In my life and in my practice lately, I feel like I’ve been fighting too hard, trying too hard, pushing too hard. I end up breaking myself again and again. Part of this is an expression of grief. My heart has been broken recently– by the death of my father, my mother’s stroke, challenges with my marriage. This has left my heart weary.
Last night in my practice I closed my eyes and imagined I held my heart. I wanted to see what was going on with it. My journal entry about the practice is below:
When I held my heart, I noticed that the front of my heart was charred, was burned, was covered in once molten metal gone hard. Behind the char, my heart was red, beating, glowing. I let myself feel into the part of my heart that was vital, alive, healthy.
The healthy part was so much bigger than the hurting part. My heart’s love extended behind me, into the forest, it filled the spaces between the trees and within the trees. Above me, beyond me, into the universe all around, within me.
It was as though I had been trying to force all of my love, all of my effort out of a tiny hole in the front of my chest. I thought I had to push it through there…
But no. When I allowed my love, my heart, my selfness to express behind me, the energy, the love, sifted out easily. Filtered. Breezed.
There was no forcing.
I felt relief.
* * * * * * * * * *
I wrote on the page about some strange folks that showed up at the park where I was practicing, the park I practice at regularly. Practicing in a vital city park shared by many others has its challenges. I didn’t feel safe around this particular group of people, but once they left, I felt at home again.
Some basketball players that I see often were playing, and one of them knows me. I’ve talked to him over the last few months about the journey he’s on in his life right now. Just having that one person there who knows my name, who sees me, makes me feel safer.
This is how I’m looking to feel. Safe. Comfortable, content, at ease, not pushing too hard.
I walked away from practice last night feeling like I’d had a little taste of success at being a little more content.
This past Wednesday, I told my friend Sandy a dream of mine: “I have this dream I haven’t told many people, Sandy.”
She listened attentively.
“I want to dress up like She-Ra, play music, and stand in front of a bucket that people put money in. I think I could make money that way.”
“I think that sounds great, I think you should do it,” she replied.
“Well, it IS Last Thursday tomorrow, there’s that street fair in my neighborhood, and my mom duties are over at 7:00. If there’s any day to do it, it’s tomorrow.”
“Do you have the costume?” Sandy asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Do you have the wig?” she asked.
“Yes, and the boots and everything,” I said.
“Well, then I expect to see it on Instagram on Friday.”
As soon as she said that magical sentence, “I expect to see it on Instagram on Friday,” I committed to pursuing my dream. When Sandy gives a worthy assignment, I don’t want to let her down.
I purchased the She-Ra costume a month or so ago. For Pride month, a friend of mine had bought himself a new fan that said “Daddy” on it. Inspired by his bold and saucy fashion choices in the spirit of self-expression, I ordered the She-Ra costume I had been wanting as a Pride present to myself. As a martial artist, I already had a Tai Chi sword that would match the outfit perfectly.
For those of you who may not know, She-Ra is an 80’s cartoon super hero. She is He-Man’s sister, and I’m guessing she was invented to expand He-Man’s cartoon and action figure empire into the girl market. I watched the She-Ra cartoon and had the toys as a kid. She-Ra was the alter-ego of Princess Adora, and in the intro to the cartoon, if I remember correctly, she said some spell, held up a sword, was surrounded by swirling energy, and she changed into a powerful and fierce super hero, She-Ra. She had a horse that turned into a winged horse, and a slew of colorful female friends with a few enemies thrown in to create interesting plot points.
The action figures are what I remember more than the show. I had She-Ra’s castle, the She-Ra action figure, two of her friends—one with purple hair, one with blue— and the gorgeous pink winged horse that she could ride on. The She-Ra action figure was about six inches tall, and I remember being enamored with the red plastic jewel set between her breasts. It was a separate piece of plastic embedded into her molded chest, and it was faceted and shimmery. She had a cloth cape and skirt, and long, brushable blonde hair. Her lips were red and her eyebrows arched. I loved the no-nonsense look on her face; this woman had important work to do.
