What I’m listening to: Simi’s “Duduke”

The sound of the muezzin wakes me before dawn most mornings in Senegal, West Africa. Whether it’s crackling from the speakers in Dakar, or echoing across the earth-coloured one and two story houses in Ziguinchor, that call to prayer anchors me as the sweltering, shimmering heat swells with the day and recedes at night. It isn’t unusual to eat dinner at 10 o’clock at night to the sounds of Cabo music and various mobile phones going off, football conversations shouted over everyone imploring me to “mange, mange” (eat more) even though I’m stuffed. It is a vibrant contrast to my often solo dinners at home in my two room flat. I’m living my life with the volume turned up, and loving every minute of it.

Senegal is a country unlike any I’ve ever encountered and I was excited to experience life at the ground level, not as a tourist, but living amongst locals. I never expected going there for over two weeks would change my life in unprecedented ways and that coming back to the U.S. would feel so different. The trip reminded me of how far my life had come and yet, how far I’ve yet to progress.

To give a brief itinerary, here was our travel trajectory:

• 2 days in Dakar with Yogu, my cousin’s husband’s (Idy’s) sister 
• transit from Dakar to Ziguinchor: we took the overnight ferry (a lovely 14 hour trip) and slept for most of it on the deck on mats while Cabo music played late into the night. 
• 7 days in Leona, Ziguinchor at Madame Gueye’s house 
• 2 days in Cap Skirring on the coast
• 2 more days in Leona before flying back to Dakar to return to the U.S.

In total, I took four planes to get to Dakar, and five planes to get back to Austin, TX. (I won’t do that again, but it was a really good experience learning my limits in air transport).

I went to Senegal with a very knowledgeable guide: my cousin, Koumba who had lived there a total of three years and whose husband is Senegalese. As a result, we were always surrounded by family (which I loved) and it felt like the loving, joyous and celebratory family reunion I had never experienced before in my life.  I’ve often thought that my best ideas come from solitude, isolation and having space to do my own thing whenever and whatever I like. However, being with 15+ complete strangers who became family in a short amount of time taught me a lot about the power of love and connection. How it can trickle into your heart delicately, take a hold of you, and heal you in ways that are unprecedented.

Every day I started my morning eating breakfast with either just Ousseynou  and I before we had a small gathering of Koumba, Idy and others hanging around, chatting, drinking tea (Ousseynou is a tea master of the highest order). I would write while everyone talked, usually in Wolof (of which I know maybe 10-15 words max) and sometimes French (my knowledge is VERY basic). I watched the cadence of how they spoke to each other and I was brought back to growing up in Japan and the warmth I had felt there from visitors to my parent’s house and how we’d eat and talk for hours, even though conversation was difficult, and required pulling out dictionaries to make sure we understood each other. 

This was no different. We’d consult with translator Jen (who was far more proficient than google translate or my paper pocket dictionary), but we didn’t let a language barrier get in the way of getting to know each other. Every day we danced, sang, ate really delicious food, and I loved how Idy, his brothers and sisters watched me take everything in with awe and wonder. I truly felt like I was with some of the world’s most loving and beautiful people and it was heart-breaking to leave them behind after so many late nights dancing, singing, talking, eating and simply enjoying each other’s company.

As an author, I have to live “under” things, experience them on both an observational and visceral level (if I can, without harming myself). I felt like being in Senegal was like living in technicolour, except instead of being by myself, traveling solo (like I normally have to) I was cushioned in a loving embrace with an elasticity beyond comprehension. No one thought it strange that I wanted to hug them every day, or that I’d randomly start humming a tune, or that when danceable music came on, I just automatically moved. 

They’d simply move with me and we’d have an impromptu dance party, right there in the front room of Madame Gueye’s house. No one said to me: “Gosh, you’re spirited,” or “Wow, you’re friendly” or anything that felt like a back-ended compliment. I was teased about my snoring (though I had my own room for a good portion of the trip) and for my funny facial expressions when I dance, but it was all friendly and the bonding type of teasing that isn’t the same as trying to put someone down for the sake of conformity.

Koumba once said that she felt more beautiful in Senegal because there isn’t the same beauty standards there as in the U.S. I felt that same thought immediately upon arrival, despite feeling underdressed most of the time. As an adolescent in Japan I had often been ashamed of my appearance (frizzy hair, tall and easily tanned were not considered beautiful, plus cystic acne didn’t help). I felt fully myself in Senegal, away from the trappings of American beauty standards, which I have to fight against on a daily basis.

