. I don't know how to write 50k without her (even though I've done it twice). I guess it's more that I don't know how to enjoy (or even have) the wild and crazy process without her right alongside me.

But I've noticed that my choreography after her death took on a richer emotional depth and resonance. They come fewer and farther between, but they are richer and deeper and seem to touch people more. Maybe that'll be the case for my writing too.

Do I think it's a good thing that M died? No, absolutely not. If I had to chose between writing better quality work and having her here, I would chose her. It's not fun to write good quality work all alone.

I have, however, recently joined a couple of NaNoWriMo Discord groups. I'll never, never, ever be able to replace M and her impact on my life, but maybe I can find a couple of comrades here.

I have enough plot. But do I have enough spirit?

Tune in next time...

Too Personal

I've touched on this rant before. However, I've reined myself in in those instances. Here, I am going to give you the full, unadulterated, 100% pure-from-concentrate rant.

(Buckle up.)

In the more immediate aftermath of the Year from Hell (2015/my second year of college/when literally everybody I ever loved was dying), I was so consumed by the pain that admittedly, it was all I talked about. I was trying to process it, trying to hash it out, and as a result, I talked about it incessantly. I was angry, I was wounded, I felt like everybody was abandoning me (dying) and I was crying out for somebody to just not. I felt like everybody was leaving, despite my cries for them to stay -- it was like nobody heard me. I call this phenomenon 'screaming into the void.' I was screaming for someone to stay and they kept walking away, without even glancing back or checking their pace. As if I wasn't making any sound at all. As if they never even heard me. As if I wasn't even there.

So, in a desperate attempt to get some measure of sympathy or attention or even some acknowledgement that I wasn't invisible, I kept telling the story of my pain. Over and over. I was waiting for somebody to really, truly hear me. To listen. No-one did, so I kept rehashing the story. I wanted somebody to hear it, and I would keep telling it until somebody did or die in the attempt.

In May 2016, somebody who I had considered a friend told me through text (somewhat rudely) that I was getting 'too personal.' I was too stunned by his rudeness to ask what that meant, but I made a mental note to not bring up anything but fairy floss and unicorns around this person again (which, when your life is a living hell as mine was at the time, means you're never going to talk to them again). As best as I could figure given the limited context, 'personal' meant 'not ecstatically happy.'

Two months later, a very good friend of mine said the same thing -- the exact same words -- after I confronted her about blocking me on social media. This person knows pain very similar to mine, so this one hurt especially deeply. Our relationship still has a rift in it, as I now feel I can't talk with her about anything lest it be deemed 'too personal.'

In November 2016, in an email that was a direct factor in my suicide attempt four months later, a mentor said to me, 'you are being too personal. Nobody wants to hear about your troubles.' To me, this translated directly to, 'nobody will ever love you because your life has problems.' (Even though it was not my fault that everybody around me was dying.)
Even though I didn't attempt suicide till the following March, this email was the point where I mentally/emotionally gave up and these words were ringing through my head the night that I actually attempted suicide. Those words sent a very clear message that I was broken beyond repair and that nobody would ever want me in their lives.

What do we do with things that are broken beyond repair, things that nobody wants?

We throw them away.

People ask why I tried to kill myself. How could I be so selfish? they ask. Answer: Because I was broken and nobody wants a broken person. Broken people are a drain on friends, family, society, and -- I was told in no uncertain terms -- churches. We take energy and joy and hope from people and replace it with bleak despair. And Nobody Wants That. Don't lie to me -- you all told me that yourself, in those 'nobody wants to hear...' messages. I was going to throw myself away -- the way all broken things should be (sayeth society).

'Too personal' bothers me because it means that you think you can impose on me what I can and cannot say. You're trying to censor me. Everyone else gets to pull the 'free speech' card, so -- where's my right to free speech? More than that, it shows that you don't truly care about me. A true friend is there through everything -- good and bad, thick and thin. Yes, tough love is a useful tool, but it should be a last resort, not a wall you put up the SECOND a friend starts struggling. (Also, side note -- tough love really only makes sense if said friend is actively hurting themselves. However, if life is beating your friend down through no fault of their own -- you know, like if someone close to them dies -- that is not, not, NOT an appropriate time for tough love. THEY ARE IN MOURNING AND IT IS ABSOLUTELY NOT THEIR FAULT THEIR FRIEND/CLOSE RELATIVE DIED. STOP PUNISHING THEM FOR BEING SAD ABOUT SOMETHING OUTSIDE THEIR CONTROL.) The instant you throw out the 'too personal' line, you have permanently placed your friend at arm's length and told them that you are not a safe person to come to if they need it (for more on that, read this). I have literally ended friendships over this line (and it takes one heck of a lot for me to end a friendship -- I've only ended two or three friendships in my entire life, but they were all over this or very similar issues).

There's a quote that floats around the internet to the effect of 'If you can't handle me at my worst, you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best,' and that is SO true. Either you're with me through it all, or I'm done with you. I don't have the time or energy for fair-weather friendships who only want my perfect, happy life. If you love me, you love all of me, no matter how sad or frustrated or discouraged.

That being said, please hear this -- you don't have to fix me.

I'll say it again: YOU DO NOT HAVE TO FIX ME.

I don't expect you to make my life perfect again -- that's not possible for anybody. You just have to love me. If I trust you with the information of how difficult things are for me at the moment, that means I trust you. Take that as an honour. Don't destroy that trust by telling me that you have arbitrarily decided that I can't talk about a certain topic or issue in my life that I just want to hash out or verbally process.

Now, that's all frustrating, just on its own.

But even before you get to all of that crap, there's the fact that from an English-speaking standpoint, the phrase itself doesn't even make sense -- at least not in the context of me talking about something that's happened to me. It makes sense if I'm asking you questions about yourself and your life and you say, 'that's kind of a personal question, I'd rather not answer it.' That makes sense to me, but if I want to tell a story from my own life, how is that 'too personal?' What does that even mean? You're asking me to avoid something that can't even be properly defined. And a person who's struggling -- especially if they have a condition like depression -- will tend to swing to the opposite extreme. They will stop sharing their pain -- entirely. To anyone. Full stop. They -- we -- will carry it alone and bottle it up.

And bottled up pain, just like bottled up anger, will eventually explode, and sometimes pain explodes into a suicide attempt. And sometimes suicide attempts don't get thwarted -- sometimes the thing we try actually does kill us. Sometimes nobody calls. Sometimes the person doesn't find us in time. Sometimes telling someone to stop talking about their pain means that we listen -- permanently.