She-Ra is the hero I want in my life right now, the hero I want to be. In 2016, I felt crushed after the election of President Trump, the pussy-grabber. I had thought, “For sure our country won’t elect a president who thinks it’s OK to grab a woman by the crotch.” But our country did.
I have identified as a feminist since a young age, but since the Trump election I’ve paid closer attention to the deep undercurrents of misogyny and sexism that run though our country’s institutions, laws, expectations, and actions. Since becoming a mother, I’ve felt firsthand how trying to live up to the gendered expectation of the “supermom,” the mom who raises kids, runs a household, and holds a job without breaking a sweat— is trying to live up to an impossible ideal. It’s too much work for one person, to take on the bulk of the childcare, the home management, and to have a professional life outside of the family. It was too much work for me, at least, and I kept struggling through cycles of burnout while trying to explain to my husband how taking care of the kids all the time was driving me insane.
But She-Ra as I imagine her doesn’t have to worry about things like balancing her work, her marriage, her kids and home life. She says her spell, changes into her fierce and fabulous best-self, and carries a sword to help her cut through life’s bullshit.
I didn’t carry my Tai Chi sword to Last Thursday, though it looked great with my outfit. I realized last-minute that bringing a weapon to a street fair is not a smart idea. So I left the house in costume, with a bucket for collecting money, a sign promoting the 80’s cover band I’m slowly starting, and a bluetooth speaker connected to one of my favorite iTunes playlists. I walked the few blocks from my house to Alberta Street.
Last Thursday on Alberta street in Portland used to be an enormous street fair. The road would be closed to traffic, vendors would line the street, musicians, dancers, and martial artists would play and demonstrate, and thousands of people from all over would descend on the neighborhood to walk around, buy handmade art, stand in line for hipster ice cream, and gawk at all the weird, wild Portland-ness around them.
Last night’s Last Thursday was much smaller, due to Covid restrictions. The street wasn’t shut down, but some vendors still lined the sidewalks. Even though it wasn’t a big affair, there were still more people in the neighborhood than usual. And those people were looking for interesting things to look at.
As I walked the few blocks from my home to Alberta street in my She-Ra costume with my music blasting, I felt the excitement of possibility and opportunity. As I neared the main drag, I saw people promenading and cars cruising. Heads immediately turned to look at me, the nearly six-foot woman dressed as a super hero with music blasting. And I had an enormous smile to greet them when they looked.
I’ve always loved dressing up and being the center of attention. My mother was a professional singer and performer for years, my father played the lead in his high school musical, so the desire for the spotlight is in my blood. I used to be the lead singer for a band, and I want to be again. My She-Ra experiment was the beginning of letting that performer part of me step back into the light.
Though there weren’t many people out last night, the response to my outfit and music was resoundingly positive. People smiled and waved, one women said “Hi, She-Ra!” Another said, “Welcome Princess!” And parents pointed out my costume to their small children. I walked the street until I found a good busking spot, then I set up my sign, my bucket, and danced and sang along to my playlist.
As I stood there singing and dancing on the street, I felt calm, peaceful, beautiful, at home. I expected to be nervous, but I wasn’t. A few people walked by and read my sign, some smiled, some pretended to ignore me, but I was there. I took a few selfies and texted them to Sandy: “I’m doing it!” I wrote to her. Assignment complete.
I stood and danced in my chosen spot for about fifteen minutes. Nobody put money in my bucket, and I started to get a little concerned that I was too loud for the other nearby vendors. Standing there was not going to be lucrative after all, so I decided to move. I packed up my things and started walking towards home, thinking I’d pick another spot and dance there for a little bit. However, as I started walking, I realized that I had already completely fulfilled my dream of busking dressed as She-Ra. Actually making money wasn’t part of the dream, just the act of dancing in public in costume was. So I decided I’d go home, drop off my bucket, then go back out to the crowded nearby bar still in costume.
