It's more than just dance. It's learning about life.

TLC has recently come out with a new show called Dance Moms. I've watched a couple episodes here and there. And while I'm not here to discuss the ups and many downs of the show, I thought to myself just how much I do not want my "dance world" today to be like that show. I think both the coaches and the mom's have their good and bad moments. But the biggest issue with that show is a lack of respect. A lack of respect for the people, a lack of respect for dance, a lack of respect for the dancers themselves. It's not pretty. And as a coach, that's something I will not allow to happen.


(The Century Centahnas with our trophy at the West Fargo Packatahna Invitational, December 2004.)

When I was a Centahna, our biggest rivals were the Bismarck Demonettes. (For those of you saying "What's a Centahna and a Demonette?"...They are school dance team names/mascots. As a dancer on the Century High School Dance Team, I was a Centahna. Get it? Ok. Awesome.) Our coaches made sure that we acted beyond our years, even when the Demonettes did things that, well, are childish and stupid and mean against us...even when they placed better than we did...and even when we placed better than they did. We were taught the most important thing that good sportsmanship teaches: respect. It wasn't always easy. But as I'd find out...it was worth it.


(This is Desi and the JV Demonettes. I know I have a better photo, but it's somewhere in my Twitter archives and I can't dig that deep to find it right now.)

Today, I am friends with a former Demonette. I believe we even competed against each other. She's the assistant coach of the JV Demonette dance team. But as we soon found out, we are both really awesome people that don't hate each other. And there's that other thing too. The "dancer" bond. It's something that feels like an exclusive club. When I find somebody else who dances, it's like we're part of this special group of people that understands exactly what it means to be a dancer.


(This is during one of our many Saturday practices. We're working to perfect our kick routine here! Our competition season is only 3 months long, but we had required technique workshops, required summer training including running and pilates 6 days/week, and required dance camp. Then our "season" practices went from August all the way through March. Even after that, the seniors still got together to practice for our senior routine.)
The life of a dancer is full of so many struggles. We often practice longer than any other sports team practices. I remember some of my practices during high school went sometimes 6 hours. That wasn't including the early morning practices before school, and the two and three-a-day practices we had every Saturday pre-State meet. We spend hours perfecting the tiniest of details. (Are palms facing in or out? Are we looking towards the crowd or to the corner?) We spend hours training or bodies for strength, stamina, balance, flexibility. And we better be good at all of it, because without one you fail to train yourself properly.

(We always began our practice by running the caterpillar run for around 10-15 minutes before practice. If it wasn't that, it was stair runs, followed by ab and muscle work for another 15-30 minutes. Then stretching for another 15-20. Yay for hour long warmups.)


(But all of that hard work pays off when you can do this. And a lot of other cool looking stuff, too.)



(Here I am before walking onto the floor. This is usually about when my legs started to feel like jello.)
And it's not just the training that makes it, either. It's the nerves that make you feel like jello before the music begins. It's the adrenaline rush you feel when you're out on the floor performing. It's the elation when you hit the perfect routine, or the frustration that comes after miskicks or a less-than-perfect turn sequence. It's the costumes, the sparkle, the makeup, the music, the smell of hairspray and the sound of the crowd cheering.

(Here's the end of the kick routine at the WF Packatahna Invitational. The feeling you get when the crowd erupts after the routine is done is like none other.)

This makes all of us dancers connected. Since high school, I've been blessed in meeting people and when realizing we have that connection. It's fun to talk dance, what routines we've done, what it was like.


(Our pizza party last night!)
This is what I told my girls last night as we ate some pizza getting ready for the competition tomorrow. I told them that, even though Champion may be stuck up snobs who act horrible to everyone else, we will cheer them on anyway. Because a few years down the road after they graduate high school and experience college life, they will probably meet and become friends with some of these girls.



And in the end, it doesn't matter who wins. But what does matter is respect. What does matter is how hard you worked. What matters is your attitude and how you act. Because in the end, being a dancer is to be part of a family. You may have your fights and your arguments, and you may get extremely irritated at them...but they are family.

(I know I certainly consider these girls family. Most of us still keep in contact.)

