Reflections and Resolutions for the Longest Night

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Freeze, freeze in the winter, if you really want to appreciate the summer!
Walk, walk at the edge of the precipices, if you rightly want to learn the meaning of safety!
Switch the light off, if you want to see the amazing beauty of the light!
~Mehmet Murat Ildan

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My countdown to the winter solstice began nearly two months ago, much to the amusement and bemusement of friends and colleagues. I can’t blame them, it’s not a date on the calendar that I’ve paid much attention to in the past. This year though I have anticipated the solstice perhaps even more than Christmas and definitely more than the calendar New Year. While I certainly don't want to wish away the present, I am excited about the changing seasons and the approach of longer days.

My balance training is--by necessity but also by preference--primarily conducted out of doors. While I'm enjoying the starry winter skies, especially seeing the constellation Orion, the fact that only twilight is left to me after the work day ends is highly inconvenient, hence my looking forward to the increasing daylight that comes with the passing of the solstice. Tonight, the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, is a turning point in the solar cycle: “Starting [tomorrow] at sunrise, the sun climbs just a little higher and stays a little longer in the sky each day.”

I firmly believe that turning points deserve both looking forward and looking back. Since the Gregorian calendar currently has little bearing on my training, and the solar cycle has a large one, this year I’ve chosen today for my reflections and resolutions.

The dark and cold of winter quite naturally tend to send me inward, warming my soul in the glow of good memories. Looking back at the last year, a lot has happened especially for balance: I practiced on a real tightwire for the second and third time (and my very first tightwire experience was just a little over a year ago); I conquered a waterline, scooted out on a highline, I took up slackrope, watched a sky walk live…and of course I started this blog.

One last success for the year was a high-walk challenge. On the way back from a party, a friend jokingly challenged me to walk the handrail of a low pedestrian bridge. I'd resisted the urge in the past, but the nudge of a challenge had me mounting the wide, flat rail without a second thought--much to the consternation of my poor friend who will definitely think twice before daring me to give in to temptation.

The width and stability of the rail put the focus of the walk on the mental challenge of having a large drop off on one side rather than on a physical or skill challenge. I was solid in my balance and calm in my focus; and I am quite pleased that I wasn't phased by 14 feet of empty space lurking on my right hand side. I don't think it's a stunt I'll need to repeat (not that particular handrail anyway); I'm focused on skill building not adrenaline rushes. Still it was a good mental challenge, and that mini success definitely left me a giddy.

So that's my recap of this year's balance recollections.The solstice is also a time for looking forward. As Gary Zukav put it, "The winter solstice has always been special to me as a barren darkness that gives birth to a verdant future beyond imagination."

Looking toward the coming months, I have to confess to feeling a bit rudderless. The big goals and dreams are in place--the 'verdant future' I'm imagining and working toward; the tenacity to practice and focus on micro-goals I also have; the gap is there in the middle. While I feel positive that the new year will bring new adventures and opportunities, I'm struggling to know what medium term goals would be most important (and which I am prepared publicly to commit to). I'm going to be feeling my way along, but I'll set down what I have so far.

• Invest time daily.  It takes time to develop fine-tuned balance skill, time spent actually balancing. I'm committing to at least five minutes of balancing daily six days a week. That might sound small, and I imagine that most days I will put in significantly more time than that, but for the hectic and tired days, 5 minutes is certainly better than none. 
• Learn how to rig and purchase equipment for a basic tightwire. Slackline and pipe are great for learning balance, but I need a tightwire to learn tightwire.
• Connect moves into sequences. Even though the focus of my dreams isn't artistic choreographed performance, I would like to transition from focusing on simple practice of individual skills, to the challenge of series of moves/skills in predefined patterns/orders.
• Master turns. I set this goal once already back in June, but turns are still my nemesis, so it goes back on the list.  This will mean half and full turns on pipe and tightwire and spin walk on slackline.
• Try yoga for cross-training.  Ballet was my summer cross-training experiment. Yoga is next on the list.  Yoga is supposed to be great for flexibility, balance, and core strength, so it's worth giving a try.

Well, that's my goal setting for now. Happy solstice everyone!

Fence Walkers

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"Now, to 'walk' board fences requires more skill and steadiness of head and heel than one might suppose who has never tried it."

~L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

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In addition to my collection of tightwire autobiographies, news articles and manuals, I have a small but growing collection of children’s books. I mentioned Mirette on the High Wire in my very first post—it was this book that first sparked my passion for rope walking. The book The Man who Walked Between the Towers about Philippe Petit’s walk between the Twin Towers of New York City is another high quality high wire classic.

A more recent addition to my collection is Tightrope Poppy, Circus Pig by Sudipta Bardhan-Quallen. With rhyme and rhythm, the book tells the adorably preposterous tale of a piglet who wants to become a tightwire star. Preposterous because, “A circus dog, / now that is fine. / But have you heard / of circus swine?”

I knew I had to own the book, as soon as Amazon showed me a preview of this page:

I had to own the book…because I was that child.

The compulsion to balance, to train my balance, has been with me for as long as I can remember. Certain vivid memories have taken on new significance: When I was three and four going to the local library, I absolutely had to hop up and walk all the way around the stone edge of the circular raised flowerbed in front before I would consent to go in the front door. When I was nine or ten, I wasn’t content to walk on the two-by-four support board near the top of the fence, but rather attempted to walk on the half-inch top of the upright wooden slats. In high school when a friend was having boy problems and I had no decent advice or comfort to offer, I got her up on a log fence—one very similar to the fence in the picture above—to walk it off. Much to my delight, she told me that it had indeed helped: the focus had a calming effect. My parents still to this day ask me if I’m feeling unwell if I don’t hop up on a fallen log when we are out hiking.

Yes, my heart has a strong affinity for a fellow fence walker, even if it is a fictitious piglet. My connection to this little piglet's story goes beyond affection for a fellow fence-walker. First, let me tell you her story—I love children’s literature, so I can't resist telling you (in abbreviated form) the rest of this bedtime story:

So, back in the farmyard, veteran fence-walker and aspiring highwire artist, Poppy Pig sees an advertisement for a circus in need of tightrope walkers. Of course she's thrilled and promptly squeals, “I’ll be a star in no time!” and rushes off to join the show.  Certain she knows her craft and ignoring the cautions of the ringmaster, she climbs straight up the highwire and, with the hubris of a porcine Icarus, saunters out onto the wire.  She falls promptly, dramatically, and painfully, though her hubris actually takes more of a battering than her hams and hooves. Quite discouraged, she contemplates quitting, but Poppy listens to the encouraging (emailed) words of a wise mother pig; she goes back to the ring this time ready not to do a starlet-strut but to learn. Many falls and a few ego bruisings later, the learning and practice pay off and Poppy Pig does in deed conquer the highwire.

For me, the first time I ever stepped on a tightwire was just over a year ago at Seattle’s School of Acrobatics and New Circus Arts (SANCA). While I did not have any dramatic tumbles off the 18 inch high wire, I was dismayed to discover that my training on slacklines wasn’t as good of preparation as I’d hoped. I definitely had a good foundation for my first official attempt at tightwire, but the bounding of the wire and the discomfort of the much smaller diameter base on my stocking feet weren’t things I was prepared for. (I also discovered that tightwires are by far the least comfortable to sit on. The bruises made the drive back home across hundreds of miles and several states none too comfortable.) Still, it was a significant milestone. I discovered I too had a lot of learning still to do.

Though I aspire higher than fences, they were and still are good training ground and playground. Passing up a beautiful stretch of fence still seems like a travesty to me. Through my research and networking, I’m discovering that I’m in good company—plenty of tightrope walkers have felt drawn to the challenge of fences and rails: Bird Millman, Philippe Petit, Matthew Whitmer, and Bello Nock to name a few.