Darkness and Creation

Mentally, at this specific moment, I am probably in a better place now than I have ever been since before depression first hit me when I was nine years old. I blame actually tasting my performance dream in real life for this improvement (and probably also being in an environment well away from my negative church/extended family).

Here's the thing though.

After skipping NaNoWriMo last year because I was so uninspired, I'm now wondering if I should attempt this year. On one hand, I haven't really done anything creative in a very long time and I miss that. NaNoWriMo could be just the thing to kickstart my creative brain again.

But... the only story idea I've come up with so far that I might actually squeeze a novel from is a story that basically deals with the subject of abusive churches.

On one hand, it could be good to write this. Having gone through some stuff in previous churches (and heard stories of others' experiences) means I definitely have a place to write from, and goodness knows I feel strongly about this topic. It's possible that writing about the topic could help me deal with my own experiences. Writing is definitely a cathartic thing for me, and the times when I was at my worst emotionally were the times I couldn't write because I didn't have words to encompass the pain.

But on the other hand, I'm actually in a fairly good place mentally. I've pretty well severed myself from the ones who inflicted so much damage on me in the name of Jesus. Dare I dredge all that up in my memory again? I've mentioned before how writing well is not much different from method acting -- the best way to resonate with the reader is to actually feel what the characters are feeling. This includes their pain.

When I was filming Rift several months ago, I was already sort of on an upswing, mentally. But I deliberately sort of 'kept' myself in a dark, frustrated place until I finished filming because I wanted that dance to capture, as authentically as possible, the pain and frustration it was intended to convey. I think the rawness and honesty of the piece did benefit from that and I don't think I regret it. But now that things have gotten SO much better... do I want to deliberately go back to a dark place for the sake of my art? I'll probably end up back there soon enough anyway -- dare I risk hastening it? Is it possible to dip into it for a couple hours each day (during writing sessions) and then 'switch it off' and return to my current content/joyful state? Or is that playing with fire? Will I be able to switch it off?

And if I decide not to risk plunging myself into the depths again, even for the sake of art -- then what do I write about? That's literally the only story idea I have right now. Characters and plots and allegories used to spring to my mind fully formed as I went through the motions of life, but now I can't even remember what it was like to have a story consume me the way stories like Reuben, Rebecca's World, Chasm, and of course, Kyrie did.

I miss that.

New Dance Video!

After nearly two full years of work (planning, practicing, shooting, editing), I have finished another tap video, much in the vein of Shades Of Green & Red this past Christmas.

While Green & Red was choreographed in a couple of days, filmed in two hours, and edited in a week, I have had this new one actively in progress since August 2016. Filming alone was five days.

This new project -- Rift -- has more personal meaning to it. The song (which I've discussed before on this blog) deals with emotional abuse, and I created this dance around the time my difficulties with my previous church were worsening. The institution that was supposed to love and care for me, my health, and well-being (emotionally as well as spiritually) was beginning to show their true colours and I did not like what I was seeing. I felt like I had been completely abandoned in my hour of darkness and I was angry. And all of that anger and frustration and loneliness went into this choreography.

From the outset I knew I wanted a stark, dimly-lit set. The fact that it ended up being shot in an old church felt poetic, as the church (as a general institution) makes up a decent chunk of who I'm addressing with this. Though the lighting in the venue was already terrible, I actually deliberately worsened it in post-processing to further create a cold, isolated, abandoned feel.

It's weird to be finished this project. It's consumed my thoughts and planning and practice time and downtime for so long that my life feels a bit empty now that I've released it to the world and don't have to think about it anymore, in any way. In total I probably put in at least a hundred hours on this project between choreographing, rehearsing, location scouting, sound recording, filming, and editing -- not counting all the hours of staring into space daydreaming about what I wanted this to look like and how to achieve that.

On to the next project, I guess... still trying to figure out what that is. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one.

The Sovereignty of God

May I ask a question of the evangelical church of North America?

Why, when my cousin died, did you continually insist, 'Well, you know, God is sovereign. There must be a reason. Even if you can't see it, there must be a reason. Just trust Him'...

meanwhile...

...when I mention that, after YEARS of prayer and soul-searching, I suspect God might be calling me to be an artist, you counter with 'But there's no money in it! You'll die alone, impoverished, and probably mad. You have to pick a career that will pay. It's the wise thing to do. It's your God-given responsibility. You can't expect a free ride from anybody. You have to be smart'?

Look. If God is sovereign, God is sovereign. He is not sovereign only when it gets you out of a raw situation (i.e. comforting someone who's grieving). He does not lose His sovereignty when you want to dole out advice to some younger person with different talents than you. If God was sovereign when He decided to let my cousin die despite our prayers, He was also sovereign when He made me and planned out my life.

You, church, people of God, cannot flip-flop between whether or not God is sovereign. Can you help guide my path (as the Spirit of God leads)? Yes. Absolutely. I have no problem with that. (In fact, if the Spirit is leading, please do.) I do, however, have a problem with you cloaking your nasty opinion of my gifts in the phrase, 'well, God told me...' If God did not tell you that, very, very, VERY clearly, then you are taking the name of God in vain -- using Him as a vehicle for your own opinion, using His glorious name as a mere trump card.

And then you wonder why nobody thinks much of God... maybe if you had respected Him enough to attribute to Him the consistency of character that you insist He has, we'd have a more formidable picture of this great and glorious God.

On Encouragement

'Encouragement' is a concept I've pondered a lot since I began to take my calling as a performing artist seriously.

We as artists say we want to encourage people. We as Christians say one of our goals is to encourage each other.

So how does an artist encourage someone? Especially if you're a dance artist -- one who performs without words? Anyone can write a song with the lyric 'don't give up,' but how do you communicate that clearly in dance? Do you bother trying to say something so abstract so clearly? What about all the art that deals with the hardships of life -- the stuff that actually resonates because it touches on things so deep yet so common? Can only sugary sweet, 'safe and fun' art encourage?

Yet in my own artistic intake I continually find myself going back not to the happy, smile-a-minute songs, but to the ones that acknowledge -- no, press into -- deep pain. My favourite Terry Scott Taylor album of all time was written out of the loss of his grandfather and his oldest child within months of each other. It was in these expressions of melancholy and frustration and deep pain that I found solace. It was these songs, these albums, that gave the me courage to keep going. It was that knowledge -- that at least one other person on the planet, at at least one point in their life, had felt this despondency -- that kept my own despondency from swallowing me.

