Sometimes the Best Option is Retreat, by Samara

The first week of school came to a screeching halt leaving me dazed and stunned by the year that lay ahead, and the mountainous pile of ungraded papers I had managed to accrue in just four short days. As I shuffled to my car the wheels of my granny cart squeaked behind me.

Shoving my sleeping bag to the side I hoisted the basket of papers and notebooks into my station wagon and stared blankly at my travel bag. With papers to grade, lesson plans to revise, and a head cold setting in, I faced the fact that I had foolishly registered for a bellydance retreat that weekend-- at the time I thought it would be a well deserved treat. Now my only thought was that I was way too busy for this.

I left Albany at about 4pm on Friday and headed straight to Camp Myrtle Wood—stopping only for gas and some food along the way. The drive took about four hours. By the time I made it through the maze of back country roads that led to the camp, it was dark. The registration kiosk was closed; everyone was at the camp fire. Not knowing where anything or anyone was, I meandered around in the dark until I came to the dining hall and saw some friendly faces.

Halima and a friend sat hunched together, enjoying their first meal in what appeared to be a bliss thick and body taxing kind of day. Shortly into our conversation campfire dwellers began to glimmer past the windows of the hall. I excused myself, and decided to figure out where I was in relation to where I was supposed to be.

As I left the hall I heard a familiar snort followed by a warm, rolling southern accent, and instantly knew I had found my cabin mates. After settling into the cabin with the ladies from Central Oregon, we headed back to the dining hall for the evening show. As we joined the gathering crowd I remember briefly convincing myself that I was way too tired for this. Fortunately, that was the last time that particular thought attempted to interrupt my weekend.

Each night the shows were a potpourri of styles and experience levels. We were greeted by dancers from all over the Northwest and beyond. Friday’s show allowed me a brief glimpse of what I’d missed as Roya took the stage and amazed me with her energy, grace, and spirit. On Saturday the show boasted over 30 performances—each one unique, yet bound together by the common threads of the dance.

Among the more notable performances were those of Rachel George and Unmata. Rachel took the stage with her usual strength and confidence, and then proceeded to take the audience with her captivating and charismatic presence. I was at least equally impressed by the ladies of Unmata. While I’ve been smitten with the troupe since the first time I saw them, they entered with veils, and I foolishly thought “what would Unmata be doing with veils”? I often think of veil work as soft and fluid. They forced me to succumb to their way of thinking. In Unmata’s hands it was sharp, crisp, precise… a variable cat of nine tails.

The retreat spanned four days this year. It was with deepest regrets that I was only able to be present for the weekend portions. As a new twist this year Mez requested that each workshop instructor offer two classes, one for beginners, and one for intermediate dancers. This approach ensured that there was something for everyone.

The first workshop I took was a Turkish Rom taught by Saqra. She was able to teach 9/8 rather effectively and in spite of technical difficulties that left us without music. This was only a small sample of Saqra’s vast repertoire, and my ears perked up when she mentioned she was available for private and semi private lessons as well. When it was time to switch, I ventured to the opposite side of the field for another Turkish treat, this time focusing on chiftetilli with Sahara. Using modern influences and classical twists Sahara illustrated 5 different variations, and then taught combinations that illustrated each variation in numerous ways. It was a treat to watch two such talented teachers engage their students in musical exploration through physical expression. Too often we forget to feel the music in our dance.

On Sunday Ayesha did an excellent job of breaking down zil/move combinations and then proceeded to drill them into my head at an alarming rate. Each combo was simple and yet effective, and could easily translate into cabaret or tribal style. This is a workshop I would definitely take again; only, hopefully I would retain more the second time around! After this I found myself slowly fading under the power of my rapidly advancing head cold. I watched, and half participated in Halima’s workshop which layered isolations on top of basic movements.

As I sat in the shade, visiting with friends who strolled by on the path crossing mine, I could feel gradual goodbye of the weekend’s fade. With only a few hours left before dinner I decided to head north again before my achy head and joints filed a formal complaint. My bags packed and water bottles filled, I said goodbye to my long time friends and new acquaintances.

I had spent two days and two nights doing exactly what I needed to do at that moment in time. I smiled until face hurt, laughed until I no longer needed sleep, and danced until I forgot all those things I was trying so hard to remember. The papers in my granny cart would be graded in time, but until the end of the drive home this time was mine. I turned the music up, reclined my seat a notch, and began to sing along to songs whose lyrics I didn’t know, but whose meanings were deeply felt.