Bello Nock, London

Each time I discover or meet a fellow fence or rail-walker, my heart just glows.

Though I was drawn to Tightrope Poppy for that single picture of fence walking, the purchase was a good one for the moral of the story as well: “You can’t lose heart / on one bad start / some dreams take lots of trying.” I love children’s literature, so I’m not ashamed to admit that to achieve my balance ambitions, I’m taking as my role model an utterly fictional, but incredibly plucky pig. 

Watching Nik Wallenda Conquer the Windy City Skyscape

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Reporter: Chicago really embraced you. Could you hear all that noise from the crowd below? 

Nik Wallenda: Oh my goodness, it was amazing! I was born in an entertainment family and started in front of a live audience at two. The 75,000 to 100,000 underneath cheering me on – there is no way to describe that. When I first stepped out at the top of the show and they saw me up there with the orange jacket, I felt like I was floating it was so loud. 

~Interview from Forbes magazine, November 5, 2014

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I was one of the thousands down on the ground cheering, adding my voice to the swell in hopes that the sound would carry up to that tiny orange-jacket speck in the sky. I was in Chicago watching when Nik Wallenda set two highwire records. This was my first time seeing a skywalk in person and it did not disappoint.

Chicago has been on my list of cities to visit for a while, and I’d talked with a friend about doing a girls' getaway sometime this fall. When Nik Wallenda announced his Chicago skywalk I jumped at the chance and quickly convinced my friend that the first weekend in November would be a great time to do our trip.

It wasn’t until after I’d purchased non-refundable plane tickets and reserved hotels that the possibility of his falling crossed my mind. That gave me pause: the “live” televised broadcasts are actually streamed with a 10-second delay, so they can cut out in case of an accident. In person there would be no such system in place to protect me from the trauma of witnessing his falling to his death—except for covering my eyes myself of course. I want Nik to have a long and healthy life for the sake of himself and his family…and, selfishly, him dying, especially in front of my eyes, would put a serious damper on my dreams.

The qualms passed quickly—I have a lot of faith in Nik’s abilities. What he attempts would be a certain death sentence for 99.99% of us, so it’s hard to gauge how big of a risk it is for Nik Wallenda. Yes highwire is dangerous, but for Nik it’s a calculated risk, and he makes sure that the math stacks up in his favor: 30 years of experience, tens of thousands of hours of practice, extensive rigging experience, and a world class training, rigging, and safety support crew.

Think of it this way: taking a 5-year old’s training wheels off a little street bike and giving him a nudge down an aggressive mountain biking trail wouldn’t end well either. Bikers build up to those kind of things, they gain skill over time through practice and training. Because most of us learned how to ride a bike as children, we can relate better to mountain bikers. Many of us certainly couldn’t tackle an extreme mountain bike trail, but we understand in theory what it takes to get there. The more I experience and learn about highwire, the better I understand what kind of training, skill, and support it takes for highwire and the less scary it seems.

The skywalk took place in the heart of Chicago where the river cuts through downtown.  I’d wondered why Nik chose to walk it at night, but approaching the walk site, the artist in me fully appreciated the setting: with a pitch black backdrop of the sky, there was nothing to detract from the glowing silver strand of wire and the tiny speck that was the daring man, Nik Wallenda.

Just wending my way through the crowd did my heart good. It was a fantastic feeling to be in this huge crowd of people, surrounded by people interested enough in tightwire to brave the November breezes in the windy city. Some of them came just because it was a cool event and just because they happened to be in Chicago. A few though came, like I did, for this. As I passed people in the crowd I was delighted to overhear a woman recounting Nik's career and family history for a less knowledgeable spectator. She sounded like me!

My friend and I ended up finding space to watch close to a set of guy wires¹ attached to a cement barricade. It was incredible to me how far those slender wires stretched to reach up to the main wire to hold it steady.

It took a long time for the walks to start. For those of us without access to the televised broadcast (my phone battery unexpectedly hit empty just as I tried to take my first picture of the wire) the first hour and a half was an exercise in patience. We'd been told the event would start at 6pm. It wasn't until well after 6 that Nik Wallenda looked over the edge of the building. We all cheered thinking the walk was about to happen.  Fifteen minutes or so later he looked over again...and again we cheered. He got up on the wire and stood backwards, balanced, squatted...and then he disappeared again. We weren’t sure what was going on, if something had gone wrong, if the walk would actually happen. After an hour and a half of waiting and wondering I was a little cold, but still happily admiring the silver strand of wire in the air above me.

The actual walks went quickly. The first walk, the one across the river at an uphill angle of 19°—setting a record for highest inclined walk—took over six minutes to complete. The second, shorter walk between the twin Marina City Towers was done blindfolded and took one minute sixteen seconds. This walk also was record setting for the height at which it was conducted. From where I was he was just a steadily moving speck, an orange jacket and a long balance pole.

He didn’t waver, stumble, or pause, which wasn’t very…dramatic or heart-stopping—no eye-covering necessary. I don’t wish he’d faked a trip or fallen for real for the thrill of it. The fact that he made it look easy, look doable, was exactly what I wanted to see. For me the lure of tightwire—and highwire—is not about craving near-death experiences but is all about the skill to do something so well that I could be confident enough to conquer fear.

No one should be surprised that I got in the spirit of and celebrated the skywalk by balancing on a Chicago handrail.

I'm not quite ready for a skywalk, but I'm definitely working on it.

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¹ Tensioned cable designed to add stability to a free-standing structure. (Wikipedia)

Autumn is in Full Swing

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Listen! the wind is rising,
and the air is wild with leaves.
We have had our summer evenings,
now for October eves.
~Humbert Wolfe

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Where I set up my slackrope orange and yellow leaves are quivering overhead and—increasingly—fluttering to the ground. All too soon the branches will be bare. I’ve been storing up memories of these idyllic autumn practice sessions. This is how a slackrope session might go these days:

After I set up, I focus on walking for a while. I work to hold my silver strand still, so that except for the changing angles of the rope as I cross, it appears solid rather than merely a loose hung rope. I breathe deeply as I try to take big steady steps all the way to the other end. My turns are still usually unsteady, but I get myself around so I can head back to where I started. Back and forth, back and forth as an autumn breeze tickles the leaves overhead and brushes by cool on my skin.

Taking a break from my practice, I lie down on the rope. The rope runs under my ankle, against my calf, up my back, into the hollow next to one shoulder blade, and against the back of my head. While one hand grips the rope above my head, I press my fingers down into the soft grass and push off to start the rope swaying. I relax and enjoy the luxury of forgetting all about balancing for a while. Above me the branches sway, and I contemplate yet again how rarely I look straight up. I close my eyes and enjoy the patches of sunlight that skitter over my face and warm my eyelids as my rope rocks me back and forth.

Then I’m ready for a challenge: I stand in the middle of my rope facing toward one of the anchors. My arms tilt to one side, I flex a little at the waist, press through my hips, and the rope begins to swing. I work on getting the timing right—the movement of my arms, bending at the waist, shifting my weight—to ride the increasing swing of the rope. I concentrate on my anchor point, my North star in a world that is pitching. My face is a mask of focus, but my heart lifts a little, revels, each time the rope swings high, slows, then plummets back down in a smooth arc under the weight of my feet. All too soon my timing is off and I have to slip or fly off, landing with a soft thud on the grass and scattered leaves while the rope, now free of my weight, flaps and then sways to a standstill.

