The Trip

anniedillard3The more I work on my book(s) – projects I can only dedicate myself to during the rare breaks between work trips and daily dance commitments -, the more I fall in love with the craft.
I get into a silenced tunel, retreating behind the scenes for a lonely, yet transformative, adventure. I feel lost while doing it but I don´t mind. I´m used to getting lost.
If you´re not an adventurer, a seeker, someone who can get into a dark forest with no guarantee of coming out of it alive, or coming out of it at all, I don´t believe you can make it. Obsession also helps – I´d say it´s essential.
One the things that surprises me the most are the paths my unconscious opens while I´m writing. Characters come out of nowhere, asking to be seen; dialogues fall on my hands with no previous warning; situations, from a past I´ve long forgotten, revisit me so I can (finally) get over them.
I didn´t know writing a book could be therapy, self-discovery, expansion. I didn´t know my unconscious did most of the work – always presumed writing was a rational task. And I don´t know how to do it. But I keep moving forward, one word at a time, surprise after surprise, blessing upon blessing.

“She smiled back: two missing teeth and a few dark spots revealed by her open mouth. That´s what happens when you open yourself: the darkness, as the light, pops out. You´re exposed: BAM! Too late to play the doll. Off go the well behaved, constricted, Degas Ballet dancers; in comes the bad, loose, women of Toulouse Lautrec.
Maybe that´s the reason why people don´t smile a lot. They don´t want to expose their darkness. Light is cool, and it looks good on social media, but darkness…well…who wants to see your rotten teeth?


Our power, and we DO have a power, isn´t of this world. In other words: this world doesn´t allow us to bring our power out. It it did, the world would change.

From wars, action warriors, fear and separation, we would move into love, stillness as action, trust and unity. That would be a revolution, one those prostitutes were, silently, shamefully (or not), working on in the secrecy of hotel rooms hidden in the cheesiest, darkest corners of Paris. The same revolution I operate with dancers every time I get into a classroom.

Maybe they were right, after all: I may be a prostitute. We´re working on the same craft.

-I wonder if they know they´re Love Warriors…the dancers, the prostitutes, every woman who invites freedom into her gut.

Nobody answered. Everybody had a job to do and focused on it, just as they should.

-Let´s go! – I told my student. – It´s time to dance.”

Excerpt from the book “Messages from The Womb” (work in progress)


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