 However, having access to only a tiny mirror and having left everything except lipstick and basic toiletries behind, I had to accept what I looked like with virtually no make-up. I also shared a bathroom with anywhere from 7-10 people for the bulk of the trip which meant there was very little privacy in the way I’m used to in the U.S. After I came out of the shower, there were usually others waiting to use it. Hot showers didn’t exist (which didn’t matter 90% of the time because it was so warm…I even found a mid-afternoon shower had slightly warm water if it was a particularly hot day, at least for the first few minutes). If I did need warm water, I had to heat it on an open flame burner and lug a bucket to pour over my head, which felt like a total luxury.

I had been warned to expect that life would be very different in Senegal: I would sleep on the ground, have zero hot showers, and I would need to tote a lot of the gluten free grains I needed for breakfast because gluten free bread didn’t exist where we were staying. However, none of this felt like a hardship, because I felt a part of the family, a cherished guest and everyone went out of their way to make me feel welcome. It was like coming home instead of entering a foreign country. The same hospitality I was raised to show guests in Japan was on shining display in Senegal.

One of my favourite Sundays was when I had the chance to visit with the local women’s group that Jara and Nde Mbaye (Idy’s sisters-in-law) belong to. I was invited to dance with the women in their gorgeous finery while one of Idy’s brothers DJ’d and encouraged the women as they danced, calling them by name. It was an incredibly wonderful time to see all of these women dancing with each other, gathering and supporting each other. Instead of relegating me to spectator, I was asked to dance alongside them, take pictures and relish the moment, like I was a part of their group. 

In the evenings, most nights in Ziguinchor, I’d sit on the roof, write in my notebook and take pictures of the sunset. I loved the feel of the warm, gravelly concrete around me, listening to Kine talk on her mobile while Princess sat on her lap. Kids were usually playing futbol below, yelling at each other, and the muezzin’s speakers would crackle with the call to prayer. I would write what I could before someone came upstairs to check on me. Sometimes, Idy or Ousseynou would come sit next to me and just breathe in the dusty air for a moment while the sun went down, before we were cloaked in darkness up there amongst the cement and rebar sticking out of the roof. The stars would come out and I couldn’t help thinking how beautiful it was. How I never thought my life could change so much in the face of so much loving company.

While I was in Senegal I listened to the entirety of Brene Brown’s Atlas of the Heart and furiously scribbled notes. A frequent question that I asked myself was: “What would it look like if I let go more?” I wrote this alongside the notes to a chapter in the book entitled “Why We Feel the Pain We Feel.” On the roof that evening I answered the question the chapter is asking: “I write about the love that I have and want to experience–as a way out of emotional pain—a type of soothing.”

Brene Brown talked about her family as having difficulty expressing deep emotions. Their motto was: “Suck it up and get it done and don’t talk about feelings.” I feel this sentiment a lot in America. I believe most countries have a culture that has to do with some aspect of suppressing our deep emotions. That’s why we love songs, dancing and reading stories. It lets us access what society wants us to suppress so that we’re more productive. More like machines and less like humans. As a result, it means we often turn to suppressing behaviours that Brene Brown describes here “I made everything around me so loud that it drowned out the sound…” This can lead to neglecting our inner voices asking for something different, something kinder. 

I know what numbing looks like and how I’ve suffered when I turn to numbing instead of working through tough emotions. As a result, I’ve been on a path to doing the inner work to curb activities that numb my ability to feel, though I still fall into old patterns of running from the hard stuff. (Staying out late, dancing?) 

When I read this chapter, I asked myself “What pattern needs to die?” In answer to my question, I loved this quote from Atlas of the Heart 

“the sharp edges let us know where we end and others begin-they bring grace and clarity.”

Seeing those patterns and sharp edges lets me know where I’m treading too thin, running too fast and wearing myself thin because I think that is better than facing the pain.

A note I wrote to myself after pondering this chapter, while next to the sea in Cap Skirring: “Lean in and lock eyes with it. Don’t choose a life of suffering and exhaustion.” I scribbled this as the glistening ocean roared in front of me. At that moment, I realized that I had been burned out for months and it was why I had been struggling before leaving for Senegal. “In the midst of struggle, the center will hold if and only if we can feel the edges” (Brown, Atlas of the Heart).