Can you tell that I’m in love with slackrope? It’s a wonderful combination of a mid-air walking path, hammock, and swing set. I may also be enamored with slackrope just because the basics came easy—a first for me. During my second ever slackrope session I managed walking backward, sitting, and standing. Oh, and laying. Laying on a slackrope is a joy. Unlike slackline and tightwire, laying was low effort even in the beginning and (relatively) comfortable. I know, I know you’re thinking that lying on a single ⁷⁄₁₆ inch strand of rope can’t be comfortable, but while it certainly isn’t as comfortable as a hammock, it really isn’t bad.

After that the next skills came more slowly. Falls from a slackrope are somehow more daunting than from a slackline, and sometimes I don’t trust my feet on the steep uphill at either end. I mastered my fear of turns about a month ago and now can do them reasonably well if sometimes a bit shaky. More and more often I can walk with the rope remaining almost completely still. Having the rope hold still is a huge accomplishment…but not all that cool. What I really want to master is swing walking. (See video clip here to grasp the beauty of the thing.)

First I need to master just the standing lateral swing. For more than a month I worked on swinging, wanting so badly to experience the beauty of it but seeing little results come of my efforts. In the last week, like a surprise gift granted in the grace period of an unusually long autumn, I finally made progress. I’m ridiculously proud of that progress. I still can’t maintain a standing swing for very long, but I’m starting to feel the rhythm, and my body is starting to work with the line instead of against it. I’m even ridiculously proud of the fact that when back on solid earth I sometimes feel a little bit seasick as my body adjusts to a world that is holding so unwaveringly still.

I’m still learning how to increase the swing and then ride the swing.  I focus on that…till I fall off. I have to confess: the trees will be bare soon, my slackrope season will be over…and I have yet to learn to STOP a lateral swing. Oh well, perhaps it’s appropriate given the season that I fly off my rope, cartwheeling in the air to land on my feet. I’m sure that the leaves that flutter and dance to the ground around me appreciate my graceless human imitation of their descents.

Given that slackrope and especially swinging is all about movement, a video of some of my more successful practice seemed appropriate for this post. Special thanks to MelissaH for putting this video together and also for her k-pop obsession which lead to choosing the incredibly appropriate background music for this clip.



Bird Millman once said that she could "could walk a wire if they strung it between a couple of stars." I'm with Bing Crosby though: my dream (at least this week) is to swing on the stars:

Would you like to swing on a star
Carry moonbeams home in a jar
And be better off than you are
…
So you see it's all up to you
You can be better than you are
You could be swingin' on a star
~Bing Crosby, "Swinging on a Star"

I hope this post gave you a glimpse into the beauty of slackrope and that you’ve had a taste of the joy I experienced this autumn swinging on slackrope. I hope you're enjoying your autumn as well.

Learning Grit: Juggling

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“Over time, grit is what separates fruitful lives from aimlessness.” 
~John Ortberg

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A while back a good friend of mine told me about how she’d been teaching her daughter about “grit”— persisting even when the task is difficult. Like my little friend, I am learning about grit: for more than a year now, I have been learning how to juggle.

My dream of tightwire has spilled over into a fascination with all thing circus, and what is the circus without juggling? I have generally avoided sports that involve kicking, throwing, and catching—basically anything that involves quick reflexes, coordination, and airborne projectiles. It’s just not my thing, and that’s ok. Sadly though my high avoidance for any and all even remotely similar skills means that I don’t have a great foundation for this juggling endeavor.

Juggling is probably the most accessible of the circus disciplines, so at least getting started was easy. First I found inexpensive juggling balls—juggling beanbags actually: they don’t roll so far when dropped; which is good because I drop them constantly. Next I got a book that promised simple step-by-step instruction for the basic cascade juggling pattern. Then began the grueling repetitive practice of teaching my hands to do something utterly foreign.

Lesson #1: Just throw one ball from hand to hand so the ball arcs in a sort of figure-8 pattern. My book suggests spending at least half an hour on this skill…I spent three weeks.

Lesson #2 was tossing two balls, one from each hand, so one is tossed just as the other crests. I spent at least another two weeks just on that.

Lesson #3 was to throw all three balls in succession, holding two in one hand and one in the other. This came more easily, so I only kept myself on it for a week or so before moving forward.

When I could do three tosses reasonably well, I thought I’d soon be able to juggle. I could see what the pattern was supposed to be, it was just a matter of adding tosses. “Just adding tosses,” should be easy enough right? Nope. The balls were flying out of control by toss three or four…or two. Somewhat discouraged, but still determined, I backed up…I practiced one toss, two, three. Eventually it became three tosses and sometimes four, four and sometimes five… progress seemed unmeasurably slow and backing up frequent.


Learning to juggle is taking a lot of time and patience. With all the other things in my life I’m metaphorically juggling, it’s hard to fit one more thing in. Luckily I found a time that doesn’t take away from everything else: I juggle my way to and from work, a ten minute walk—which became a fifteen minute walk once I added in the constant stops to retrieve rogue balls. I juggled my way to and from work all through last summer and autumn, and started up again this spring once it was warm enough.

Juggling has also been an exercise in grit because my painstaking practice hasn’t been conducted in private. My walk to and from work isn’t through a high traffic area luckily, or my erratic tosses would make me a public menace, but there are enough passersby. Somehow I’m most likely to fumble the very first toss or fumble all three balls at once just as someone is approaching. I’ve learned to shrug it off, to focus on what I’m learning rather than how I’m performing.

The weather is getting cool again now, so during my morning walk I juggle till my hands are numb, let them thaw, then go again. It’s worth it though, especially because just in the last few weeks I’ve finally reached the point where I’m really “juggling”—no longer confined to halting tosses, painstakingly counted. My “runs” are pretty short—I can’t keep control of the pattern indefinitely, and all too often I drop a ball after only a few tosses, but I’ve finally had a chance to experience that “satisfying circularity”¹ that comes with control and automaticity.

I’ve been thinking about juggling not just because my juggling “season” is coming to a close, but also because it’s about time to retire my first set of juggling beanbag balls. They’ve served me well through two seasons of commutes to work now, and they’re pretty disreputable looking from being dropped on pavement, in the dirt, the grass, the dew, being stepped on, squashed in my bag, and fiddled with in my pockets.

Now that I have the basic beginner’s “cascade” pattern down nearly well enough, it’ll be time soon to add something new—maybe juggling two balls in one hand to work my way up to a four ball pattern or maybe the next easiest 3-ball tricks, “Juggler’s Tennis” or "Columns."  Learning something new will mean going back to the beginning and back to basics all over again. Toss, fumble, retrieve, and try again.

If grit can get me there; if some sensible instruction, a little technique, and endless repetition are what it takes, eventually I'll be able to juggle at least a little.

I got grit. How ‘bout you?

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¹ Duncan Wall. 2012. The Ordinary Acrobat, page 85.

Balancing to the Music

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This balance between repetition and variation (new information) is what turns sound into music. …A great musician is a master of balance, of equilibrium; he/she knows when to add something new, when to create tension, and when to give us the predictable and let us feel at home.
 ~ajrdileva, "Music Balance (Repetition vs Variation Culture)"

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A mini highlight in my week was discovering a new song for my balance playlist. Yes, of course I have a playlist just for songs I balance to. Plugging in my headphones, stepping off the ground, and fitting my movements and my soul into the rhythm of the music and the sway of my slackline is incredibly satisfying.

I’m pretty picky about what I listen to when I’m balancing (hence the playlist). Given that I generally walk slowly, and focus on subtle, controlled movements, it's understandable that people assume I listen to mellow instrumentals. That is not the case however; almost everything on my playlist has vocals (lyrics I connect with), and an upbeat tempo. The songs on the list span several genres: musical soundtracks, pop/rock, country, and Christian contemporary.

