(Originally posted in April 2006. I bend my knees more now. I still have an exothermic endocrine system. Sometimes the playful creativity of the leads makes me laugh out loud—it’s wonderful!—and, for a moment, the “now”-ness of the situation slips away because of my self-consciousness.

I still enjoy lindy hop immensely.)

Tonight, I finally realized that it is all in the knees.

Actually, it is all in the “core” (that block of mass that primarily encompasses one’s abdomen), but the bending of the knees helps stabilize the core so one has more control over one’s body while dancing. Previously, I just wasn’t bending my knees enough. This ultimately made it more difficult for me to follow my lead.

Here is a description of the benefits of dancing lindy hop; however, there is an important benefit that is missing from that list: Mindfulness.

Yes, mindfulness conjures up images of lavendar smoke swirling from the tip of the burning stick, people gazing at their navels, and bald monks wearing loose, drab-colored robes. Simply put, however, mindfulness is simply about being present within the moment. Being here. 43Folders recently had a summary post about mindfulness that captured some of the different aspects of this concept. (And I do agree that it is related to the philosophy of Getting Things Done—which is, thus far, working satisfactorily—although I, too, am also not entirely sure how it applies. It would seem, though, that people who immerse themselves in Getting Things Done have affinities towards a philosophy of simplicity and getting miscellaneous crap out of one’s head in an effort to focus on the task—or hobby—at hand.)

When I am dancing, I am not thinking about anything other than dancing. There are no worries about past, present, or future patients; no concerns about the tomes of reading that are waiting for me; no musings about writing projects; no meanderings about where I can find cool dancing pants or sweat-wicking (polyester, rayon, etc.) shirts. It’s just the music, the lead, and me.

Ideally, the dancing pair interact and move as one unit. Sure, there is room for “playing” and improvising off of the music and each other, but it is a complementary effort—kinda like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s one sandwich; it tastes good, but the peanut butter and jelly are separate entities that combine well to result in that singular fruity and nutty flavor that appeals to the palette. (There has got to be a better simile, but my brain fails me right now.) As a follow, that is all I am supposed to do: follow. (As the years have passed, I’ve become more skilled at refraining from backleading, though it certainly still happens.) In fact, when I start thinking about dancing, that’s when I backlead, misinterpret the move that the lead wanted me to execute, or otherwise “mess up”.

(Someone once said, however, that “there are no mistakes on the dancefloor, just new moves”. What a nice way to reframe a discordant moment.)

There is this “zone” where I am simply “being” with the lead. Like all dancers, I have better connection with some leads than with others (although my connection skills still have much room for improvement), but regardless, there is an experience where all there exists is the music and us. The dancing just happens: we stop at the same time, we start back up at the same time, we improvise complementary moves simultaneously, and it’s really, really, cool. And there is an individual and joint awareness of what is happening; the follow is attuned to the motions of the lead and thus simply (and almost magically) follows. I imagine that the lead experiences something similar; even though he has to come up with what we will do next, I’m guessing that during that mindful moment (or song), it just kinda happens.

It’s almost kinda eerie; it’s like I’m intensely attending to what is happening between us as we dance, but I’m clearly not thinking about it. Does that even make any sense? There is not a running ticker tape of “okay, he’s leading me into a free spin at the end of this swingout; there’s the push, now my feet are going to step in place while my body spins clockwise; I have to keep my arms and hands out in case he wants to catch one to do something next—what is he going to do next? another swingout? go back into six-count? one-step? stop?” None of that. I’m just aware of what is going on at that moment—and, in that vein of “all we have is this current moment”, the dance (the three-minute-ish song) has an endless “now” quality to it.

I’m not working well with the English language right now.

In any event, I think that is yet another appeal of dancing: Swing music is fantastic; lindy hop is such a fun and happy dance; and it helps me have a better understanding of mindfulness (something I wish to more fully incorporate into my life).

In addition to recognizing that I was underutilizing my knees, I realized that I must have some strange, hyperactive endocrine issue. Another follow (I had originally typed “a fellow follow”; such wordplay seems a bit impertinent) pulled on a fleece sweater while we watched an informal dance contest. I looked at her in disbelief as sweat continued to pour down my face in sheets; she remarked that she usually brings a scarf, too. The follow next to her then made some jest that essentially meant, “What is her problem?” I really don’t want to join that club where I have to bring a change of clothes with me every time I dance.