I came up against this concept again last year when, in the most intense and prolonged mental/emotional/spiritual struggle of my life (thus far), my church hung me out to dry. They told me I was too negative. Many stopped speaking to me, and those who didn't made no secret of their frustration with my despondency and repeatedly told me, 'you need to be happier,' 'you should be over this already,' 'you're not trying hard enough.' One person in leadership actually told me (in writing), 'Kate, it is your responsibility to encourage people by being happier.'

I was dying -- literally dying. And all they told me was 'it's your fault we don't give a crap about you.' They wanted me to earn what they should have been giving freely.

The other day, out of nowhere, the thought struck me: does 'encouragement' exclusively mean 'making someone happy'?

If so, then why do I get more encouragement out of one song born out of deep pain than out of an entire album that is so cheerful it causes a sugar coma? Why does one make me take a deep breath, wipe the tears from my eyes, and say, 'thank you,' while the other makes me writhe in near-physical pain from the confounded cheerfulness of it all?

Why am I encouraged by the things that acknowledge the brokenness and sadness?

Maybe because 'encouragement' is actually not so much about joy as it is about coming alongside someone -- walking with them, whether the journey is easy or not. Think of Sam coming alongside Frodo. It was dark, it was difficult, it was by no means happy. But Sam was an encouragement to Frodo because he was right there, literally beside him, sharing the experience of the darkness, even though he could easily have checked out and gone home. Maybe encouragement is about companionship and empathy, not fake smiles and fluffy words. Maybe encouragement is a lifestyle -- a commitment -- not something that gets switched on and off. (And I am almost certain that it's not dependent on whether you think the other person 'deserves' it or not.)

I've always said, since the very beginning of my career, that I wanted to do for others what my favourite artists have done for me. So that's my goal: one day, I want to be able to give the next wounded soul the same companionship and comfort -- the same encouragement -- that my favourite artists have given me.

Remember... Remember... (2017)

This post is mostly for myself, so feel free to skip... I just thought I'd take a few minutes and note the changes that happened in 2017, the good things, the things that only a few short years ago I only thought about wistfully and the things that I never could have foreseen.

Overall, 2017 -- mostly just the past few months -- was a year of significant upheaval for me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. I'm still in the middle of it and I'm still processing a lot of it (it'll likely take years), but so far these are my observations.

- January: First posted an excerpt of one of my dance practices on social media. (This was actually supposed to be a one-off thing, but it set in motion almost literally every ounce of dance growth that would happen over the rest of the year.)

- January: Began a consistent dance practice schedule that would continue until the college Christmas break.

- March: My first comedic role (Person in Chair in The Drowsy Chaperone).

- March: Choreographed for a stage production for the first time (The Drowsy Chaperone).

- April: Finally admitted to another person just how much I was struggling mentally/emotionally.

- April: Began counselling. (This in turn set off the long, long process of beginning to deal with my friend's death, my cousin's death, my extended family's issues, the emotional abuse throughout my childhood and teen years, the neglect and mistreatment from my former church, and the perfectionism -- both forced and self-imposed -- that almost literally killed me.)

- April: Performed literally the hardest, most complex tap dance I could ever have dreamed of in my worst nightmares... and performed it really quite well.

- April: The tap shoe story.

- April: Began my internship (as director's assistant).

- May: Told a few close friends about my depression.

- May (ish): Found my head voice. This opened up a whole other world for my voice.

- June: Performed a high G for the first time.

- June: After years of crap, finally left the church I'd attended for ten years and began attending a different one on the recommendation of a school acquaintance. So far I enjoy the new church. (At the very least it got me out of the old one.)

- July: Finished my 2016 NaNoWriMo novel draft.

- August: A few college friends got together and put together a book of encouragement for me.

- August: Moved into a legitimate house -- not dorm -- on my own (well, with roommates) for the first time.

- September: Submitted a statement to my former church about my reasons for leaving their church, including detailed stories of the way the leadership at this church mistreated me.

- September: Landed a job for during the school year.

- September (ish): Began making it a point to dress up a bit more. (Up till this time in my life I was dressing almost exclusively in jeans and t-shirts.)

- October: Learned/performed my first opera solo (Stizzoso, mio stizzoso from La Serva Padrona).

- November: Did a 30-Day Choreography Challenge, involving choreographing a minimum of 32 counts every day and posting the day's output on social media every day.

- November: For the first time in my life it occurred to me that I might actually be able to separate the depressed voice and my voice in my head... that they might actually be separate.

- December: Filmed, edited, and released my first dance video.


I won't say too much more because today was a rough day and if I throw a pity party here after this list that I made to look back on good things it would pretty much negate the purpose of making the list in the first place. But there it is. Things did happen... they're just not going as quickly and improvement is not as dramatic as I had been hoping.

The People Of God

The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians, who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door, and deny Him by their lifestyle.
That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable.

(Quoted in dc Talk's 'What If I Stumble?,' 1995.)

Lately, as I navigate my calling as an artist (and all it entails), coming to terms with the trauma in my past, the faith community that has by-and-large told me God can't love me because (any number of stupid self-centered reasons but mostly because God made me an artist), and the loss of several friends because I'm 'too depressed,' I'm becoming increasingly disillusioned with the whole thing.

I grew up in the Christian bubble. I freely admit that. In a lot of ways, I'm still in it. But I don't like what I'm seeing. It doesn't make sense. And it's not necessarily God that I have a problem with (although I do still have trust issues with Him due to my cousin's entirely unnecessary death in 2015). It's the people.

The people of God -- oh, that's a lofty title. The people who reflect God -- all His love and compassion and kindness and joy and wisdom and justice and gentleness and patience. The people entrusted with His work of restoring broken people and reminding them they are valuable. The people originally called 'little Christs' because they were so much like Him.

You know who the people of God really are, on an individual level?

They are that person at church who tells you you are too negative and that you need to be more happy or else you can't be friends anymore.

They are that church leadership figure that actively stifles your gift (and no-one else's) because they have a 'feeling' that 'people might not like it.' (Not 'is this a direction God wants us to go?' not 'is this gift forbidden or approved in Scripture?' not even 'does God have something to teach us through this person's use of this gift?')

They are that other church leadership figure that talks behind your back -- telling your friends not to associate with you because you're 'too negative.'