Confession: I’m a nerd. After discovering my new song (I will get to that…eventually) and deciding to write this post, I wondered what made songs "right" for balancing.  I couldn't articulate anything concrete beyond vocals and a decent tempo, so I decided to see if Pandora could help me out. I created a station based off of my playlist songs, and when Pandora chose something I liked, I’d check the “Why was this track selected?”

Pandora was baffled by my mix. The genres identified were: hip-hop, electronica, blues, rock, disco, folk, country, and gospel, as well as cross-overs between the genres. The musical qualities were contradictory: syncopated or unsyncopated, repetitive or varying, acoustic  or synthesized, major key or minor key, melodic or harmonic, etc. Pandora started adding "…and many other features identified by the music genome project."

Well, it was worth a shot. Without a precise analysis or explanation of my musical preferences, I’m just going to assume that I've settled on some incredibly appropriate balance of sometimes contradictory musical qualities. That is, after all, what great music is all about according to ajrdileva who so kindly provided the header quote for this post.

In addition to the rank and file songs on my playlist there are also the "premier" songs: songs that have the appropriate (if ambiguous) balance of musical qualities, have lyrics I connect with, and are thematically appropriate to the activity. Idina Menzel’s "Defying Gravity" from Wicked was the first to make the premier list. Next was "Firework" by Katy Perry (partly in honor of the scene from Madagascar III where I first heard the song).

This week’s song to make the premier list is "Don’t Look Down" from the TV show Austin & Ally (which I've never actually watched). If you don’t know the song, below are an abbreviated version of the lyrics and a link to the song online—you’ll have no trouble seeing (or hearing) why it made the premier list:

"Don't Look Down"
Sung by Laura Marano and Ross Lynch

I’m walking on a thin line
And my hands are tied
Got nowhere to hide
I’m standing at a crossroads
Don’t know where to go
Feeling so exposed  

Yeah I'm caught In between
Where I'm going and where I've been
But no,
There's no turning back  

It’s like I’m balanced on the edge,
It’s like I’m hanging by a thread,
But I’m still gonna push ahead
So I tell myself
Yeah, I tell myself  

Don’t look down, down, down, down
Don’t look down, down, down, down
…

It's a good song.

After that rather lame conclusion sentence, I spent hours deciding what to write next, because, honestly, adding a third song to the premier list made another theme evident: I'm drawn to songs about inner greatness, impressive individuality...and (overcoming) self-doubt. The audacity to aspire to a grand spotlight seems somehow presumptuous, and realizing anew—and highlighting in writing yet again—how pervasive my self-doubts are makes me feel uncomfortably vulnerable.  I generally wait to post until I can wrap up in an inspiring way, but I discovered this song this week, and it might be months or years before my feelings of being "caught in between where I'm going and where I've been" are safely, and inspiringly, in the past.

So I decided to take a risk, be vulnerable, and not wrap up my post with a clear and tidy sense of victory. For this week I'll be glad that I discovered a new song and, in the process, learned about balance in music. Music has a way of speaking to how we feel, so I guess if I sway and bounce and step to a beat that reflects my hopes and my fears, that's no bad way to push ahead.  I'll learn to defy gravity, let loose the fireworks in my soul, and balance on the edge—in time.

Niagara on a Tightrope

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Daredevils, lunatics, call them what you will; there’s one thing that unites those folks who attempted the tightrope-walking or barrel-riding stunts…an irrepressible urge to stand out from the crowd. Niagara Falls was their stage, and they intended to fill the show with rapturous applause, even if it meant bringing the curtain down for the final time.
~ Karl Fabricius

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Niagara Falls is an iconic landmark and natural wonder, one that I've wanted to see for a while. This past weekend I had the chance to visit for the first time. While the falls are a draw in and of themselves, there was also a bubble of joy in my heart that I carried quietly through the weekend because of Niagara'a significance in the history of wire walking and also its association with the storybook Mirette on the High Wire—the book that started it all.

Henry Bellini with Niagara in the background

People are generally more familiar with the Niagara barrel stunts of the 20th century than the wire walkers of the 19th, but in their time the wire daredevil performances were every bit as popular—possibly more so because they were legal (advertisable and marketable) spectacles. Niagara was a popular summer resort for the wealthy; whole families with servants in tow would “summer” at the luxury hotels lining Niagara gorge. For the wire performances, the bridge and grandstands were full of men in top hats, women with parasols, and little girls clinging to the skirts of their nurses; bands on both sides of the rivers added accompaniment, and once safely across, the performer might be driven in a carriage with four horses up to one of the hotels for refreshment before making the return trip.

Maria Spelterini, the only female Niagara wirewalker,
pictured here with peach baskets on her feet

At least eight wire walkers performed crossings of the Niagara gorge between 1859 and 1896. Never content with simply crossing safely the 1,000+ foot span nearly 200 feet over rocks and torrents, these performers added headstands, somersaults, sprinted across in 2 minutes, cooked themselves breakfast, did laundry in an old fashioned wash tub, climbed down to the Maid of the Mist and then back up, pushed wheelbarrows, walked blindfolded, and wore baskets instead of shoes.

Incredibly, in the history of the Niagara wire-walkers, there was only ever one fatality and it was an after-hours fatality at that: crossing in the dark, drunk, wearing street shoes, with no known spectators made Stephen Peer’s demise almost anti-climactic. By the time Niagara officials banned unauthorized stunting in 1884 and began refusing authorization in 1896, the crowds coming to view the wire-walkers were dwindling. The wire-walkers with their daring and drive had perhaps done their job too well: the crowds pretty well assumed a successful crossing and no longer watched with bated breath (or aggressively bet on the outcome).

Two years ago, after a 116 year hiatus, the Falls were once again graced by the presence of a wire-walker. Nik Wallenda, heir of a five-generation wire walking legacy, received approval—after several years of petitions and negotiations—to string his wire across the Niagara. It was a momentous comeback, especially because, for the first time ever, a wire-walker would be walking over the Horseshoe Falls rather than “merely” across the gorge just downstream from the falls. It would also be one of the longest walks in the region: 1,800 feet, topping previous records by 300 feet.

 

The dark of night made for a stunning contrast with the illuminated mist and falling water of his crossing. I'm certain the crowds lining the gorge were every bit as breathless as those that had come to see Blondin.


When I first read the children’s storybook Mirette on the High Wire and fell in love with wire walking, I didn't have any actual experience with wire walking and frankly believed that the reputed accomplishments of the fictional mentor wire-walker Bellini were just that—fictional tall-tale feats attributed to a purely fictional character. Well, doesn't crossing Niagara AND stopping in the middle to cook an omelet sound a bit far fetched?

Illustration from Mirette on the Highwire

You can imagine how delighted I was when I discovered that the exploits of the fictional Bellini were based on the actual accomplishments of Jean Francois Gravalet, known as "Blondin," one of the greats in wire-walking history and the first to cross the Niagara gorge.  Then just recently as I prepared for my trip (by researching lesser-known Niagara wire walkers specifically), I was elated to discover that there actually had been a Niagara wire-walker who went by the name of Bellini. My childhood fantasy was actually history—or at least solidly based in history.

With its storybook associations and rich non-fictional heritage of wire walking, Niagara was a wonderful place to visit. I passed a plaque marking the site of the old suspension bridge next to which many of the old-time wire walkers stretched their cables. I stood on Terrapin Point on Goat Island where Nik Wallenda began his walk. While viewing the grand spectacle of the falls, my eyes would often wander to scan the gorge, imagining a wire stretched taut across. Looking at the dizzying drops and rushing water and imagining what it might be like walking in the midst of the nothingness above made my stomach churn in miniature imitation of the water below.