Brown goes on to talk about how we need precise language for what we’re feeling and that language “will help shape what you’re feeling…it gives emotional granularity.” Each person needs 27-28 emotions to accurately convey their human experience and she goes through and maps these emotions in Atlas of the Heart. I sat on the steps of my hut in Cap Skirring when I copied down Brown’s invocation to readers “with an adventurous heart, and the right maps, we can travel anywhere and never fear losing ourselves, even when we don’t know where we are.”

I dove into the ocean an hour later, got tumbled in the waves as Sitor was trying to hold me up, even though I knew I needed to let go of his hand, I didn’t want to. I was afraid he was going to get swept away. Instead, I got tumbled and scraped up my right knee fairly badly. I rose out of the waves, bloody but okay. It wasn’t until everything was scabbing over that the pain really set in. 

Let your self doubt die.

Before I left for Senegal my therapist, Andy, said it was important for me to look at the period of burn out that I was in denial about as a type of death. I needed to take the space to ask myself what needs to die? in order for me to move on. At different stages of our lives we have death transitions (death of loved ones and animals, habits, geographic moves, etc…). Though reluctant at first, I contemplated and wrote what had to die in order for me and my art to live. I didn’t realize I was creating a map for this stage of a type of death transition.

For a long time, I had doubted that I needed to ask for help, that I needed more love in my life, and had to follow my instincts about hunches that I didn’t have a ton of data support. However, in a sea of pure belonging and kindness, I found my heart healing in ways I hadn’t estimated were possible, because I hadn’t realized the depth of my broken heartedness and grief until I was separated, by several thousand miles, from everything that had broken my heart in 2021. 

“True belonging doesn’t require us to change to be who we are, but to truly embody who we are. If people don’t know who we are, then we can’t truly be ourselves” (Brene Brown). This is especially hard if you’ve experienced any measure of trauma, because you might, like me, have created maladaptive coping skills to publicly display the sides that community and family are the most likely to accept. But, in Senegal I was too tired and in awe of everything to be anything other than myself. I didn’t have the time to build unhealthy walls. I felt so comfortable I didn’t want to. 

Now, this doesn’t mean there weren’t moments of stress, misunderstanding, and cultural clashes. There were, but they were communicated, and I moved through the feelings. It meant that my ability to write was suddenly opened up in the wake of having so much life to observe, interact with and a myriad of people to love and accept love from. (This is familial love I’m talking about here!) We did have a few marriage proposals from complete strangers, which was flattering, comical, but I had to graciously turn them down. There was an awesome moment where Idy politely declined a marriage proposal on my behalf. This guy already had two wives and asked, “What’s wrong, is she difficult?”

Idy nodded his head, very kindly, “Oh, yes, very difficult.”

The man stood up, brushed off his hands. “Oh, no, I don’t need another difficult wife.”

I laughed so hard when my cousin, Koumba, told me. She and I had quite a few laugh out loud moments, many of them because of things I was doing, or not doing. Instead of feeling embarrassed (most of the time), I tried to be kind to myself and accept that I’m not going to know everything. The act of having more grace with myself made everything easier: the writing, relating, and most of all the loving.

Senegal brought a new definitive focus to my life. My whole life’s purpose isn’t just about writing, dancing or editing books. I believe my life is truly about love and belonging and hopefully helping everyone I encounter, who wants it, to feel loved and like they belong. Writing, editing, dancing are a part of that journey, but they aren’t the destination. I realize the destination will likely be (and always has been) to celebrate the hearts and minds of everyone I encounter. Going to Senegal taught me just how important that was and helped to heal my very broken heart. Now, I’m hoping that the healing can continue so that when I go back I can learn more lessons that are waiting for me on those blessed shores.

I’ve decided to challenge myself this year and endeavor to learn a new dance that I’m completely unfamiliar with: Brazilian Zouk! Several months ago as I stood with the other beginners, anxious to be with the advanced dancers further up in the giant dance space at Inspired Movement, I reminded myself to slow down, breathe and enjoy the sensation of learning, of doing something badly and embracing constant revision.