They are that friend who's been through darker valleys than you have, who literally stops talking to you BECAUSE you're 'too depressed' -- then gets upset when you go to someone else for support.

They are that friend who, even after learning you're in therapy following a suicide attempt, keeps telling you to 'get over it.'

They are that best friend who basically cuts off the friendship -- hoping you won't notice -- and when questioned, their excuse is 'you're too personal.'

They are that person who told you they cared about you and then began literally grading every email you sent them, based on 1. whether they were 'too long' or not, and 2. whether or not they had a 'good balance of positive and negative.' Without addressing anything you actually said in the email.


I sense a theme. God's ambassadors are consistently telling me that I'm annoying and too talkative and too deep and too negative. Ergo, this must be the way God feels about me too. I mean, that's what His representatives are telling me.

You know what's really stupid?

All these same people keep telling me 'God loves you...'

Too Good To Be True

Written 24 January 2017, 12.55am.

A common observation by one of my college profs is that I 'fight' a lot. Not 'fight' as in 'make trouble/argue with people,' but 'fight' as in 'struggle.' Multiple profs in my program have noted that I'm stubborn and passive-aggressive. But it wasn't until Christmas break that I began to figure out why. Over the break, I was talking with a friend and somehow over the course of conversation the thought came to me: 'I'm scared it's too good to be true.'

I've loved music and dance all my life. The theatre has always drawn me. I've always loved stories. But I also grew up in a Baptist church, where the performing arts were Absolutely Forbidden (except hymn-singing and the annual Sunday School Christmas skit). Very early on my natural empathy for people (don't laugh) and my ability to memorise and understand the Bible (relative to my age) convinced people -- including myself -- that I would grow up to be a missionary.

I was okay with that -- excited, even. I loved hearing stories of other missionaries and I thought 'wouldn't it be so cool to be able to lead people to Jesus?' This was something on my radar well into my teen years, although I wasn't so pretentious as to decide exactly where I was going. I was content to wait on God for that.

In my mid-teens, performing made a resurgence in my life. It gained a further hold when I went to college and found myself almost accidentally swept into the musical theatre program. I loved every single second of it. I've made posts on this blog to that effect. But even as I was pursuing the performing arts and even as I was justifying my degree to my Christian acquaintances by saying, "The art world is so dark -- it's a mission field too," and even as I was telling myself I was training to be a more effective light in the darkness, I was scared. Not of the darkness -- there was so much of that around me I was more or less used to it. Rather, I was scared that at any moment God would snatch the performing arts -- my deepest love and often my only solace -- away from me, plop me into a 9-to-5 office job, and forget about me.

I knew God uses the arts. I've seen Him do it. There is no doubt in my mind that God loves the arts. But I had trouble realising (or perhaps believing) that maybe... maybe I was one of them. Maybe the one thing I longed for the most was also the very thing God had created me for. I knew God does need artists, but as much as I wanted to be one of them, I couldn't bring myself to believe that maybe He wanted me to be one of them too. To think that God might have actually wanted me in the performing arts was too good to be true. So I tried to ruin it for myself and get my no-doubt-impending failure over with as quickly as possible. I have almost succeeded.

I was so scared of having it taken away from me that I began to self-sabotage. I far overloaded the fall 2016 semester with classes and then added a couple fairly sizeable creative projects with deadlines on top of that. Every time I practiced voice, I would almost subconsciously do exactly the same thing as before, and then complain that I was not improving (this, I think, was at least part of the 'fight' my professors were referring to -- they kept telling me what to do to improve, and I kept not doing it). I started turning in half-done papers and skipped more classes in the last two weeks of the semester than I ever had in my entire education up to that point. I absolutely stopped trying in dance class. During voice recital/performance/finals week (when I should have been sleeping the most for the sake of my voice) I stayed up for 65 straight hours working on four major projects for three classes. My vocal master class prof straight up told me after the final dress rehearsal for the class final performance, "Go home and go to bed," to which I replied, "I can't." I wanted nothing more than to do exactly as he said, but I had a presentation to research and create before 8.30 the next morning -- a presentation that would have already been done if I hadn't overcommitted myself so badly elsewhere. I was texting my best friend back home things like, 'would it really matter to anybody if I killed myself?' -- texting her these things because I knew she was too far away to stop me. I was in a complete tailspin, and it was pretty much self-inflicted.

I fought my professors' advice and/or help at almost every turn, even though they probably wanted to see me improve just as much as I did. But I couldn't believe that might be the case. I couldn't bring myself to trust them, and I certainly could not bring myself to believe that maybe God wanted me here, in the arts, in this program, developing my skills. I kept telling myself the professors were only investing any time at all in me because I was spending money to be in their classes. After all -- that's all I've ever been good for, right? As for God, I had long since given up on His love for me.

So I subconsciously kept myself from doing what I wanted more than anything, so that God wouldn't have to break my heart again. If my life was going to get screwed over again, I was going to be the one doing it. I didn't need the church or my relatives or God breaking my heart anymore. I started breaking my own heart, berating myself on their behalf, to save them the trouble. I told myself everything that everyone else had told me for all these years: 'you're only worth something if you have a good job and make a lot of money,' 'you're annoying,' 'you're in the way,' 'nobody likes you,' 'nobody wants you around,' 'nobody asked you,' 'we don't need you here,' 'who said you could talk?' 'you can't do anything right,' 'maybe it's time to give up.' After all, even God's church gave up on me -- telling me, however, implicitly, that God doesn't want artists.

And I believed all of it. I believed that this love for the performing arts and this tiny seed of talent that I did have meant nothing, that God had simply put them in me to confuse me and to make it hurt more when His true purpose for me -- which, obviously, would probably include an office job and many early mornings and no alone time whatsoever -- was revealed. It wasn't until this semester (note that it's still only January) (EDIT: It was January when I wrote this, although many of the sentiments remain the same now, in May) that I began to wonder if maybe there was a reason He built this into me. Maybe He wants me to be a performing artist. But I'm too scared to believe it. It seems too good to be true.

A Voice of My Own

Originally written 5 November 2016.

I have a fairly intense singing semester at college this year: choir, voice lessons, and vocal master class. I'm spending more hours a week singing than I ever have dancing. The music students and faculty I interact with keep saying I'm improving, but I don't hear it and instead of gaining momentum I'm actually shrinking back. I haven't really sung in two days -- I've been in the practice rooms, but I've been doing breathing exercises or lip trills or speaking the text for the songs I have or playing the melodies to 'get them in my head'... but no actual singing takes place. I've mentioned before how I hate the sound of my voice and it seems that no matter where I turn I run into my voice, this awkward, clunky, wooden thing that can hit a note but sounds like the screen door on your grandma's old farmhouse in the process.