An important stop for me on the trip was the monument to Nik Wallenda’s crossing, complete with a section of the actual wire he used. After only a glimpse of the monument's unveiling in an online news article, I immediately wondered if the boulder was climbable, if the wire mounting was appropriately weight bearing, and if I’d get arrested for desecrating a monument—because of course I wanted to walk where Nik Wallenda walked.

A picture of Wallenda balancing on top of his monument found a bit later in my internet surfing was the clincher, resolving at least two of my three concerns, and so on a sunny Monday morning I tried it out myself with the sunlit mists of the falls behind me as I stood on a wire that had crossed through those very mists supporting a lone man across the chasm.

To stand where great men have stood and remember their accomplishments is a rewarding experience for the ambitious. Having seen the falls, I better understood why wire-walkers were drawn to this location; I also understood the desire to stand out on this beautiful natural stage. I wanted my turn balancing with grand curtains of falling water as my backdrop, and I'm always craving a balance challenge. Highwires may be banned, but handrails are plentiful, so this second ambition was also fairly easy to fulfill…I just had to choose a rail not on the edge of the gorge.

A gorgeous sunset, a beautiful backdrop, and a balance challenge, it was a perfect moment.

The Next Generation

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In Greece…the art of rope-walking was held in the highest regard as part of the education of the young.
~ Hermine Demoraine

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The benefits of equilibristics (balance) training are almost too numerous to list: improved spatial perception, proprioception, and vestibular function; added brain mass and neuropathways; better muscle isolation, joint stabilization, and neuromuscular coordination to name a few. Given the beneficiality of equilbristic training, of course as a conscientious member of society and an amateur funambulist, I’m trying follow the example of the Greeks and do my part to provide a well-rounded education to the young.

Ok, really the biomechanics and neuroscience jargon—while valid—was a chance to see how many big scientific-y words I could fit into a single run-on sentence. Balancing really is beneficial, and I am pretty passionate about giving kids opportunities to learn and experience rope walking. I’m doing my level best to help develop the next generation of funambulists and equilibrists. Mostly though I wanted an excuse to share some of the adorable photos I’ve taken of kids balancing.

The joy and excitement on their faces is infections. Some have a look of ageless concentration on their faces and take their first ventures very seriously, others giggle uncontrollably as they (or the line under their feet) wobbles uncontrollably, others need a more secure helping hand, but, given a little security, soon enough are grinning ear to ear.

One little girl, after she’d tried out my waterline, shyly confided to me that she had dreams of wirewalking. I heartily approved and shared that I had just the same dream—and was pursuing it. I hope that somewhere along the way I convey to these children who aren’t afraid of dreaming big that those dreams are worth pursuing—that they can pursue them. And if I help them dream of rope walking specifically…I certainly won’t complain.

So here’s to the next generation, the next generation of equilibrists, the next generation of dreamers.

Go Down to the Wire

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If there’s ever an issue when I’m walking across the Grand Canyon or anywhere, I would go down to the wire immediately, and that wire’s a safe haven.
~Nik Wallenda

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A friend of mine brought her younger sibling waterlining this past Saturday. Even though it was her first time, our newest inductee to slacklining had an incredibly good instinct for catching the line to break her fall. It got me thinking about highwire & highline artists and athletes’ strategies for staying safe (and alive).

In an interview before walking the Grand Canyon, highwire artist Nik Wallenda talked about how he has trained since childhood to “go down to the wire” in case of emergency. Sure enough when the winds got rough and the wire began a building oscillation, Nik Wallenda did just that:

During that skywalk, things never got so rough that he had to go all the way down and wrap his arms and legs around the wire—but he has also trained for that.

Slackliners also train safety responses, though from what I’ve seen, often instead of a crouch, quite a few of them will drop down to sitting position—a butt bounce with the line between the legs known as “The Korean” because Korean tightropers—“Jultagi” artists—do a similar move. Whether in a crouch or in a drop, being closer to the wire makes the balancers more stable by lowering their center of gravity so they aren't tottering so high above their narrow balance point. Being closer to the wire or line also makes it more likely that the balancer will be able to grab hold of it if they fall.

The ideal response is to go down to the wire proactively/preemptively, to be in control to crouch or drop, to go down before too much off balance. But control is something to strive for, not to count on; we can’t always anticipate what might go wrong, what sudden gust or inexplicable stumble might come. And so a second safety response is needed as well. Highwire artists and highliners train to fall toward the line (rather than away from it into thin air) and to catch the line as they fall—to grab hold, and hold on until help can arrive. In extreme cases, they’ll even try to hit the wire with as much of their body as possible--to fall across it to have the best possible chance of hanging on. I believe that Tino Wallenda, Nik Wallenda’s uncle, has several times broken and bruised ribs falling onto the wire—but better that than falling to the ground.

I'm really only just beginning to develop these skills and responses. The first safety response, of preemtively going down to the rope, whether in the wirewalker’s crouch or with the slackliner’s drop, isn't something that is instinctual for me at this point; it’s something I still need to work on. I think I do better with that second safety response though—catching the line. Waterlining this summer has given me ample opportunity to practice.

Waterlining for me is training ground for high balancing. While waterlining lacks the quick and dry recovery of a regular low-to-the-ground slackline, the water provides a safe, if wet, landing while adding the challenge of moving water underneath as an unstable focal point and the motivation to try to stay safely dry. Just as importantly, while falling or jumping clear of the line and taking a plunge is perfectly acceptable, waterlining can also be an opportunity to train the safety responses that can't be practiced low to the ground but without the cumbersome safety equipment needed for high balancing.

I have to admit, keeping at least my head and shoulders out of the frigid water and towing myself quickly back to shore were probably the primary motivators for learning to catch while waterlining. One of my friends said that that I often somehow managed to tip and grab for the line before my feet actually left it. What I don't know is if I catch hold strongly enough to support the full weight of a fall high up. More training and practice is definitely something in my future, but at least I've made a start.

I find an analogy in everything; I can’t resist. So this is what I’ve been thinking about this week: just as the highwire walker has a base of support—his wire—holding him up, we all have bases of support—support systems—in our lives.  These are our family and friends, the people we turn to when we need help and comfort.  These threads of genuine human connection are what our lives and human society are woven from. And when life gets rough, an effective survival strategy is sticking close to those support systems just as a wirewalker crouches closer to his wire.

Sometimes life’s upsets come upon us unexpectedly and bowl us over, just like an unexpected gust of wind or stumble. Then it isn’t enough just to move closer to our supports, instead perhaps we need to reach for the love and support we’ll need to hold onto till we regain our balance.

The day after waterlining, as I was drafting this post, I had the chance for a good long talk with a friend, a good friend who was willing to listen to some of my deepest worries, fears, and frustrations with compassion and without judgment; a friend who was also willing to share some of the tilts and tips in her own life. I have been very blessed to have friends like that, friends who are willing to lend a hand helping me keep my balance—metaphorically and also literally.

Life seems to be giving me opportunities to set aside my invincible independence and focus instead on the people close to me.  While I’m learning to reach out proactively before my world rocks me too off balance, it seems like often enough lately I’ve stumbled and, metaphorically, fallen hard onto the support of family and friends. It has, admittedly, bruised my ego a bit, but it's kept me from ever being broken on rock bottom.  I’m so grateful to the friends and family that have been there to prop me up.

So that is my lesson for the week: learning to make my instinctual response to the upsets of life the same as Nik Wallenda’s: go down to the wire.