I hope and pray that my dancers learn that respect is far more important than winning. It's important for them to respect themselves and respect others as dancers.
And all together, dance isn't just about dancing. What they learn in these next few years of their lives will dictate what kind of people they will become. And I hope and pray that as their dance coach, I will teach them not just how to dance, not just different routines, but teach and show them life lessons.



In other news:
I packed what I believe is to be the best "dance emergency kit" ever. if there's something that I need that's not in this bag, I must have made a serious misstep, because I could swear I have everything they could possibly need! And you really don't want to know just how much I spent on all of this. Let's just say the Vikings could have had another cheerleader in the stands if it wasn't for this. ;-)

So here's to tonight, the life lessons I hope they learn, and the coach I aspire to be!

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"Faster, daddy, faster!" - the ranting of a speed junkie

When I was a toddler, my father would take me out for walks in the stroller. At the time, we were living in campus housing at what is now Crown College - specifically in Faith Village. On the stroll over to campus, my father would wheel the stroller at, I'm sure for at least my mother, what seemed like a horrific speed down the hill. But it was my favorite thing - going fast. I would squeal in excitement and yell "again, dad!" And then there was that one fateful day. The one where he accidentally let go of the stroller, and it hit the speed bump, and the stroller flipped upside down. Luckily for both him and me, I was strapped in pretty darn tight and did not suffer any (known) brain damage, broken bones, or traumatic shocks that required years of therapy.

I've always loved to go fast. I loved playing upbeat songs on the piano, and when my piano instructors gave me a "dreadfully slow" song, I would, without a doubt, speed up the tempo as my fingers flew faster and faster over the keys. I loved the jazz or kick routines we did far more than ballet. Oh, I loved ballet. It was beautiful and pretty. But I didn't feel near the adrenaline rush as I did from performing a good jazz or kick routine. When I was probably around 10, my best friend Trudy and I tagged along with her father at the speedway races. I remember putting in the required ear-plugs Keith gave us, and then watching in amazement as a car would speed across the stretch of road so fast I had barely even seen it.

I could recount other stories of my love of going fast - like the time I was 8 and we took a ride on the alpine carts down a steep hill. At first, I was so scared of going down that I chose the slow track. But 10 feet down the track and I felt the adrenaline rush of the wind whipping through my hair and everything whizzing by me, and I was pushing the pedal to let me go as fast as I could. I got to the bottom and so desperately wanted to go again, pleading to my parents to let me go on the fast track this time. (They said "no.") Or growing up on my grandparent's farm, I would take the 4-wheeler out for a ride - and I would go down the hill as fast as I could, then hit the bump and fly through the air - or speeding down the driveway as fast as I could push it before I had to turn, making sure, of course, that when I drove near the house or barn, to slow down so Grandpa wouldn't catch me going so fast.

So now imagine - I'm 16, have a brand new driver's license, and couldn't think of doing anything but hopping in the car lovingly named our "toaster-oven-on-wheels" and driving. Fast. Anywhere. Ever since then, I have often caught myself speeding down the road, sometimes well over the speed limit. (Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.) I speed. I try not to, because I realize that me speeding is considered a sin, and well, I try not to sin when I can help it. Also, because the idea of paying $150 for going 10 over the speedlimit is just a tad bit more than I want to pay - or for that matter, can even afford to pay. But, simply put, I like going fast.

The people here in Watertown, well, I suppose you could say they really like to "just enjoy the scenery along their drive." I bet if I asked some of them, they'd say "Why hurry?" But the thing is - they are typically going 5 to 10 miles/hr UNDER the speed limit. I don't understand it. The speed limit along two of the major routes is 35 through town. Yet none of them seem to think their cars of capable of going that speed, because they ALL (and by all, I REALLY mean all) go 30 through town. And then there's the road I take into work: 25 mph. Now, if you ask me, I think it should at least be 30. But here, everyone thinks the actual speed limit hovers somewhere around 15-20 mph. And I about die in frustration - every single morning, afternoon, and evening. It's all I can do to not shout and scream at the person in front of me. Especially when I'm in a hurry to get either of my jobs.

Then I think to myself, what kind of a horrible person am I to be complaining about people going UNDER the speed limit? I'd rather people go slower and be safe than speed, drive irratically and cause accidents that cause injuries and deaths. But SERIOUSLY? SERIOUSLY! I get so irritated.