Since I primarily partner dance, it means I’m not only monitoring my own body, but how it flows and moves with my partner. When I cut out, daydream or become unfocused, I have to revise again. My instructor recently said, “Remember that often as dancers we’re afraid to mess up and step on someone’s toes. Just go ahead and do that. Make those mistakes, that’s how you learn. It’s better to do that than to be so careful that you don’t step and never learn.” That hit me like a lightning bolt! Aha! That is my problem as a dancer, and often as a writer as well. I’m so careful with my prose that I won’t make the bold choices a narrative requires until later revisions. Occasionally, that’s after a lot of prodding from critique partners and editors alike!

The relationship between an editor and author is not unlike the dynamic between lead and follow in Brazilian Zouk. A recent workshop with Gui Prada illuminated this dynamic so clearly for me. It was particularly revelatory because Gui focused so much on guiding us to rethink how we dance, the energy we communicate to one another emotionally, and how our bodies interacted with each other based on specific touch points. Gui broke down and focused on the fundamentals of touch and interaction and invited the follows to give feedback to the leaders. This structured feedback lead to a beautiful synergy and a much more enjoyable dance experience for me, because I felt listened to, empowered to say what wouldn’t work for my body, and I didn’t have to worry that a lead was going to be offended that I was trying to do her/his job for him.

Similar to partner dancing with a lead and follow, the world of writing and publishing requires both an author and editor to make a good book. There’s a delicate, but necessary balance of give and take on both author and editor, which is also an integral part of the relationship between lead and follow in dance, which I never fully understood before Gui’s workshop. Incorporating feedback involves an emotional connection and receptiveness in both individuals for a work to reach its full potential. A connection in text and also in dance cannot be made without your emotions being involved. When you revise, you have to seek out the love in your manuscript, like dancers gravitate toward movement patterns in beloved songs that weave a narrative. At the end of the day, writing and dancing are both about creating a story.

One of the main tenets of Gui’s Leaders Intensive Training (which can apply to more than just Brazilian Zouk dancing) was “the mindset: the ability and willingness to adapt.” What does this have to do with writing and revision? Honestly, everything.

The bulk of inquiries I receive from new authors consist of individuals who have been laboring on their book/stories anywhere from 1-10+ years. The longer they’ve labored alone, and the less they’ve had outside input, the more their idea of their book’s vision has calcified. It’s similar to a comment from a lead I was struggling to dance with after the workshop who kept lamenting “This move works so well when I’m dancing by myself. I don’t understand what the problem is.”

I stopped dancing and grinned, wondering for a moment if he’d been listening during the 10+ hours of instruction that weekend. “Loads of moves work well when we’re dancing by ourselves. But, that’s not what we’re doing here. This is Brazilian Zouk: it requires both of us to make the dance,” I said.

The act of revision cannot always be done alone in front of your computer screen any more than practicing my dance moves in front of a mirror will train me to dance with a lead. I have to go to class, take private one-on-one lessons, and attend workshops. But, most of all I have to practice the art of revision with the person in front of me.

The reason I bring this up is because I’ll meet with authors (for their free consult with me) who will sometimes scoff at my suggestions that they:

• Need to be flexible with their vision of their book, because it will be hard to sell or pitch in its current state,
• Must take writing classes, workshops or work with a writing coach because their prose isn’t at the necessary level to construct a compelling narrative. However, with work their story can get there,
• Need a community of writers, or at least one writing pal to confide in outside of the editor’s relationship so that they have a peer to collaborate with and use as a sounding board for their developing ideas.

Why are dancers, musicians and actors continually taking classes and workshops without a moment’s hesitation, but some writers think that simply getting a short critique from an established author, a partial edit of their manuscript, or attending an occasional weekend workshop once every couple of years will somehow increase their skill level as a writer and artist?

I’ve been asked a lot lately whether simply getting an MFA is the answer. There aren’t any easy answers. If you want to get better, you have to dig deep and do the internal as well as external work to examine your mindset about your art. Assume nothing, because your effort won’t guarantee you become a star in the literary scene any more than attending every dance workshop out there will guarantee I become the best partner to everyone I dance with. There is always something I’ll have to work on and I’m okay with that.

Gui talked about the different aspects of his body he had to work on in the past (his head drifting toward his shorter follow) and the continuous work of keeping his left hand from squeezing his partner’s hand. He was open to the experience of listening to feedback from his dance partners, and as a result, his dancing truly looks like pure magic. Most importantly, the people dancing with him are having a good time too. They don’t look stressed because he meets them where they are.