Walking on Water

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I don’t know what I was looking for, but I found it on the other side.
~Julia Hagen

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Summer is, unfortunately, winding down now, so I’m savoring what is left. I’ve had a fairly low key summer all in all; aside from work and some sporadic job hunting, balance has been a big focus. This summer I was determined to conquer a waterline. Waterlines are just cool: it’s just a slackline over water—which means if you fall you get wet, which is pretty much perfect to a summer slacker like me.

There’s a great pre-bolted place on a river near where I live. The sides of the river are cemented where a bridge used to be, the banks are grassy, there are trees for shade, and a bridge just downstream makes for easy setup and a convenient alternative to the slackline for travel from side to side. The water is frigid, but the bolting for anchors, deep enough water, and a short enough span for my current gear make it the most ideal location I’ve found yet.

When the weather is hot, I’ve sent out blanket invitations to friends to join me for a waterlining session. Quite a few friends have joined me who had never slacklined over solid earth before, let alone over water. We alternated between falling into the river and sitting out on the grassy bank to get warm again. When walking on top didn’t work out, hanging underneath and pulling across was a popular alternative.

The waterline is located at a popular park and swimming hole, so spectators are many and new “friends” too—anyone who wants to try is welcome. Given the people lining the bridge and lining up for a turn, you’d never guess from the pictures that I generally only have 2 – 4 of my own friends in tow. I like sharing my passion, so I don’t mind the crowds. And hey, really, am I going to object to hearing random strangers say how cool I am?

I’ve loved the waterlining sessions. It’s the best of summer: outdoor fun in the sun, balance playtime, good friends, and lots of laughter—and the flailing, bailing, and splashing gives us plenty to laugh about.

In terms of just having fun, the waterline is always a success, but I’ve been motivated to have some balance success too. Last year I was unable to conquer this waterline. I had two years of slacklining under my belt…and all of that skill seemed to go out the window once there was water involved. Even the motivation of staying out of the cold water couldn’t keep me on the line. I generally took a dunking after just a step or maybe two. Once, just once, I made it almost half way.

When I went back for the first time this year, I thought for sure I was ready. I had practiced balance pipe all through the winter, had practiced on longer lines at lesser tension through the summer, even setting up my slackline across the same span as the river…but once again I fell as quickly as I stood. During that first session this year, after many falls I became a little bit steadier and, eventually, made it almost half way again. I was relieved that at least I wasn't doing worse than the previous year, but it was hardly the degree of progress I'd expected.

Some things just take time, then happen all in an instant. I set up my waterline twice more in the past week. And the great news: I conquered!

Last Friday I’d arranged to waterline with a friend…but she was unable to at the last minute. I’d been looking forward to it all week so I decided to go anyway even though waterlining alone is a bit sketchy. There were enough people around, and I was careful to stay where the water was a safe depth. I fell in a lot, but after an hour, I started to make more progress down the line. And then out of the blue it happened: I made it all the way across!

As I stepped off the slackline back onto solid ground, my victory was met by the spontaneous cheering of twenty Boys and Girls Club members who were on a field trip. Those cheers broke the controlled calm and focus I’d submerged myself into, brought elation bubbling to the surface as I threw my arms up, acknowledging the applause. I crossed the bridge back to the other side…and crossed the waterline again without falling. One of the little girls kept track of my crossings for me: one then two, three then four, and still more. As soon as I’d done it once, I could do it again.

I went back again the next day with a few friends and walked pretty steadily right from the start—steadily enough that I challenged myself by adding simple tricks like kneeling, sitting, laying, remounting, and turning. Sometimes I still fell after just a few steps, but really not all that often. Something just clicked, and what I could do over solid ground, I could do over water. Libby Sauter, a professional slackliner I’d met at the All Girls Slackline Festival in May, described having that same sort of moment highlining—the moment when it seemed no different than walking near the ground. I’m looking forward to that "click" moment like you wouldn't believe.

The victory of crossing the river was a big one for me. It was a very real and concrete victory during a time when mostly I have made slow and steady learning progress—the kind of progress that is often hard to measure. That moment of victory reminded me of something I heard Julia Hagen say just after she’d successfully crossed ("sended" in climber's lingo) her first highline: 'I don’t know what I was looking for, but I found it on the other side.'

That’s how I feel: I’m seeking balance, I’m not even always sure why, but in moments like this one—when I stepped onto solid ground having crossed over a river on a stretchy, shaky 1-inch wide piece of webbing—I just know that I've found a piece of what I've been looking for. I’ve been riding a high for days—a delicious sense of confidence and accomplishment.

As wonderful as stepping back onto solid ground is, one of my favorite times on this waterline is in the middle. As I walk out away from the bank along the downward curve, the line dips low, then touches the water. The cold water just covers the tops of my feet as my slackline swishes and splashes as it sways. And for a little while I’m walking on water. It’s magical there in the middle—in many ways as magical as arriving at the far shore.

Here’s to all the summer slackers who have joined me in the middle and cheered my arrival on the other side.

Talisman

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Because we all need reminders of who we are, what we love, and of our commitment to living our dreams...

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A year ago Wednesday while searching the web, I came across a pendant necklace of a wirewalker made by Everyday Artifact and immediately purchased it. It was simple, petite, and classy, just the kind of thing I love. With such a petite pendant—only 7/8ths of an inch across—what struck me was how the figure of the wirewalker took up only a fraction of the actual space. So much empty space gives perspective for that tiny, solitary figure: his wire is long, no ground is in sight, and he is very much alone and surrounded by space.

Most people find that sort of image a tad frightening: to be so high up, so alone, with so little margin for error. Tightrope walkers however describe that space as serene, peaceful, free. That beautiful solitude of wirewalking is what I hope to experience one day. I want the freedom of dancing in the sky.

I’ve worn that necklace at least every other day for the last year as a promise and a reminder to pursue my dream of highwire walking and my passion for balance. Looking back to where I was a year ago is interesting: I made that promise to myself even when I was still months away from starting this blog and from sharing my hopes and dreams and goals openly. Even though I bought it because I wanted to become a highwire walker myself, I didn’t quite believe that it was possible. Sometimes I still don’t quite see how it will be possible, but the desire doesn’t go away, and the necklace reminds me; it helps me keep believing and striving to fulfill that promise to myself.

Perhaps calling the necklace a talisman¹ isn’t quite accurate; I don’t actually believe it has any magical powers—although the simple act of remembering certainly can be powerful. An anchor² is perhaps a more accurate term: a reminder of this essential part of who I am and where I find joy, and even more a reminder of the promise I made to myself: the promise to let myself dream and to pursue that big, scary, almost impossible dream, to conquer great heights and vast spaces.

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¹ an object…that is thought to have magic powers and to bring good luck (Google definitions)
² a thing that provides strength and support, holds an object firmly (Google definitions)

Ballet Balance

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And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance...
~Lee Ann Womack

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My desire to try ballet started at Circus Warehouse this March, it became a concrete goal for this summer in June, and a reality this past month. This week was the final of the 5-week summer semester course I took through a local ballet school.

Ballet is all about balance, especially about balancing in movement and at the limits of our body’s ability (known as dynamic and offset balance), so it’s an ideal cross-training activity. The focus on self-discipline and precision in ballet definitely appeals to me. Ballet is also about coordination, poise, grace, and artistry, which wouldn’t be bad things to have if ever I want to perform. As a klutz and a highly inhibited one at that, dance definitely hasn’t been my thing—at all—but I was willing to give it a try.

