I'm very happy:

I've been asked to perform (with fellow dancers) at Spittal Gala on both Saturday and Sunday afternoon. We'll be dancing on the prom, prom, prom from 1.15-ish.

I've almost finished decorating my daughter's room. She's away, this week and I'm excited about her returning AND seeing her new room.

I've finished a short story and am really quite happy with it.

The greenhouse tomatoes are nearly ready.

I get to paint (paintings) on Friday (my son will have company so I can go in the studio)

Yoga was just what I needed, tonight.

Just had to tell y'all.

xx

I've been to a residential course; a regular occurrence; an annual pilgrimage in fact.

Ford Castle is normally packed with school children on geographical field trips; on this occasion it was transported back to a time of princesses- no, further back; to the era of the matriarchy. Goddesses walked the ramparts.

Egyptian (Arabic) dance has transformed, embroidered, informed, dominated the lives of women for years without breaking through into popular culture. Perhaps this is just as well; perhaps the images of 'Carry-On' style chest-wobbling nymphs, or harridons was a clever ruse by the Goddess to keep this delicate bloom of female empowerment protected from the cynical eye of market forces. We don't 'do' labels, Darling, unless you count Eman Zeki, costumier extraordinaire; dancer of a classical tradition, whose aim in life is clothe each client, no matter what age or shape, in a costume that will make her feel beautiful- Goddess-like.

The weekend brings together teachers and students from all over the U.K. and further afield. It is an opportunity to learn: techniques of old, or the latest in Cairo; Folkloric traditions; Belly dance flavoured with latin, with flamenco, hamming it up, or a generous potion of cheese (belly dancers do have a sense of humour!) Not only style and technique; good practise, safe dancing, performance issues; how to stand-

A willing student can be drawn down a road of enlightenment and self- awareness by a pantheon of mentors offering food for the soul. The dance can be an hour a week in the company of women, moving to nice music, blocking out the humdrum world, simple as that, no more, no less, but it will throw challenges a woman can accept and move on, or deny. By coming forward and sharing her dance with her fellows, a dancer shows an aspect of herself, allows herself to be praised, appreciated, admired; accepts these gifts and gives, in return, to the next dancer. The aspect on display might be a comfortable persona dressed for the public, but she might be a long-forgotten, or a forbidden friend who maybe has the audacity to have a mind of her own, or a repution for having an opinion. She may not even have the capacity, yet, to accept deserved praise, or permission to like herself. A student may fall at the first hurdle, to allow herself time to dance.

So, what am I barking on about The Goddess for?Well, she, to me is resident, she holds the keys to the cell, will stand up to the critic, make a gesture to the One, to the authority, the sleeping policeman. I'm not talking about parking on yellow lines or smoking behind the bike sheds, I'm talking about the spectre of body image, of body ownership, of personal responsiblilty which were all issues, mostly unspoken, present in the castle, for this weekend.

An example, just the one, before I go; a class billed as roots of the modern form of dance, the teacher moved to relax her keen and pensive students began her warm up:

'We are here,' she put her hand below her belly button, 'and 'ah' we are home.' She softened her knees slightly, her shoulders back, and down; spine aligned and feet in parallel.

Home; inside, she talks about, being present in the body, secure and centred; she is powerful but not dominant, not great by the weight of a hip belt jangling with the corpses of the vanquished, but comfortable in her own skin, safe in her knowledge, able to love.

From the castle, filled with warmth and humour, sparkling costumes, sweat and tears I return with a few aches and a folder of handouts.

Pah, I feel the magic weakening, the pull of chores and the awful prospect of the weekend suitcase. I'm going to make some notes, and, um, maybe have 40 winks to freshen up before teaching tonight.

Thank you to everyone who attended the dance workshops on Saturday, and the hafla in the evening; especially thanks to Ali, a fabulous teacher who we hope to see more of. Thanks, too to Mags for leading our erratic drumming. Our post-workshop food was fab, too, so thanks to Paula, too!

Altogether a successful event, here's too the next!

Meanwhile, a few paintings from the last few weeks, mostly on quite a small scale, which is very satisfying to work with and gets me away from worrying too much about details that, in hindsight, mean little to the finished painting.

I enjoyed, very much, the palette of an early morning walk in the snow; the golden sunshine picking out the dried grass, the blue shadows cast on the white. So glad the spring is coming, though. I'm ready for the sun to warm my bones.

On 21st Feb I've organised a dance party, a hafla, which is an opportunity for local Arabic and Tribal-Style dancers to perform (that is, both teachers and students) and for folk to come and watch, see what the whole thing is about. So what I'm saying is, 7 for 7.30 at The Ferguson Hall, Nursery Lane, Belford and £5 per ticket; feel free to bring your own refreshments.
I teach 5 hours a week, at the moment and getting into the swing of it is challenging; a few more early nights are necessary to prevent burn-out! (A collegue of mine teaches 10; I need to take some notes.)
It may seem a little confused, a little unfocused to split my career up into three (counting writing, too) but I find, if I'm organised with my time, painting, dancing and writing compliment each other perfectly; (I'm a lucky old blighter, aren't I?) It probably means I'll never be exemplary in any of my chosen disciplines but I'd have a difficult job choosing one over the others.
Point is, I've not begun painting, yet, this year (too dark, cold, wuss!) but I have sorted out choregraphy, reviewed some of my stories, so I'm not really juggling, just doing the things that are most appropriate for the time- sap is rising now, though, and the studio mucked out. I'll post any new work, meanwhile, enjoy a few class photos...