Their big thing here is volume. Because I hate my voice so much, I speak and sing as quietly as possible so people won't have to suffer the fate of hearing something so ungainly. I've done this for so long that I physically can no longer speak or sing very loud. My second year here stretched my volume boundary a bit, but not as much as is expected of me. I'm in this constant battle between wanting to sing more loudly because that's what my teachers ask of me and never wanting to sing again so no-one has to hear me.

Where did this come from? Nobody has ever outright told me they hate my voice. I've gotten 'I hate you,' and 'you sing flat,' but never 'I hate your voice.' Even the person who told me he couldn't stand me and basically wished I would go die in a hole told me I had a nice voice -- in the same conversation. (Come to think of it, that probably explains why I have such a hard time accepting compliments.)

It must have come from experience... The experience of being in that youth group and not even having a name. The experience of telling my parents I was NOT okay with a certain arrangement they had made and having them ignore me --- thrice (even after watching me spiral downward dramatically after the first two instances). The experience of constantly being ignored and shushed (and rebuked for the things I did say) in the youth group and having the God-card pulled on me at home. The experience of screaming to God for help, comfort, peace, anything for months when hell broke loose in 2015 and hearing nothing in response.

Nobody valued my voice -- literally or figuratively -- until I came to this college. I spent twenty years being systematically silenced and told I meant nothing, that my opinion didn't matter, that my voice was pointless. And now I have to sing loudly? Are you crazy? Who wants to hear that? Nobody.

Resistance and Perfection - Definition Of An Artist

I have been called worthless.

I have been called lazy.

I have been called stupid.

I have been called a whore.

I have been called annoying.

I have been called too smart for my own good (and believe me, that's not a compliment).

I have been called whiny.

I have been called too negative.

I have heard people tell their friends not to associate with me.

I have heard people tell my friends not to associate with me.

I have been told I'm not wanted.

I have been ignored.

I have been yelled at.

I have been told I will never amount to anything.

I have been told I am a waste of skin/of time/of space.

I have been told I'm wasting my life.

I have been called unloveable.

I have been told I mean nothing.

I have been given the cold shoulder.

I know how Larry Norman must have felt -- what it's like to be too worldly for the church and too Christian for the world. I know what it's like to have the church look at you and say "we don't need you and we don't want you."

I know what it's like to cry myself to sleep. I know what it's like to practice until I literally collapse. I know what it's like to rehearse until my practice clothes are sweat-glued to my body. I know what it's like to pull an all-nighter -- for an entire semester. I know what it's like to starve. I know what shin splints feel like. I know what emotional heartbreak feels like. I know what it's like to pay enormous chiropractic bills because I have destroyed my body trying to be good enough. I know what it's like to practice until I can't breathe.

I have known all this in the past two years. I know most of this as I write.

Tell me now how worthless and unlovable I am. Tell me that I am solely responsible leading today's generation astray. Tell me I am the antichrist. Tell me all this sweat, all these hours, all this work, all this pain, all this love in my heart for it -- tell me it means nothing. Tell me the oxygen in my lungs as I practice is a waste. Tell me I'm wasting my life. Tell me God hates me.

Go on. I dare you.

Broken Life

Warning: Christian-ese ahead.

This morning at church, just before the sermon, the thought suddenly came to me out of nowhere -- did God have to strip everything out of me so there was space for Him to fill me up with grace? Did God have to break me to get inside me? He's done that before, though not quite at the level of the past year and a half. I keep saying I want to touch people. And I know (at least cognitively) that only happens when God is in me. Is that what He was trying to do? It darn near backfired. I didn't speak to Him for over a year. I still barely speak to Him.

The sermon had nothing to do with this train of thought, but right at the end of the service, during communion, one of the interns talked about Jesus breaking the bread and saying 'This is My body, broken for you.' And he talked about what this means if we're living our lives like Christ -- it means being broken before God and the people He loves. All using some of the same words I had thought earlier. It was almost creepy.

But things snapped into focus, if only for a moment: I've been trying to figure out my life, trying to get my proverbial ducks in a row (or at least get them in the same pond), trying to be perfect so I can be loved. And suddenly there was a paradigm shift. This is what the apostle Paul meant when he said "I boast in my infirmities." We live our lives unashamedly broken. We are broken and almost proud of it. We know are loved and this is why we are okay with being broken. We as Christians tend to try so hard to be salt and light and we wonder how we can best do that and suddenly I realised this is how. By being okay with being imperfect, being comfortable in our own skin. People in general are out to fix themselves, improve themselves, get that facelift and keep up with fashion at all costs... but we're not. It doesn't drive us. This is how we are different. That's all it takes. We try so hard to force being different while being sort of the same (in a knockoff kind of way) but forcing an improvement program for our own brokenness is counter-productive.

I've broken myself for this dance dream, for the love of other people -- anybody and everybody. But have I broken myself for Jesus and the people He loves?

NaNoWriMo Day 8: We Have Music!

So... Day 8 of National Novel Writing Month.

As I've lamented on this blog already, I had a ridiculous amount of trouble even thinking of an idea of what to write this year. Usually my problem is more like 'which of these 17 awesome ideas do I write this year?'

So this year, lacking any other ideas, I dug up a novel I started back in 2008 that had long since died of extensive family histories and minute geographical details (A.K.A. lack of ability to make the actual plot believable), gave it a chronological overhaul, revamped the main character's life, infused a plethora of juicy secrets, and decided that if I really absolutely had to, I could use this one for NaNoWriMo. All the time, of course, I was hoping for a much more exciting plot to come along.

Obviously, none ever came.

I came up with one heck of a backstory for a nonexistent story, but that was it. It was either my impossible ghost-mystery plot or my backstory-without-a-plot. I went with the ghost mystery.

One of my biggest hang-ups about this year was not knowing what my novel's 'soundtrack' should be. Often my novels are heavily inspired by music: last year's Kyrie came from Mr. Mister's song of the same name (although the Newsboys' Elle G. was another strong influence); Angel Falls (2013) was directly inspired by the Veil Of Ashes song; the plot of Chasm (2011) was entirely inspired by the Flyleaf song and a radio interview with Stryper, and so forth. And even in my novels that aren't named after songs, you can always tell what I was listening to that year just by reading the novel. And this year I had nothing. None of the music I listened to captured me at all. And even once I had a plot, I couldn't find music that fit. None of it felt right. I lifted the title from a Daniel Amos song, but even that song didn't fit the feel of the story. But I had no other ideas, so I had to use this intricate, impossible story-without-music.