So although I hate to be complaining about such a stupid thing as slow traffic in a small town, I am. I just want to go the speed limit. Is that so much that I'm asking for?

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learning to see love

Self-esteem. It's a tricky thing.
One day we're accomplished, successful, loved, and beautiful. But one thing snaps and all the sudden you feel like the world's biggest failure. It may be small. It may be big. But that one thing has the power to control your mind and make you believe that somehow you aren't deserving of love, of hope, of things good for your future.

It's so easy to feel like a failure. If it's not in every aspect of our lives, it's still easy to focus and dwell on the things we loathe about ourselves. Whether they're internal matters or physical matters, it's difficult to keep those distractions at bay and feel in our hearts like we're worth something.

No, I'm not suggesting we focus solely on our positive aspects, putting on the rose-colored glasses and ignoring the faults we need to work on to change. But I believe our society is looking for approval and acceptance in all the wrong places, and when we realize the greatest love that's already upon us, it can change our perception of life.

As a recent college graduate, I find myself wandering through these post-grad months with a foggy sense of direction of where my life is going. And because of that lack of direction, I also have a lack of self-esteem. Who am I really? Is who I've become who I'm supposed to be? What do I really want to do with my life?

I thought I had it all figured out. But truth be told, I've realized that perhaps my plan for my life isn't what God had planned for me at all. And the lack of work, the lack of purpose, has got me all flustered.

There have been many moments where I've felt like a failure. I wonder what in the world am I doing. And as I've sauntered down the road without a clue where it's headed, I begin, piece by piece, to lose my self-esteem. Not getting jobs, interviews, or even an email of recognition that someone has received my resume - it's worn me down into this person that I look in the mirror and all I see is failure.

So as I sat on the couch this afternoon, watching yet another episode of FRIENDS to cheer me up, I began to wonder ... what really can boost my spirits? Because although FRIENDS has always proved to be a great source of laughter for me, it only lasts for 22 minutes.

I began to realize that I needed to really look at myself the way God does. He loves me. And he doesn't just love me when I'm successful. He doesn't just love me when I rocked an exam, or served him at VBS.

He loves the complete, whole, every single bit of me. He loves my loud laugh, he loves my blue eyes and my tiny feet. He loves the way I twirl around the house, because I'm a dancer through-and-through, and simply cannot go a day without twirling, leaping, and throwing in an arabesque wherever I can. He loves me.

And so I took some time today to write a list of the things I think God loves about me. I found writing that list was incredibly freeing, incredibly uplifting, and incredibly full of love itself. I found that the more things I wrote down, the more I thought about how much God loves me. Which made me realize just how much I love him. He loves the parts of me that I loathe, like my unruly hair and the zits that pop up on my face. He loves my crazy irrational fear of spiders and getting bit by a shark.
What I realized most was that simply, yet so unimaginably, he just loves me. He loves all of me. He loves me because he created me.
And writing that list down of those things.... it helped. It helped me see the bigger picture. It helped me widen my view from just focusing on my flaws and failures to the things greater than those - his decision to love me anyway. His decision to love me and help me overcome those things.

That encouragement from that list was life-altering, and I encourage you to do the same.

Write down the things you love about yourself. Then write down the things you think God loves about you. See what you find. You may just find a God who's loved you since forever, who just wants you to see that love reflected in your eyes, too.

Try to see what God sees. It'll open your eyes to a love unlike any other. A love that's willing to accept and welcome you for all you are and all you aren't, give you grace for your flaws and failures, and challenge you to take those flaws and failures to spin them into something beautiful.

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How to meet good Christian Men: a comedic "how to meet the guy"