When I stopped home, I told my eight-year-old son I had made no money. He had been concerned with the legality of my street performing without a license. I said, “Well, since I made no money, there’s nothing to worry about.” My son looked relieved and satisfied. My husband mentioned that the act of busking was illegal, so I’d still broken the law. I brushed his concerns aside, left my bucket, and headed back out.
I walked toward the bar on the corner, a place with a great jukebox, savvy bartenders, and a hoppin’ crowd. I bumped into some close neighbor friends on the way, and we took pictures together. I told them of my quest, and my buddy shot a video of my for my instagram (which I need to post today per Sandy’s instructions.) I delighted in seeing my friends, we caught up, then I continued to the bar, where I walked in confidently, ordered a drink, and sat to write about my evening in my journal.
At the bar, a group of four or five women, one of them celebrating her 28th birthday, greeted me and we started talking. They loved my outfit, I loved the colorful clothes and jewelry they were wearing, and we basked in the magical glow of a newly formed bar friendship. They wrote in my journal, we took pictures together, and we exchanged info via instagram. I headed home satisfied after a great night.
Joy. If I had to describe the experience of the night in one word, that would be it. Joy. I felt so happy seeing the smiles my outfit elicited. The connection I felt with other people was immediate and tangible, a recognition of the joy, love, and playfulness available to us as humans. As She-Ra, I cut through the bullshit of us all being strangers and connected heart-to-heart with people I had never met.
At one point in the evening a man stopped me to ask, “Why are you dressed up?” Smiling, I looked him in the eye and replied, “Just for fun.” He smiled, understanding, then we went our separate ways.
Maybe “just for fun” is the thing that cuts through the bullshit. Following the path of joy instead of darkness. It’s something we can all understand. Maybe it’s as simple as that.
Last week I traveled to British Columbia to train with my Tai Chi teacher, Master Shanti. She is a woman I met sometime around 2007 at PAWMA camp, the camp put on by the Pacific Association of Women Martial Artists. From the first class I took with her, I could see she offered something different than most other teachers. Her attention to the deep, internal, subtle structure of the body was far more attuned than other teachers I had trained with. She would suggest I move my knee a quarter inch, and that adjustment would change the strength of my stance dramatically. She asked me to fill my joints, to rest in, to take the slow ride into the deepest structure my body could manifest.
I began training in her system, The Shanti System, in 2018, soon after she had developed it. The system itself is a small collection of Tai Chi exercises that encompass all that our teacher wants us to learn. Here it is:
Wuji Standing: standing meditation, the foundation of our system
White Lotus Daoyin: a qigong in which we learn to express directional energy
Fang Song Gongs: exercises for efficient and clean kinetic movement
Blooding: exercises to open and fill the joints that allow us a more tangible relationship with chi
Freeform: allowing for free expression of martial movement within the container of our bodies
Even though I’ve been training in the system for four years now, I still don’t know how to do all of the exercises. The fang song gongs in particular seem hard for me to remember.
I think part of this, my inability to remember, has been an exhaustion with learning new things. I’m only recently realizing how exhausted I’ve been as a mother to young children. Exhaustion that was increased by grieving my father who died in 2020. Exhaustion that was increased when my mom had a massive stroke in 2021. Exhaustion that felt never-ending and hopeless when my marriage became full of resentment and my husband and I became adversaries instead of teammates over the course of covid (that resentment is, thankfully, subsiding thanks to couples therapy.)
Also, there’s a bitter part of me that hasn’t wanted to learn new things. In the last martial system I trained in, I learned enormous amounts of curriculum. Forms, kick combinations, hand combinations, fighting principles, the history of the system, the names of all of the black belts, and so much more. I put my whole self into that system with the expectation that all of that hard work would pay off when I earned my black belt.
But I didn’t earn my black belt. Instead I got pregnant, and soon after my son was born, my beloved Sifu left our school. I had no teacher anymore. I tried to go back to training in the system, but every time I tried, I got physically hurt. My postpartum body needed more tender care, and the teachers and students in the system at the time weren’t able to offer that. I also wasn’t able to speak up for myself and ask for tenderness. The culture at our school had been one of toughness, and I had gone soft.