It's funny how I always think I'm such a pantser (technical NaNoWriMo term for 'writer who makes crap up as they go along') until I actually attempt to do it and realise how much I suck at trusting my imagination. That said, I'm actually quite a long way ahead, but that was mostly because I hated my plot so much that I wanted to get away from it as soon as possible so I've been writing like a madwoman so I could finish it sooner. It's actually starting to pick up a bit (now that I've used up almost every single one of my plot points).

But today -- oh, today was a glorious day! for I decided, while writing, that I hadn't heard Steve Taylor's Hero in a while. And then his song Jenny. And then Sin For A Season. And somewhere between Jenny and Sin For A Season, I realised that those two songs perfectly described the two main players in the central conflict. (Of course, this happens when I'm over half-done the novel.)

Of course, by now my brain was in Steve Taylor mode, so I listened to two and a half entire albums. And nearly every single song applied to at least one character or one aspect of the situation.

So on this, my eighth day of panicking, I would just like to say:

Thanks, Steve Taylor. You saved my novel.

And now, stats time!

Official NaNoWriMo Goal For Day 8: 13,336 words

Current Word Count: 27,461 words
Number Of Characters Killed: 0 in story; like 5 in backstory
Number Of Song References: 0 (what is wrong with me?)
Number Of Doctor Who Episodes Watched: 4
Number Of Injured Wrists: 1
Snow Days: 0

Guests At The Banquet

This morning as I sat in the church foyer, people-watching, I noticed how... I don't know, inclusive? our particular church is.

You often hear people day they don't feel 'good enough' for church. We have songs like Casting Crowns' If We Are The Body and Does Anybody Hear Her?, Connie Scott's Come On Leah, L.S. Underground's Shaded Pain, Rob Frazier's Come On Elaine, all of which paint pictures of people who needed Jesus but were run out by the church. And this is true. This is all true. I've seen it happen. I was almost one of them. There are still far too many people who demand you meet their standard before they let you in their church. But that's not the point of this post.

I was looking around the foyer from my vantage point on the edge of it. I saw the greeters -- a black woman and a white woman -- talking and laughing together in the moments when there weren't people to greet. I saw Europeans, blacks, Natives, and Filipinos. I watched my (white) brother talk to his Native friend and my (European) father catch up with a young half-Filipino. I saw young kids (elementary age) talking to white-haired ladies and time-weathered men as if they were good friends -- and indeed they were.

I saw many people with walkers and canes, one in a cast, and several in wheelchairs. I saw a handful of amputees. I saw one half-blind woman get a coffee for a man in a wheelchair. I saw several people with tics.

The pastor was right in the thick of it. He sat at a table drinking coffee and talking with an autistic man and several old ladies. He waved and smiled at the man in a wheelchair, came and spoke with me (knowing I've been going through a lot), greeted everyone he passed by name with twinkling eyes and a warm smile.

All this is a casual, fairly superficial observation. This is what a newcomer would have seen if they had entered this church for the first time this morning. This doesn't even include the stories that I know lie behind these faces: the adopted child, the cancer survivor, the person with anxiety issues, the ladies whose husbands have left them, the widows and widowers, the foster children, the people with depression.

All these people with different stories and experiences and backgrounds, all in the same building, in the same network pool of friends and family. Many are 'broken' in the world's eyes -- witness the wheelchairs and walkers. Some are 'outcasts' -- the depressed, the divorcées. But here in this building, while they may not all be close friends with everybody else, there is a sense of camaraderie -- we're all in this together. Nobody looks down on the handicapped, the abandoned, the ones with mental issues, the ones with a different skin colour. Are we perfect? Nope. And that's part of what makes this a safe haven for us.

It all reminded me of a song.

The poor are coming

The lame are running

With their sleazy clothes and orthopaedic shoes

There's a harelip salesman shouting out the news

"Come to the banquet at the world's end!"
(Banquet At The World's End, Daniel Amos, 1993)

And an even older song:

Jesus loves the little children

All the children in the world

Red and yellow, black and white

They are precious in His sight

Jesus loves the little children of the world...

Stage Fright

I perform (dance) again in less than a week. It's my own choreography. Theoretically I should be excited and I am, but I'm sick with worry over the performer -- namely, me.

I've always considered myself rather an average performer, as that seems to be the general attitude towards my performing. I'm all right with that. I'm much better at and more excited about composing choreography anyway. The problem is that I have all this great choreography that I want to see on a stage, if only for purposes of critique, and I have no performers except myself. And, as noted, I'm not exactly Anna Pavlova.

The line between performing and composing is not even thought about in Canada, never mind among my typical audience of Baptists and farmers. Therefore, if the performer is terrible, the entire dance is criticised -- even though the choreography itself may have been stellar. Therefore, if I am the only performer of my choreography, and I as a performer am only a sub-par vehicle for what may very well be excellent choreography, I will not get good, clear, honest feedback about either the choreography or the execution of it. By extension, folks will be reluctant to see any more of my choreography -- even if I'm not performing it -- because a sub-par performance will have sullied its merits.

The nature of my audience magnifies the pressure. Baptist churches are not exactly known for their kind-heartedness, grace, or mercy. They know me, yes, but that means they expect me to be utterly perfect -- by their idiosyncratic definition of perfect. I'm already toeing the line by dancing in the first place. If I screw this up, if it turns out this choreography is poorly represented by the relatively out-of-practice performer, there is a very real chance of living the rest of my life as a punch line: "Remember that time Kate tried to dance back in '14? I thought Hell had broken its banks."

There is only one chance in the Baptist church. Do it flawlessly (their definition) the first time or stop being a Christian. There is no room for trailblazing, for learning, for refinement and development of a craft. Add to this that I'm not entirely happy with the choreography itself, and I'm seriously wondering if I should pull out rather than risk submitting five minutes of random potentially-self-serving crap to an audience that never asked for it. Most of them wouldn't know the difference between bad dance and good dance, which makes me want even more badly to show them a shining example of good dance lest they see one example of the bad and subsequently write off all dance everywhere. At the moment, I can't guarantee that I can show them an example of good dance.