For some women, their dreams of a fairytale romance begins with an accidental bump on the street. Or perhaps it begins with a mix-up at the deli. Or witty banter over a drink while bar-hopping with your girls.
But for us Christian women with slightly different standards, there aren’t many places where we can go to meet good Christian men. A bar isn’t the first choice for me to go and meet a potential husband/father. Accidentally bumping on the street isn’t an impossible situation, but odds lean towards the less-than-likely side. And although getting a number as a “thank you” for helping out said customer while at work in Express is flattering, it’s not quite the same for those of us who have, well, just different standards than most.
While pondering my current lack of places to meet a potential husband, I came up with a brilliant idea.
Church hopping.
That’s right. Church hopping. The Christian version of bar hopping.
My suggestion:
Google potential churches that have different service times. You can hit your traditional services in the early morning, rush over to the church with the late morning service, take part in another church’s small group that goes out to lunch afterwards. You then have approximately a few hours to go home, nap, and prepare for the evening to late night worship services.
In order to do this effectively, one must do research on which churches and services have a coffee/lunch/potluck hour. If you do your research well, you might be meeting the man you will spend the rest of your life with.
Start your morning off with coffee before the traditional service at the first pre-selected church. Perhaps the man with the coffee next to you might offer to pour you a cup. (Make sure to "conveniently" keep your hands full with your bible and purse.) Keep watch of his hands to see if they are shaking while pouring your cup - that could be a hint that he's into you. It also could mean he's had large quantities of caffeine already that morning. Next, you move onto the potluck at the next church’s late service. They always say food is the way to a man’s heart, so make sure to make up your own hotdish (yes, hotdish) and stand behind it and serve it. When the other ladies of the church ask you if you’re new, point to a guy and say “I’m his guest.” Those ladies will then swarm said man and ask tons of questions, which will of course peak his curiosity and ask you on a date…and of course try your amazing tater-tot hotdish. End the late morning/early afternoon portion with a full lunch at small group for the third church of the day. (Keep in mind not to eat any of your own hotdish from before. It'd be a shame to be too full to attend lunch.) Lunch is always a great way to get to know people. So go to the local Perkin’s, Applebee’s, or IHOP afterwards with that small group in your age bracket... and make sure to sit next to both the guy that catches your eye and the girl who looks like your next best friend. Having a girl confidant to subtly ask questions about said man next to you is a good way to get to know that man. Who needs 1-on-1 conversation when you can get the inside scoop from your soon-to-be bestie?
Make sure to take a break in the afternoon. You’ll need to figure out a good concoction for the extra-socialization hangover. Be careful not to socialize too much without taking the proper precautions. Most importantly, always have a friend to call to drive you to said events in case of too much socialization.
Come evening, drink tea at the first evening services’ pre-service fellowship. The tea-thing can come in handy, because if you typically don’t drink tea, you will need a proper tea expert (such as the man again standing next to you) to ask about which tea to try, how strong to make it, and which tea would be the most proper to have on a date. Finally go for a late night jaunt to Caribou with the people from the late night vesper’s service, because they will certainly need some caffeine for the late night study session for their next exam. Of course, this only works at Bethel and if you are a college student. But hey, you might just snag a Bethel Sem student in the process.
And as most shampoo bottles say:
“lather, rinse and repeat as necessary.”
Ok, so take out the lather and rinse, but you must still repeat as necessary with different churches until you find that soul mate.

*note: none of these theories have been tested or proven to be even the least bit effective. But if someone wants to try them, I’d be willing to accompany them.*

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The Adventure Itch

Sometimes I feel as if I'm bipolar or schizophrenic.

There's a side of me that belongs home, longing for roots and stability. My family, my home, my friends. The little things, like the smells, the sounds, the creeks of the floorboard, etc. I love having that sense of sturdiness, that sense of roots. Contentment.

Yet there are times when I get what's known in our family as the Davis Family Travel Bug. Or better worded, the adventure bug. I long for excitement. I long for experiencing the new, the unknown, the unstable. Experiencing new smells, new sights. Jumping off cliffs and diving into the sea. Sightseeing and experiencing all that God has set in place. Taking off without reason, spur-of-the-moment deciding to head off somewhere unknown.

Tonight I made what I now know is a mistake by watching Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2. They each travel to their respective areas, most of them not far from home. But at the end, they all just up and buy a ticket to Greece. I long for that. If money wasn't a factor (or the fact I don't have a current passport), it would take all the forces of the world to stop me from driving to Minneapolis and hopping on the next flight to anywhere exotic. Bora Bora? Of course. Turkey? Why not. Greece, Italy, Spain, Rome, Portugal, Venezuela, Australia, London, Paris, Vienna - "covered". (A camp reference, for those who would understand.) I would go anywhere.