I strive to be that editor that always meets people where they are. Likewise, I want to be that author that meets my critique partners, editors and collaborators where they are and has a flexible mindset about where my stories can go without having expectations or assumptions about things I have zero control over.

The writers that I see make the most progress are the ones who understand the power of their mindset, and who ask a lot of important questions, like:

• Is it worthwhile to keep submitting to agents after 10+ rejections?
• How is the feedback I’ve received from beta readers different from the feedback from a professional editor?
• How will my story concept sell?
• What in my writing needs the most attention right now?
• If I get a professional edit on my manuscript, will it increase my chances of landing a literary agent or my book gaining traction as an indie publishing venture?
• How can I revise my work myself after a professional edit?
• How can I make my book read like __________?

It isn’t a weakness to be aware that you can always be better.

My answers to a lot of these questions vary with the author, but they all involve embracing the partnership that’s essential in the hauntingly beautiful dance of writing. A few tenets of Gui’s teaching that especially felt relevant to embracing the art of revision in dance:

• Assume nothing-leads need to go into the dance without an agenda
• When the follower gives feedback about what feels good for them in their bodies, it gives the leader a chance to meet them where they are and, most importantly, adapt
• Adaptation is maybe the main element of our work
• The process of graciously accepting feedback has the potential to create great leaders if they are open to receiving and incorporating
• A process of permission and revision when concepts are broken down slowly into steps that built on each other (lateral, viradinha, basic, body rolls, sways, pressure points, etc…)

Modifying the above for writing fiction and narrative non-fiction:

1. Assume nothing about where your writing has to go. Instead start the act of revising with goals for submission, but understand there are specific points you’ll need to concentrate on first before that submission. (You’re likely going to need to revise upwards of 3-5 times or more.)
2. Authors need to communicate and ask questions of those giving them feedback, especially if they’re paying for edits. Mention what feedback is helping you to improve, and notice what is harder to hear and why. Be open to discussing that so that your editor knows how they can help.
3. Editors and authors need clear communication and that can be hard if authors aren’t attending events or booking in time with editors to make that happen. (Just like I pay to go dance class so I have access to my instructor, similarly authors can do the same).
4. Accept that anyone who takes the time to give you feedback has taken a lot of time and thought to give that feedback (I hope!) and accept it graciously. You don’t have to revise everything they address, especially if it feels wrong in your gut, but do consider it before rejecting it. Give it three days, at the very least. The process of accepting feedback will make you a better writer. Never let your ego win, because you’ll lose precious opportunities to become the artist you dream of being.
5. Give yourself permission to go back to the basics and understand them: POV, narrative structure, and various voicings in fiction and memoir. Re-read and analyze, imitate (as an exercise) “the greats” that you love: their dialogue and narration. Know the terminology and how it functions in the genre(s) you’re writing in. Going back to the basics is a great way for me to anchor myself after a big edit with a lot of feedback. It’s okay to get feedback that says “not yet ready” or “not yet there.” It isn’t personal, it’s professional and it’s an opportunity for me to stretch after dusting myself off!

What makes dancing with another person engaging, at the end of the day, is the connection. That connection cannot be reached without constant and inventive revision. It’s an art, this act of subjecting your body and mind to a process of adaptation. Nevertheless, the end result is absolutely beautiful. Especially when after dancing for only a few months, you triumphantly declare: I can do more than the basics!

The same rings true when you’ve applied a flexible mindset to your stories and the feedback you receive. Because you’ve listened to feedback, you’ve created an emotional connection between the reader and your characters. Instead of your story feeling basic and clunky, your words flow. The voice of your prose is engaging and people forget they’re reading a story and instead live inside the carefully constructed world you’ve created for them. Your words, your experience, or your fiction has captured that experience and transported the reader there.

I want to encourage you to embrace the art of revision and see the possibilities your work has. It isn’t if your work gets published, but when. Take out your writing notebook (if you don’t have one, get one) and start jotting down what your vision is for your writing life. Embrace that vision and aim today to work toward seeing what opportunities for revision there are to make that vision come to life. Give yourself permission to step on a few toes and move in the wrong direction so that you can eventually dance to the music and truly enjoy it.

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 Join me next month for the first installment of my regular human-interest blog series: “What’s Your Dance Story” where I interview and converse with amateur Latin dancers and pro teachers about what inspired them to join the world of dance. Subscribe here to receive this monthly story in your inbox. Interested in being interviewed? Go here for more information.