Trying ballet has, overall, been a truly positive experience, so I feel a bit guilty to confess that my first lesson was, frankly, fairly traumatic. (Obviously I have a pretty good life to be able to say that.) In general I try very hard, no matter how I feel, to appear and convey what is positive and upbeat. So it is positively wrenching to write candidly about that first lesson. However, I recently committed to being more honest and open in my blog, to sharing with you the bumps in my road as well as the triumphs, and to sharing my heart as well as my thoughts. So here goes:

Taking this ballet class may very well be the furthest beyond my comfort zone I’ve ever been. I knew that it was going to be a foreign environment and probably difficult, but it was one thing to tell myself that I’d probably be the most awkward and beginning-est of beginners in a room full of graceful people…it was another to live that reality for 90 long minutes. I learned a lot of lessons the hard way in those first 90 minutes.

I was indeed the only person in the class without any dance and/or ballet experience. I also hadn’t dressed the part: the shoes and the class seemed enough of an expense without adding dancewear. I arrived too late to ask how my newly purchased ballet shoes worked, so I wore socks rather than risk blisters and sloppy shoes (I thought the little bow at the front was purely decorative). Both of those factors added to the misery of watching myself in the mirror as I fumbled and stumbled through even the relatively basic sequences, out of synch with the rest of the class. This was definitely not one of the high points in my life in terms of coming prepared.

The pace of the class was fast: we went straight to work on exercises designed more for intermediate beginners than for the completely clueless. Because it seemed to me that everyone else was managing the sequences just fine, I never spoke up when the teacher asked if anyone had questions. It seemed like neither one question nor forty would even begin to clarify the utter confusion my legs and arms and brain were in.

The social aspect of that first class was probably what made it especially trying. My misery communicated itself to my fellow classmates and, perhaps to give me what privacy they could or perhaps because watching my beginner efforts was just a little painful to the more experienced, they did their best not to watch. Granted, the idea that they avoided eye contact is perhaps just stress-induced paranoia, but it is probably something that I would be guilty of if our roles had been reversed. Frankly, I needed empathy and assistance as much as I needed privacy and pity.

In spite of not having enough basic instruction, having the wrong kind of clothing and footwear, plus awkward social dynamics, I made it through those 90 minutes—those painfully miserable 90 minutes. I’m not exaggerating when I call it traumatic: I cried. Not until afterward, not until I was alone, but once I could, I sobbed. And I loathe crying.

Ok, now it’s time to put a positive spin on this experience—the positive spin it truly deserves. After that first class it would have been fairly easy never to go back—but I hate being a quitter. I’m glad I didn’t. That first lesson was five weeks ago—and I like my ballet class now.

So what changed? Stacey was the first saving grace. Stacey was one of the beginners in the class—not a complete beginner like me, but the single ballet class she’d had in college was years and at least two children ago. She sensed my frustration and positioned herself next to me as we waited our turn for corner work—and willingly expressed that she was struggling and frustrated herself. Just knowing I wasn’t the only one helped a lot. There is also safety in numbers: after class the two of us went together to the teacher about our need for even more basic lessons.

The instructor was more than willing to accommodate the needs of the beginner students in the beginner class—once we’d expressed what we needed. The complexity of the steps and the pace of the lessons did slow considerably after that. I also learned to speak up. Yes, I was that student who almost always nodded yes, please do that again…and maybe twice more after that.

Another huge help was the presence of one of those experienced, beautiful people. Britnie, a ballerina in the civic ballet company affiliated with the school, was attending the beginner class just for an additional workout. After that first lesson she took us beginners under her wing, offered clarifications and demos while we practiced sequences, and positioned herself strategically so we could follow her through the corner work. The extra coaching was incredibly helpful. (It also meant that the whole class didn’t have to pause every time I needed a little extra help.)

With all that going for me, the next nine lessons went much better. At the risk of swinging from the extreme of self-abasing sob-stories to self-congratulatory aggrandizing, I’m going to announce that I made a lot of progress in five weeks. More than one of my fellow classmates said I made impressive progress. (Given my rather low starting point, that is a very, very good thing.) The last two weeks especially were rewarding. I’ll be utterly, atrociously awkward at ballet for a long time yet, but by the last lesson I could at least attempt to add the correct arm movements to the steps, could often execute something that resembled the appropriate combinations—basically, I was almost dancing!

A lingering dissatisfaction I have with my ballet efforts is the stifling and inhibiting sense of caution that I'm struggling with. I quite frequently tried merely to do the steps approximately correctly to stay in synch with the rest of my classmates rather than getting the fundamental techniques correct and really going for it. I’d like to learn to throw my heart over those imaginary hurdles so my feet follow with the instinctive boldness that only true commitment brings—to go all out.

I do think that ballet will help with rope walking. After spending so much time on incredibly narrow and often unstable surfaces, trying to balance on a flat, wide, and stable surface seems like a luxury—but then the need to contort my body into beautiful shapes while standing on tip-toe negates the advantage of having a whole floor to work with. Turns on slackline and balance pipe are my current nemesis, and I do think that the chaînés turn drills—learning not to get dizzy and spot for a focal point—are helping with that.

I’d like to keep ballet as a cross-training activity I think; all-in-all I’m quite pleased with this beginning to ballet balance. Oh, and in case anyone is interested in seeing a ballet-style tightwire performance, of course I have one in my collection of YouTube favorites: here.

Hero: Bird Millman

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“The performer who essays to follow in the footsteps of radiant Bird Millman must possess a combination of beauty, personality, grace, charm, and courage, along with dancing toes so light that they may perform pirouettes and arabesques not upon ballroom floor but upon a thread of steel, a combination of artistry and talent which thus far the world of the theater has seen but one.”
~Dixie Wilson

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When it comes to my circus and funambulistic obsession, I don’t just want to learn the tricks, I also have a passion to study and research. I have a growing collection of fiction, biographies, newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and manuals on the topic of rope walking. (I was rather surprised when a good friend kindly told me that this level of “delving” isn’t actually something that everyone does.) My analytical mind is looking for the how and why of balance work, my social side is looking for a glimpse into the culture and community, and my heart is looking for heroes.

Heroes are important. As Scott Labarge put it, “The critical moral contribution of heroes is the expansion of our sense of possibility.”¹  Learning about the lives of the legendary wirewalkers does indeed reinforce that feeling of possibility for me—the possibilities of achieving my dreams—of becoming a rope walker as well as a truly decent human being. Scott Labarge continues:

The term "hero" comes from the ancient Greeks. For them, a hero was a mortal who had done something so far beyond the normal scope of human experience that he left an immortal memory behind him. … We need heroes first and foremost because our heroes help define the limits of our aspirations. Our heroes are symbols for us of all the qualities we would like to possess and all the ambitions we would like to satisfy. … [T]hese magnificent spirits, these noble souls, amazingly, are like us, they are human too. They stumbled, they wavered, they made fools of themselves—but nonetheless they rose and accomplished deeds of triumphant beauty. Perhaps we might do so too. 

I’ve done enough research that the names of a few legendary wire walkers are familiar: Madame Saqui, Blondin, the Wallendas, Con Colleano, Philippe Petit, Adili Wuxor…and Bird Millman.

I was first intrigued by Bird Millman when I ran across two quotations ascribed to her; I couldn’t resist looking into an incredibly quotable tightwire artist. There isn’t much about her online, but I found a museum and historical center² in Bird’s hometown with a librarian willing to do some digging for me. You can imagine my delight when a thick packet arrived in the mail. Delving into the photocopies of countless newspaper articles, magazine interviews, and book excerpts, like the luckiest of deep sea treasure divers I surfaced with a gem worth—in my opinion—a king’s ransom: a hero.