I've made a few visits to Natasha's garden, in the past week; the weather's that bit warmer and brighter, the sea that much flatter...

Anyway, it has been a case of driving over, hoping the weather holds long enough to produce a bit of work.

Natasha walked me round, despairing at the lack of growth, the cold, and the unusually icy North wind, which has done some damage.

I can empathise with Natasha, now she is committed to opening her garden, to the public, on the 15th of June- she has become an artist with an exhibition pending:

In her mind, the critics arrive, clipboards in hands, casting hostile glances at any perceived imperfection, all the elements out of the control of the gardener, having done their worst.

I would fret about having enough new work to satisfy returning visitors, worry a new style or theme wouldn't be well-received, or just pain worry no one would turn up.

Natasha has a picture already in her mind; she paints with plants, imagining species complimenting and contrasting, ruthlessly pruning back the out-of-place or the ailing specimen.

She chooses her palette, composes, plays with form, colour and light.

Her canvas is enormous, 3 dimensional and apt to get horrendously soggy, or dry as a bone.

My materials, at least, will go in the back of my car.

I'm glad to say I haven't lost the pleasure of sitting sketching in this garden because an exhibition is planned around the work; I spent lovely summer days, last year, away from the self-imposed pressures working to exhibition, being free of thinking a work must be completed to hang on a wall.

I had a little holiday, and that feeling is still with me, surrounded, as I am, up in that garden, by the plants, the sights and sounds of wild birds, and an occasional visit, by a red squirrel.

Natasha is committed to her garden vision, probably alot more focussed, on the one project, than I- I'm sure visitors will delight in her creation, and I delight in my privileged visits, behind the scenes!

Interesting experience, last week:
Invitation to dance at a local curry house- a fund raiser (meant I had to go and say I'd do it for nothing).
A good experience, nevertheless, to a world I was sure I'd miss- the geographical fact of the matter being there are only so many performance opportunities, in Northumberland, that don't involve the phrase 'stag do' or 'phoaarrrr!'
I'd have the chance to dance to a non-dancing audience, perhaps pick up a few new class members, maybe a nice party gig...
I doesn't matter how you dress it up, what you wear, or how much you try and dance with your knees together, belly dancers have a bit of a rep, don't they?
I researched my folkloric tunes- wore appropriate costumes- still a fair showing of eyes agog and snarling women.
Cheeky. I do cheeky, yes. Mostly to the women, in fact, who will often reply warmly.
I've never jiggled lewdly at anyone (not just for the fact I'd look a tad sad, desperate, even,) but it doesn't matter- the western audience has no previous experience of this kind of entertainment.
In the Middle East, where the dance is still permitted, a dancer is prerequisit at family celebrations, and often have the same kind of following as movie stars.
(Don't get me wrong, I'm only hankering after low-level adoration, and would find constant attention and fanmail a nuisance.)
I do like a good boogie, though, and want to spread the word about belly dancing (it's common term.) It is such a feelgood activity- encourages multi-generational, cross-cultural relations, support networks and charities have blossomed, as well as being a bloomin' good laugh, and damn good exercise.
The dance is such a multi-facetted thing- all things to all people- I suppose I have no right to tell someone they've no right to disapprove, or oogle (if that's what floats their boat).
As long as no one's hoping I'll stop dancing, or telling me to go away...
I felt...naked under the glare of a greedy pair of eyes (and I'll say again- I'm not bigging up meself- I think any moving flesh would have done) and had to work hard to banish the feeling I should stop, go and put on a big coat, maybe a veil- hide myself in shame because someone's seeing me in a certain way...
(Damn it, I was going to be funny, irreverent, whatever, but have had a rant, instead.)
I stopped myself from flouncing off, saying. 'It's an artform, actually.'
I worked really hard, on my performance- practised and put together a set. I am mindful of the appropriate styles of dance.
I could have jiggled my baps to 'The birdy Song' and would have got the same response.
No, not from everyone. There were a number of folk from my class there, and they did their part- clapping at the clappy bits, and being rowdy- sharing their energy (though not their naan breads).
I haven't reached any kind of conclusion from my experience, really. (Banning blokes from these performances seems churlish.)
I just needed to share.

Just an old-fashioned girl

I was at a tribal dance residential course, at the weekend. I mostly dance and teach in an Egyptian cabaret style, but have become seduced by the fusion of belly dance, flamenco, ( any style that comes to hand, really,) that is Tribal Style (or American Tribal Style, if you want to follow one particular school of dance,). I eagerly signed up to a class that promised to give my Tribal a new edge of 'Hip Hip' attitude, to be drilled, for 1 and 1/2 hours by a charming sadist (or was she an optimist? Half my age, 3/4 my height, and 10 times my stamina.) whose 'warm up' left most of us for dead, never mind her 'little combinations'...
She said. 'We'll do the worm. Just imagine you are climbing into a tight tunnel...' She demonstrated. We gamely tried to follow her. Unfortunately, I seemed to get stuck in mine, and had to engage the emergency services to pull me out. That, though, was fortunate for the lady behind me, who needed resuscitation, after an enthusiastic attempt to 'pop'.
I'm just glad she didn't.
My point being, I suppose, that, in my mind, I'm throwing some shapes on the floor, with the best of them. In reality, I'm throwing out my back on the floor, in agony.
I can, really, actually, 'lock' without appearing to be having a seizure, but won't be appearing on a bit of lino, anywhere near you, soon.