It's as if words cannot account for this extreme urge to get out of this place. It's not that I don't love it with all my heart. But it's really that I love the thought of adventure more. I want to experience all life has to offer and the thought of being cooped up here with the same ol' same ol' is disheartening, at best.

Part of this past summer was exactly that for me...the adventure. My first two weeks were rough, as I was homesick for all that I missed. But after that it seemed as if I delved right into California life, embracing everything and anything it had to offer. (I will soon have the opportunity to experience it again! My heart longs for that familiar as well.)

Yet I still can't shake this craving that I need more. It's a little frightening, to be honest. There are days I wonder if it has a drug-like quality. Every bit of adventure gives me a dose and it quenches the thirst for the time being. The problem is, the thirst comes back with a vengeance, wanting more and more.

I want to chase storms through the midwest, feeling the power of the wind surround me. I want to fly east, Lobstering in Maine and traveling down the coast, stopping for the thrill of the theater or history of New York City, going through South Carolina on beaches, or visiting the very tip of Florida. I want to travel to Paris, buy a ridiculously overpriced pair of Jimmi Choos and take the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I want to Greek Dance in Greece. (I already know how, thanks to Jenny Codi... "hooopah!") I want to eat true Italian food in Italy. I long to dive along the Great Barrier Reef, taking in the coral and tropical fish, all while not being eaten by a shark. (knock on wood, right?) I want to swim with dolphins off of the Bahamas, and maybe even sail a Pirate Ship with Captain Jack Sparrow through the Caribbean. (Ok, so that last one, not quite, I suppose.) But you get the idea.

I've seen so little. I've experienced far less. I need to embrace this world.



.....the only problem: How do I get the money? Oh, and, who would travel with me?

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Shhhh....

I can't tell how many times I've written about snow. I can count at least three (including this one) on this blog. But for years and years, I've written about in diaries and journals. But it seems no matter how much I write about it, I can never really express the true magic and wonder that fills the air whenever it snows.

It snowed again today. I went into the library to go check out some Christmas books, and when I stepped outside, it was falling. And after a quick trip to Walmart for some much needed Christmas wrapping supplies (including both duct tape and packing tape), I came home and announced I would be going for a walk.

So indeed, I went. I grabbed my iPod, threw on my warm boots and bomber hat and stepped outside into the glittering white snowglobe. And really, oh the beauty. There's something inexplicably thrilling yet calming as you walk through the white winter wonderland.

I passed by homes and businesses all lit up, people bustling inside with love and laughter. I walked through the streets covered in a soft white blanket, not yet pounded by feet and tires. I wandered around town, looking up at the streetlights and wreaths attached to them, seeing the snow fly down towards the ground. I passed by churches, candles lit from the inside.

And while there's a thrill of excitement, I often times find myself wanting to say "shhhh..." I'm really not even sure why. Perhaps it's a suggestion for others, to stop hustling and bustling with the deadline of Christmas morning looming and simply enjoy the blessings of the season. Perhaps it's God telling me to "Be quiet and listen." But whatever the reason, it's quite calming.

I think the thing that most resounds through the holiday season is the presence and importance of family. Whether it's yours or a stranger's, it's not only important but inspiring when you just sit, watch, and listen. Be still and take a moment to soak in what's around you. Families hustling around the kitchen, making a Christmas meal. Co-workers laughing together at a business. A father toting home his daughter in a sled through the snow. It's amazing what you can discover and encounter just by watching. So as a reminder to you all, just... "shhh..." Stop and listen, watch, just to experience the joys, sights and sounds of the holiday season.

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The best tree

I've always been a traditionalist at heart. I like to sit in the same chair at the dinner table. I like to eat my cereal out of the same bowls I have since I was a young girl. I even had a hard enough time when my mother decided to buy new furniture for our upstairs living room. I had an even harder time getting used to the new dish set she bought some five years ago. I like things the same. Through the years, changes have had to be made. Some of them small, like the dishes. Some of them big, like moving, and moving again, and yet again. And because of moving, things changed. And knowing there was nothing I could do, I just had to let it be.

But there was one thing that hasn't changed through the years: our family decorating the Christmas tree together. We put on Christmas music, and start decorating away.