But then, if not now, when? I've been chomping at the bit to get my choreography staged, and now it's finally starting to happen a bit. Logic says I should just take the chance and run. But am I really ready? Is this just normal pre-show nerves? I wouldn't know, I've never really had issues with stage fright.

Movement And Power

Earlier this year, as I've mentioned, I choreographed a trio that two of my sisters and I performed several times over the summer. One of those performances was at our church, a Baptist church. For those who aren't aware of denominational stereotypes, one of the Baptist stereotypes is the eleventh commandment against dancing (and drinking and smoking). Our particular church gathering is pretty relaxed as far as Baptists go (we have drums in the song service, and that's a big deal for Baptists), but even so, we had to run the mere idea of a dance the by worship committee, pastor, and the deacon board before being given the go-ahead.

I've been dancing since age six. While public speaking and solo singing still causes serious nerves, I almost never get nervous before dancing. Dancing is just a thing that I do; it's part of my regular life. But that Sunday, as we took our places to perform what we had been working on for a month and a half, what had been in my head for nearly a year, I was nervous. I expected at least a few people in that congregation to fully hate this, on principle. I was also having trouble sticking one of the relevés in rehearsal and under the self-inflicted pressure to be perfect I could not allow that.

My entrance was a brush-step-step into a pas de valse, then a hold while my sister entered from the opposite side. As we launched into our choreography for the chorus, something I've pondered offstage rather often popped into my head and I pictured myself -- only for a moment -- in the throne room of God. I consciously told myself, "I am dancing for God," and there was a moment where I finally let the performance go. I surrendered myself to the choreography my body knew.

I have never done that before in a performance. I'm always considering what comes next, thinking about fixing the things I tend to mess up on -- plié deeper, hold the core on any kind of demi-pointe, turn out for Pete's sake... Dancers talk all the time about 'getting lost in the dance' and despite having been performing since age six, I've never actually experienced this. I'm almost scared to. As soon as I let myself get lost in the dance -- so the reasoning goes -- the technique will fall to pieces and by the time I notice it will be unsalvageable. And if there is one thing about the stage that terrifies me, it is improvising anything, but especially a dance. In dance you have to improvise with perfect technique and end up rejoining the set choreography on the proper foot... oh, and dynamics and timing and stuff.

Back to the point: the moment where I think I really finally put my dancing -- at least for one performance -- in God's hands. I don't actually remember anything specific about the rest of the performance, but I do remember thinking it went quite well. The video bears that out. After the service, I wasn't sure what to expect. I had just trampled the number one rule of being a Baptist at the front of the very sanctuary. I knew there were some people in that congregation who are just as fed up with Baptist fundamentalism as I am, but I also knew there were some diehard Baptist traditionalists. I was bracing myself for some strong negativity mixed with the compliments. To my great surprise, the angry comments never came, but one consistent thread seemed to join the positive responses. The fullest verbalisation of it came from the pastor: "It moved me to tears, especially the part near the end where [youngest sister] knelt down. It just reminded me of the importance of kneeling in worship before the Lord."

That comment surprised me. And consistently the comments were about the ending, that kneel, how it made folks misty-eyed. I was not expecting a response like that.

Personally, I find it hard to know what effect a dance has on people. I've been performing them so long and from such a young age that even I rarely actually get to watch a dance outside of rehearsals, and when I do, I'm usually watching the technique and the musicality and the use of pliés or the line of the arm or something -- I'm so engrossed in the details that make up the whole that I have a hard time seeing the whole. As a result, I often suspect the average dance audience only shows up because either a) their kid is in it, or b) it's perceived as really high-society and upper-crusty and therefore it's something you should do if you want to look high-society and upper-crusty. I always sort of assumed someone without a dance background could not be really inspired or moved by watching somebody else perform a dance, even if it was good choreography and well executed. After all, the dancers are up on the stage doing wonderful things with decades of training and the audience is sitting in upholstered theatre seats, likely digesting a rich meal and trying to look impressive to the folks around them. Can dance even awake any feeling at all in a non-dancer? I didn't know, but I assumed it didn't. People talk all the time about how music moves them and makes them happy or cheers them up and how stage plays make them cry or make them think. But no-one talks about their response to watching dance. Is it too sublime for words to convey or simply too boring? I had no way of knowing. I asked my non-dancing family, but they didn't seem to understand the question.

The other thing that took me aback about the general theme of comments following that church performance was that it was the ending, the kneel, that moved them. The ending was actually the choreographically weakest part of the dance. It was literally just two consecutive repeats of the port de bras from the second verse at a painstakingly slow rate as the youngest one knelt on centre stage. I just tacked something on to run out the music (I was NOT going to cut it -- I loathe it when people chop off the song they're dancing to mid-note. Ever heard about the satisfying quality of the final perfect cadence?). But it seemed to be the most powerful part of the performance for people.

Now, I've kind of got myself into doing a solo for this same church for Christmas. I'm fine with dancing at church again, but as I've (probably) mentioned on this blog before, I really don't like solos. I don't like watching them, I don't like dancing them, and I don't like choreographing them. The one I originally proposed to the church has already been choreographed, technically, but the thing is, I do this thing where I choreograph things WAY above my actual skill level (hoping that some angel dancer with loads of experience will join up with me and perform my work while I choreograph it). I could alter it, at the risk of forgetting my own choreography because of confusion between the original version and my modified version. I will have to modify it, however, I just flat-out don't know how to make a solo 'powerful.' Give me a (theoretical) stage laden with twelve dancers and I can make magic happen. But give me one person and I draw a total blank. How do you add dynamics and pacing with only one person? Even with two people you can utilise some give-and-take, push-and-pull, opposition or symmetry or unison as needed. You don't have that kind of variety with a soloist and that makes it so much harder to give both the dancer and the audience anything to connect to. In a duo, there's another dancer to keep the audience's eyes and the other dancer's use of space grounded. In a solo, there is no point of reference. The soloist is self-contained. (Incidentally, that is what I hate most about modern/contemporary dancing -- how the movement all comes from 'within' the dancer rather than from interacting -- meaningfully -- with people or even the music.)

I feel this need to 'top' what I did this summer -- though the response to that was far kinder than anything I expected. I want to be able to move the congregation/audience like that again. But how did the dance this summer bring such a positive response? How did it move the congregation so deeply? Was it really my choreography or was it my surrender? In my intellect I think I know the answer, but it hasn't pervaded my reason. My pride wants a formula, a step-by-step guide, but I don't think there is one. Art is rarely (if ever) formulaic -- if it was, it wouldn't be art. This has been my cry for years as someone just learning to appreciate art, but as an aspiring artist, the idea of making this easier has such an allure...

