the embodiment of Sondayo

the embodiment of Sondayo

I have been on the verge of tears the last two days. Nothing in particular, probably the sum of many things.

I have performed kali with poetry and dance many times before. Each time it breaks another threshold, it takes me time to recover. It demands that much more of me. It wants so much more than I can give, yet I still do.

Maiana and I had performed Sondayo fighting the Wind Goddess before, just before she would do it in New York. I could not attend, so we needed to video tape. We filmed for a few hours at bindlestiff. Going over each section, working through the plot arch of the movement. Discover how such an epic battle should end. It was more phsyically draining then. Perhaps I was making the mistake that any mortal would make when fighting a deity, physical strength has no power over gods.

We practiced the weekend before at a park near my house near the lake. It was windy that day, enough to give us an understanding of the power of the wind. How it cannot be captured or held. how there is no defeating of wind, only surviving it.

We decided to end the video with Maiana wearing the malong of the wind and playing tug-o-war until at last we realize there can be no winners. The only way to end, is to stop fighting, to see each other for who we are. In the video, we drop the malong we are fighting over and I help her dress in the malong. An acknowledgement of our sisterhood as well as to her immortality. Love is not a possession.

It is strange how in these acts of art you find something more than yourself. At times lessons and answers.

The performance at Pusod was different. It was a smaller space, a live venue. We would do what we did before, but this time end differently. Instead of always fighting hard, I decided to fight slow, in the way the wind gathers in your cupped hands. Then end by being engulfed completely by the wind, and concluding by wearing the malong with it draped over my head like a hood.

I did not notice at first. We had practiced in the afternoon. I was supposed to also read poetry just before the show, but found myself weary from such a short rehearsal. I bailed out of the pre-show performance to save myself for the end.

I have come to the realization that many of these tears welling up in my eyes now are remnants from the show. The emotion after the struggle when the sense of loss is felt greatest.

What is it to be Sondayo? Who has lost her husband to the wind? Who must now learn how to slay a god? Who faces losing her love forever if she fail?

Maiana's words are my guide through the journey. They mark where I am to be, which part of the story we are in. She is the one voice that matters as the rest of the world falls away.

We introduce the Wind Goddess epitomized by the red malong. Ripples of wind underneath it, til it jumps from the floor and slowly encircles me looks me ups and down, assesses the tresspasser before her.

The second movement she whips around in anger, snapping, swirling, dashing from one end to another.

Three. The physical struggle. the malong crumples and binds my hands, wraps tightly around my neck, or pulls my arms behind me.

Four. The slow struggle. Sondayo and the Wind Goddess understand each other now. I am now wrapped inside the malong. My hands attempt to escape but move slowly through it's entanglements. Cloth clings to everything.

Five. We become one in the same: me, Sondayo, the Wind Goddess. I am on my knees fully engulfed by the cloth. What do you do when the enemy becomes you? What do you do when you are the enemy you struggle against? Inside all i can see is the red pattern of the cloth. My hand reaches out on cue as Maiana's words instruct me to. There is a sense of both comfort and fear. I have seen babies carried in malongs sleeping soundly, yet claustrophobia also sets in. I do not hear my breath though it is now quite heavy. The wind, my breath are one.

Last. As Maiana slows to the last few words. I emerge from the cloth draped in it as though it were my cloak and skin. When the fighting ends, the cloth settles, Maiana utters, "home."