Earlier this holiday season, my roommates and I set up our own tree. I had brought the old plastic one from home that we never use anymore (as we've elected to get the real-deal for the past many years.) It took us a while to get the whole thing completely decorated, between schedules and time-constraints. We set up the tree one afternoon. Then we strung popcorn and cranberries several days later. And the next week, Mia finally put some of her ornaments up. And just a few days ago, I finally bought Christmas bulbs and candy canes, that night hanging them on the tree. I even painted a few of them with glitter, spelling out our names on them. But as I hung the shiny Christmas ornaments, I felt a sense of...complacency. Just, blah. I didn't feel the excitement, the thrill, and the joy that comes with the memories formed with each ornament. Oh, it's a pretty tree. And in our its own way, it represents a new beginning. New traditions. New beginnings. But sometimes new is hard.

I was supposed to go home one weekend to help set up the family Christmas tree. I was nearly packed and ready to go! But luck and true Minnesota weather had it that it would snow. And not just snow, but really snow and snow and snow. It snowed so much that malls closed on the second busiest day of the year. As a matter of a fact, everything closed. It snowed so much it was the fifth largest blizzard in the metro area on record.

In the meantime, I had called my parents, letting them know I could not make it home, and now this meant I most likely wasn't going home until two days before Christmas. I told my dad, "You guys need to get in the holiday spirit. Go ahead and decorate without me, and I'll just have to deal with it." I was trying to be ok with it, but really, I wasn't.

This past weekend, I had from Saturday night to Monday afternoon off. So I called up dad and I said, "I'm coming home!" The way this time of year goes, it had whisked away without a chance for them to decorate the tree. So I came home and was ready to bring the holiday cheer with me. And finally, the Minnesota weather gave me a break. I headed home Saturday night, and Sunday afternoon, we were setting up the tree.

First came the lights. Dad loathes Christmas lights. I think he just gets tangled and can't make them stay the way he wants. But for years, it's always been my mother and I putting up the Christmas lights, and in recent years, the sister has helped. And as every year happens, there weren't enough to go around. So of course I was sent out to go pick up some more Christmas lights. (It really is a big tree.) We finished stringing the lights, and then came my favorite time.

We plugged in the Christmas music and dug out the ornaments. We are an ornament family. Through the years, we've collected so many, that I think each year our tree has to grow nearly exponentially for them all to fit. As Johnny Mathis and Bing Crosby crooned their Christmas tunes, we sifted through our favorite ornaments, each representing some memory. I had my "shoe" ornaments - (one is an actual miniature white lace heel, the other says, "If the shoe fits, buy it in every color.") I have my ugly homemade ornament I made in the first grade, or the glitter star with a picture in it from second grade. There's the ornament given to me from my Sunday school teacher and "other mom" Mary Anders. The clear glass ornament is stuffed with a picture of me in my favorite yellow frilly dress from the 3rd grade. And then there's the ornament given to me from my preschool teacher, a "July" precious moments angel, and even a Barbie Collectors Christmas ornament. Oh, and a Vikings ornament, which is technically dad's, but I might claim for myself here soon.
As I go through each of the ornaments, whether they're mine or my sisters, or sift through my parents' ornaments from when they first got married, I am reminded of memories that are attached to them.



Part of it isn't even the ornaments, it's just being with my family, shuffling back and forth from the ornament boxes (yes, there are more than one) to the tree as we sing along to whatever song is playing. (My sister now even sings along to the Hallelujah Chorus.)

My mother, after it was finished, made a comment that said, "It's the memories and the love that make it so beautiful." And how true that rings. It doesn't have a pretty theme, and it might filled with too many ornaments, both beautiful and ugly alike, but it's the love and the memories that fill the tree that make it special.

After the ornaments came the tinsel, and after the tinsel came the gold bows. And the star, of course, which came actually before the ornaments - we've learned that the bigger the tree, the harder it is to put it on after the ornaments.

I'm not really sure what to make of this, if there's a lesson to be learned or a thought to be processed. But I know that our tree, this year named McKinley (because of it's massive size and a family member in Washington), is one of the most beloved. Oh, what it is to come from such a loving family.

But whatever happens for Christmases future, I know that these memories will never be taken from me. And although it frightens me to let my family go and begin my own, whenever that may be, I'll be excited to start new memories on a new tree.

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