Music Day

I can't add much to this song. This pretty much nails it. It's White Heart's Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Christian from the perspective of the 'heathen' -- some might call it a stroke of genius, but it's really quite a logical standpoint (in fact, it's long overdue if you ask me). While White Heart took on the subject from the perspective of another member of the church (which could easily be taken as hypocritical, especially if Rick hadn't delivered the vocal with such concern), these guys put themselves on the outside looking in. As a result, the song hits closer to home than anything White Heart could have done, and yes, it is much harsher. But with the North American church in such a disgusting state of nearly-comatose apathy, only the harshest realities can possibly wake us now.

Thanks guys. You'll get a lot of flack for this one, but we need to hear this more than we know.

Title: Dear Mr Christian (feat. Dee-1 and Lecrae)
Artist: Derek Minor
Year: 2013
Label: Reach Records
iTunes here; YouTube here. (I don't recommend watching the video on an iDevice or in a moving vehicle -- the visual concept is great and the camera work is as smooth as possible, but even watching it on a stationary computer I got rather dizzy.)

The Problem With My Church

I've ranted before about the church -- both the specific church I attend and the church in general. I've gone on and on about the apathy, the cliques, the exclusion, the frustration of disorganised people and (the worst) people who say they'll do something and don't follow through, often texting me at the absolute last possible second -- oh sorry can't make it, can you fill in for me?

Sure -- except I'm also filling in for about six other people right now. Get off your lazy butt and keep your word.

Yesterday though, two things happened.

One: Yesterday was the official farewell service for our associate pastor and his family. Two: The White Heart Facebook page (you just knew they'd show up in here sooner or later) posted a status asking what is one thing we'd like to change about our churches.

I have to set up the first one a bit. The previous associate pastor had been phenomenal. He pretty much single-handedly introduced me to the real God -- not the sadistic white-bearded 'God' of popular imagination, the real, holy, beautiful God. It's thanks to that pastor's work that I still attend church at all.

So when he left and the next associate pastor came in, naturally our standards were very, very high. Perhaps too high, especially since this one was fresh out of Bible school. Of course, it took him some time to get a handle on the job and it took me even less time than to dismiss him as sub-par (it sounds so horrible when I write it out now, but it didn't seem so bad in my head).

For two years I mostly just tolerated him. Looking back, he implemented some really great stuff that I personally am genuinely thankful for, but I didn't see that. All I saw were the times when he would cancel something and tell everyone involved but me. The times where he would be leading the song service and I would be on PowerPoint and he would randomly change the order of service on the fly, leaving me scrambling and the congregation completely lost.

But today, at the farewell service, several very different people got up and talked about their memories with him and his wife. All of these people had nothing but gratitude in their hearts and in their words. And it wasn't just because the pastor was leaving and they wanted to make it look good -- no, they meant what they said. Every one of those people confirmed each other's statements in their own previously prepared speeches. Every one of them saw his creativity, his passion, his desire to help people.

And I got to thinking: if they all saw the same thing... then I'm the one in the wrong.

Here I had been all high-and-mighty. At least I tell everyone when plans change. At least I arrive at meetings on time. At least I know what I'm doing.

What I failed to realise until this farewell service was that it wasn't that he didn't know what he was doing -- he was just doing it differently than I would have. Different, but not necessarily wrong. After all, he accomplished a lot of stuff in two and a half years -- far more than I would have in his position, that's for sure.

Suddenly I began to realise what I had missed, simply because I was too busy picking apart his flaws to see his strengths. I was ashamed -- for the words I've spoken behind his back, for the thoughts of fury in my mind when his spontaneity clashed with my 'perfect' PowerPoint presentation and made me look like an idiot in front of 175 people. Note the use of the word 'me' in that sentence. It was all about me. He was making me look stupid. He wasn't up to my standards. He was more of a relational person, rather than the theology nerd I wanted.

I was so focused on how he was 'ruining' my plans that I didn't bother to look at him.

Exhibit two: the Facebook status.

I re-read the status after I posted my (severely self-censored but still lengthy) rant on it and noticed it said one thing you like about your church and one thing you wish would change. I had put down two things and three, respectively. Oops.

First up was the clique issue. There's a lot of venom behind this one. I spent five years wasting my time and energy and my parents' gas money attending youth group only to go completely unnoticed. Eventually one of them finally told me I was stupid and annoying. I stopped attending youth group and began plotting my own demise in earnest. If the Christians couldn't love me, nobody could.

Next up -- the 'college and career' group they just started. Oh wait, did I say 'college and career'? How quaint! How stupid one must be to think 'college and career' actually means 'college and career.' Hah! What a joke! What a laugh! And you thought you would actually be with likeminded people. Oh, you poor sap, Kate. How innocent you are!

Welcome to the 'college and career and junior high and senior high and whoever the freak else wants to join because you 18-and-over people aren't actually that important to us -- it's much more fun with the young people there too. You know, the ones who aren't yet being bullied by their relatives into making more money right freaking now and moving out when you're not yet self-sufficient and are still perfectly content with you finishing your education before they cram all that you're-an-adult-now crap down your throat' group.

The third rant I already mentioned at the beginning of this post (the one about people volunteering and then un-volunteering at the absolute last possible millisecond).

I posted the comment, but as I reread it, I started to feel doubly ashamed of myself.

For starters, my first two rants are embarrassingly polar opposite. I hate the cliques -- yet I'm angry that this group doesn't get to be clique-ish. Put another way, I hate the cliques... except when they include me. Then I will whine and argue and fight to the bitter end to keep it exclusive. Way to be all-or-nothing, kid.

So what's the problem with my church?

The problem is me.

I'm a selfish brat. Everything that I see as being wrong with the church stems from how much it inconveniences me. Are there issues with the church? Definitely. Do they need to be worked on? Absolutely. But maybe before I start demanding they fix everything that inconveniences me, I should let Jesus fix me first. How can I expect others to be open and loving and perfect if I'm not? I mean, I already knew I wasn't perfect, but somehow I was still expecting everyone to do everything my way. How can I sit and whine about everyone else expecting everyone to pander to their tastes when I'm expecting them to do the same thing for me?

Is this the church of Kate or the church of God?