I blamed myself for not being tough enough, and conflated that into feeling like I wasn’t a good enough martial artist. I pulled away from the school feeling defeated, and decided that maybe martial arts just wasn’t for me after all.
But the training was in my bones, and through my friend Jaydra, I circled around to training with my new teacher. Master Shanti values tenderness, connection, and emotion. These are all pieces that I hadn’t known I’d needed in my training. They are pieces that support me as a whole person.
So here I am now, in 2022, having just returned from B.C. where I trained with my teacher and fellow Systemers for four straight days.
Though I don’t know how to replicate all of the curriculum, what I do know I am beginning to know deeply. Over the course of the four days, my lower back, my “gate of life,” settled in more deeply and fully than it ever has. This has offered me the deepest connection to the earth I have felt yet, the earth being our ultimate source of martial power.
A correction that my teacher offered my right foot upended my entire universe. I could feel that how I had been holding that foot — twisted out a couple inches too far — was misaligned and I hadn’t noticed until Master Shanti pointed it out. After allowing for the correction, I had to blank out for a few hours so my body could have a deep internal conversation with itself to remember the new position.
And the time spent with my fellow students was joyful time. Our system is hard to learn. It asks us to rewire our brains and bodies from old patterned behavior into new, clearer ways of being. It invites us into “non-doing,” or “allowing,” which is far more difficult than just doing a punch. My fellow students and I share the frustration of our attempts at non-doing, and we celebrate each other boisterously when we have non-doing success.
So I have returned home to Portland not knowing much more than I did before I left, but knowing what I do know much more deeply. I have a felt sense, an introception, as my teacher says, of the art that I didn’t have before I left. I feel joyful and proud of the progress I have made, and deeply happy that I’ve gotten to where I am right now.
I’ve started a “Music” journal. Each page has the name of a musical artist on top, and then the songs of theirs that I like singing are listed below. The journal is indexed by artist:
Incomplete indexMy Talking Heads page.
My plan is to work my way through the journal and try singing all of the songs in public, whether at karaoke or with a band.
So…actually, my big, overarching plan is to start a cover band, but I haven’t gotten that together yet. When and where will we practice? Who will be in my band? How will I coordinate band life with mom life? This all seems overwhelming at the moment, so the band is still existing mostly within the realm of fantasy.
Starting the song list journal is my way of cataloguing my singing repertoire and beginning to dream of a band.
I recently took my journal to the Baby Ketten Karaoke club here in Portland and tried a song from it. I chose XTC’s “Generals and Majors,” a song from 1980 that popped into my head recently. It is a song about military hunger, war, ego, and glory, and ultimately a satire about the cogs in a war machine.
As a former drum major, the one who leads the marching band, I feel a special connection to this song. I have the hungry spirit of a leader, a love of pomp and glory, and a stirring desire to rally with others for a worthy cause. I detest war and real violence, but as a martial artist, I adore fighting and the self-realization available along the warrior’s journey.
A line from the song goes: “Generals and Majors always seem so unhappy ‘less they got a war.”
I seem so unhappy too, when I lose sight of a cause to fight for, or simply an inspiring goal to work towards. As a mom, the cause I’m most often fighting for is getting my kids to school on time. Or having enough clean laundry to dress my family. These goals are necessary, but not so inspiring. And definitely not glorious.
In contrast, my karaoke performance of “Generals and Majors” was glory-filled. I smashed and bounced my way through the song, leaping through the vocal gymnastics of quick-change intervals, and marching around the stage on the breaks. The crowd cheered, and after my performance, the club owner told me I “killed it.”
Performing was SO much more satisfying than doing laundry.
I logged my performance in my “Music” journal. The entry, along with a few others, appears below. More to come in the future. 🙂
Michelle Folk Johnson 