So yes. Lindy hop is fun. Lindy hop facilitates mindfulness. Lindy hop provides a fairly strenuous cardiovascular workout. And tomorrow (later on today?), I shall be sore.

Dr. Ely:

I would like your job.

I refer not to your psychiatric practice in Boston—I mean no disrespect. I would like your job writing for the New York Times.

My friend and colleague introduced your work to me. He listens to NPR regularly and, a few years ago, upon learning about my skills and interest in writing, he asked if I had heard of “the psychiatrist who writes and reads stuff on NPR“.

“No,” I had replied, interested. “Who is it?”

“I don’t remember her name,” he conceded, “and she doesn’t always talk about psychiatric issues. Sometimes, she just provides commentary about life. I can’t remember her name… but, you know, you could do something like that when you’re done with residency.” I believe my reaction entailed disbelieving laughter.

Within the same month, I read one of your pieces in the New York Times and quickly ascertained that you and “the psychiatrist who writes and reads stuff on NPR” were one and the same.

I enjoy reading your columns and the quiet insights you share from your clinical experiences. I’d like to believe that I have written narratives of similar quality and sentiments, though perhaps I foolishly flatter myself. Certainly I have penned observations and reflections from the realms of both clinical practice and life—that, we have in common.

How did you secure the opportunity to write for the New York Times? Did they approach you (from your work at NPR) or did you approach them? I confess that I have submitted writing to the New York Times in the past with hopes that it might appear in the Health section. Obviously, my hopes were dashed—the newspaper has yet to even acknowledge receipt of my submissions. Perhaps my aspirations are too lofty; after all, those who are published within the “Views” subsection are generally established attending physicians who are already well-known through major media.

I, on the other hand, am a resident with a blog. (The discrepancy is painfully clear, yes?)

Furthermore, I recognize that the New York Times already publishes semi-regular submissions from psychiatrists (you and Dr. Richard Friedman). One may reasonably argue that I would not make any further contributions to the literature.

There are, of course, numerous other newspapers within the United States. Very few (if any) of them, however, feature an area such as the New York Times Health section that (1) presents literary clinical anecdotes and (2) highlights narratives regarding mental health and human behavior. I dampen my hopes of potential newspaper publication not from negative cognitive distortions, but from a realistic frame of reference.

People have suggested to me that I write a book based off of the material from my weblog, though that is not entirely consistent with my current goals. I still hope to publish a short literary piece in a magazine or newspaper (at this point in my life, that is the most my attention span can tolerate), though I am uncertain how to effectively proceed. (I am also admittedly a bit discouraged.) Do you have any suggestions?

I wish you success in your endeavors, both professionally and otherwise. I look forward to reading your future columns and hope that, one day, I may also say that my writing has appeared in the New York Times Health section.

Regards,
Maria

Free Rice. Build your vocabulary and donate grains of rice through the United Nations World Food Program. (I’ve learned the definitions for “rime“, “wizen“, and “ken“. (Curtsey to Primer for the link.)

My Mom Was a Schizophrenic. Chester Brown’s thoughtful comic strip about schizophrenia as a means of social condemnation rather than a psychiatric diagnosis.

Letterfu: “Letter-writing without envelopes, cutting, or glue.”

Gift Day. “It’s high time, we think, to restore the creative spirit to our capitalist-driven society, by refusing to attach a market value to everything we create. And so we have come up with Gift Day, a day where we make it a point to share our gifts with those around us.” I like the general idea of sharing gifts (”’tis better to give than to receive”), but I’m not sure that I embrace the arguments regarding economics. To be fair, though, I have not read the book (and the book giveaway associated with Gift Day also seems oddly counterintuitive…).

Amazon.com Wishlist! The holidays rapidly approach and should the spirit of generosity beckon you to bestow a gift to a blogger, consider me! (Or you could poke fun at me for what items I have on my wishlist. That happens, too, though you could suggest a more sophisticated item along with a giftcard….)

At one time, this website used the “ugly” Wordpress permalinks:

I summon the wisdom of the internet: How do I redirect requests for the “ugly” permalinks to the current, “pretty” permalinks?

(Thank you, Brock, for your help!)