In addition to her being quite quotable, I was, admittedly, predisposed to admire a fellow Rocky Mountain girl—an “exotic from the far West.” Jennadean Engleman—stage name Bird Millman—was born in 1890 in Cañon City, Colorado, population 2,800. She went from performing with her parents as a child in small time circuses to performing for royalty in Europe and as a repeat star attraction of Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey Circus. The height of her circus career was 1904 – 1920, during what is known as the Golden Age of the American Circus. She was called “Queen of Silver Strand,” “Queen of the Circus,” a “whirlwind on the tightrope,” “the most dashing, daring and fascinating girl that ever stepped upon a tightwire,” and “the daintiest and greatest of all wire walkers.”

She wasn’t from a long line of circus performers. Her father developed a passion for gymnastics during his time at a military academy. After graduating he continued to play on improvised equipment he’d rigged on the second floor of the town hall. He got his wife to try. She didn’t like it all that much at first. Then one day she slipped and fell during a stunt—and broke through the floor so her bottom half hung over the dancers performing on the stage below.  That was the day she vowed to give the town something else to talk about besides the garters and corset strings they'd seen hanging through the ceiling. The two became very good; soon enough people were definitely too busy gasping and gaping and applauding to remember that early embarrassment. The Engleman couple auditioned for and received spots in a local circus. Little Jennadean—Bird—was born and later came on the road with them, the pet of the circus…and soon joined them in their acts.

As for the origins of her stage name, the change in her last name from Engleman to Millman was her father’s doing—Engleman was just too likely to be misspelled, so he pulled out a dictionary and picked a good word. There are several conflicting stories for the change from Jennadean to Bird: perhaps it was her grandmother who nicknamed her because her cry sounded like a bird chirp, or perhaps her father just happened to be looking at a bird sitting on a telephone wire when he was trying to think up a stage name for her. Either way, it became a fitting name for a girl who, even as a small child, “had a way of ignoring the earth,” a girl with “twittering feet and lyric personality,” who fluttered “as though she wore winged boots,” who loved to flit and fly along a wire in the sky.

Bird was known for her grace and poise on the wire. She didn't perform tricks that looked excruciatingly difficult, but she made the most daring of tricks look beautifully finished. She was known for her dancing most of all—sliding, whirling, jumping, waltzing, cake-walking, and pirouetting “until the crowd completely lost sight of the fact that she danced on only a taut slender wire.” In fact, she once admitted that it was harder for her to dance on solid ground than on her wire. Her speed also was her signature: using the natural spring of the wire, her dancing toes moved "so fast it took your breath away."  At other points in her acts, she would dispense with her parasol and, freehand, dash the length of her wire, then sprint back again at lightning speeds.

Reading about her, it seemed to me that the one word best characterizing Bird Millman is laughter. Over and over again journalists talked of her laughing. That laugh was one of the things that won her such fame: “She laughed and danced her way into the hearts of the show-going public as no other had done before her.” The shy little girl who hid behind her mother’s skirts was fearless up in the air.  As a small child, even before she discovered tightwire, she participated in her parents’ act. Her father would hang from his knees on a trapeze bar, she would stand on top of the bar—and then JUMP off. She laughed while plummeting down through the air head-first in a swan dive, laughed when her father caught her ankles and swung her forty feet in the air. As she danced on the wire, the sound of the music was “punctuated with the ripple of her laughter,” laughter of “light-hearted and almost childish glee.” When reporters managed to corner her for an interview, she would laugh as, with girlish delight, she showed off a beautiful new costume, laugh as she recounted past trips and slips, bumps and bruises, and laugh that her feet—of their own accord—were tapping their impatience to be back on the wire.

In my opinion Bird Millman, an “ambitious little bit of humanity,” thoroughly deserved the public adoration she won because, in addition to daring and talent, she also had “rare charm and graciousness,” she was “charmingly natural.” She was one of the greatest wirewalkers who has ever lived and was also a genuinely decent and likable human being.  For all her fame, her stardom never seemed to go to her head. The “fun of pleasing her audience means more to her than compliments,” wrote a journalist. She avoided publicity when she could, when she couldn’t she “smilled and shrugged deprecatingly.” It mattered to her to set a good example for the other children in the circus who looked up to her as a big sister. She was one of the highest paid performers, but was generous to a fault with her money and rarely turned down requests to perform at charity events. One of her greatest stunts was a skywalk in New York between two buildings across Broadway, a free public performance to raise money for war bonds during World War I.

Bird Millman (Jennadean Engleman O’Day) died in 1940, succumbing to spinal cancer. Taking some literary liberties of my own, below I combine two versions of a quote that her close friend author Dixie Wilson wrote at the time of her death:

If there is an invisible thread which links the mortal to the eternal life, we may well imagine that lovely, dancing, laughing little figure [of Bird Millman O’Day] in tulle and swansdown bridging the distance between...[her] gay feet rushing [forward]…as death released the spirit of the world famed aerialist.

I love that image of a soul on tiptoe, rushing forward laughingly along a thread of light into the next world.

History is the slender strand that runs in the opposite direction, allowing us to bridge time and space to connect with the lives of people we could never otherwise meet. Nearly half a century separates my birth and Millman’s death, and yet in the last week, I feel that I’ve found an inspiration, a role model—a hero—and almost a friend. I hope that I learn to laugh in life and dance as fearlessly as she did.

Still, in spite of that sense of connection I gained by immersing myself in all the literature I’ve collected, I leave this excursion into the past still longing to truly meet Bird Millman. If ever I get a chance to meet my heroes in heaven, I hope Bird Millman is there.

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¹ Scott Labarge. (2005). "Heroism: Why Heroes are Important." Ethics Outlook. https://.scu.edu/ethics/publications/ethicsoutlook/2005/heroes.html
² Special thanks to the Royal Gorge Regional Museum and History Center for supplying me with a wonderful packet of Bird Millman resources and references.

Note: The quotes and snippets came from more than a dozen sources. The former academic in me is unsettled by my lack of individual citations, but laziness is winning out over precision, and, as this is a blog, I’m hoping that this laxness can slide. Anything not my own should be in quotes, and I will gladly find and provide specific citations on request.

A New Rope

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A little rope to tie the world together.

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As a first step toward my summer goal of rigging a basic tightrope, I purchased the all important first component: the rope. Through internet research I learned that the low-stretch, high strength ropes ideal for tightrope and slackrope are generally manufactured for marine rigging. Living a good 700 miles from an ocean and nearly 100 from the nearest real marina and large body of water, this purchase was yet another new adventure for me. At LFS Marine & Outdoor’s online store I found my impressive Samson Amsteel rope: dyneema fiber (“The World’s Strongest Fiber”), size for size the strength of steel but at 1/7th the weight, flexible, and spliceable, non-rotational/torque free, and less than 1% elongation.

It’s so pretty.

I‘m still working on obtaining the necessary additional hardware—and technical knowledge to use said additional hardware—for tensioning the rope as a tightrope. For now, my shiny new rope is serving quite creditably as a slackrope.

My second slackrope session was a lot of fun—and considerably more successful than my first attempt. Slackrope is easier on a non-stretch, non-rotational rope: the rope still pitched me off, but unlike my first rope, it didn’t roll out from under my foot unexpectedly and snap up at me.

This time I was able to walk forward and backward, sit down, and stand up. One last trick was laying down. I haven’t quite acquired the elegance and attitude of historical slackroper Oceana Renz, but I had fun mimicking her reclining pose—a pose said to be ideal to “exhibit her beauty without too much exertion.”

Actually it was quite comfortable.

It’ll take a while to get comfortable and confident on slackrope, but I’m going to enjoy breaking in my new rope.