I am a horse

Since running Joanna and The Agitators became my full time job, I have become a work horse. I have been working my whole teen and adult life, but I have never worked quite this hard.

The truth is, I could slow myself down to a trot if I wanted.

But I don’t want to, because the galloping is really fun.

As I write this to you, I am realizing that I talk about work and jobs a lot in this newsletter.

I don’t know why exactly, except that all of these weird and crazy dead-end jobs and all those times in my life when I didn’t have enough money for food or a subway token when I was living in Brooklyn, NYC, or when I couldn’t pay the heating bill and wrapped myself in blankets filling out job applications when I was living in Northampton, MA, or that time I ran out of money in Arizona. I was ok because the house I was renting had a grapefruit tree out back, and I lived off of grapefruits for a week until my next pay check came in.

Those times,

They have shaped me, as I’m sure they have shaped you.

I started working when I was 15 (babysitting since I was 12) and have been working ever since .

It’s only been recently, in these past two years, that this work has been entirely my own.

Before that, I was:

A Baby Sitter

A Salad Bar Girl at Sea Galley: My first experience with sexual harassment when the Salad Bar Boy takes a hold of my breasts and twists them like doorknobs.

A Data Enterer, a data enterer, and a data enterer

A Cookie Server at Mrs. Field’s Cookies on the Pearl Street Mall

An Environmental and Outdoor Educator at Cal-Wood (so much fun..that was a magical place)

A Worker at May D & F: Cashier Lancóme Lady Underwear Folder Hosiery Coordinator Christmas Present Wrapper

A Box Folder

A Box Counter

A Buser at Turley’s

A Book Duster and Alphabetizer at Norlin Library

A Barista (for 2 hours)

A Sou Chef (for 1 hour)

A Web Developer (for 20 minutes)

A Ballet Teacher (for one class, and then I get the boot)

A Personal Assistant (HA! That one lasted for a whole 2 weeks)

An Ikea Furniture Putter Together

A Massager for officey kind of people

An Administrator for the brilliant Alice Teirstein and the Young Dance Makers at Feildston High School

A Dance Teacher for Mentally Ill Senior Citizens at the most neglected and awful institutions in the farthest reaches of all the NYC Burroughs: Imagine One Flew Over Cuckoo’s Nest. -Far Rockaway (Sexual Harassment Up the Wazoo. Also, is Far Rockaway a Burrough or is it something else?) -The Bronx (Not Sexual Harassment, just sad and sweet: When I walk into his room to guide him through some movement, bedridden and very frail man says to me: “Are you here to make love to me?”) -Queens -Brooklyn -Staten Island

A Recycling Manager (more sexual harassment ensues. I duck as much as possible, and get by as best as I can, like so many of us did, and so many still do)

A Stage Manager at the Brooklyn Arts Exchange

An Environmental and Outdoor Educator at Sargent Camp

A Staff member at The Omega Institute of Holistic Studies: - Greeter and Luggage Carrier (had a little incident with Gabriel Roth’s luggage so I got transferred to Golf Cart Driver) -Golf Cart Driver for guests that didn’t want to walk to the Dining Hall (Lost control of the golf cart and it ended up in the stream by the Buddha Bridge, so I got transferred to gardening…when the gardening didn’t work out, they asked me to be the dance teacher….that one stuck)

A Dance Teacher and Leadership Facilitator at NYC Public Schools

An Adjunct Dance Faculty at Naropa and CU

A Worker and all around pain in the tucas at Long’s Iris Gardens on and off from 1987-2012: -Mowed the wrong lawn. -Cut the branches off of the Maple Tree instead of the Oak Tree. -Fixed the fence in the north field instead of the south field. -Painted the barn yellow instead of white. -Cleaned out the wrong outbuilding. -Backed the small tractor into the Lavender Bush. -When getting the iris plants ready for shipping, I labeled a plant Goodnight, Moon instead of Goodnight, Irene by accident because I was daydreaming that day. That was the only mistake I made where my boss Catherine got angry. Otherwise, she brushed everything off and said “Will I see you next summer then?”

And now?

Drum Roll, PALEASE!

As of two years ago my job is:

Running my own business teaching dance classes and making dance shows.

It’s a humble existence, for sure.

But it’s mine.

And I love it.

I’m not living hand to mouth anymore, it’s more like hand to………mouth.

(Did you get that? There is now just a little more space between my hand and my mouth. So it’s still hand to mouth, it just takes my hand longer to get to my mouth….Never mind)

And yes, it’s really hard work, and it’s totally worth it.


So, talking about being a workhorse, here we go:

1. The next Dog Dance happens in a little over a week: Friday, February 12th at 7pm. Floorspace. 1510 Zamia #101. $5

2. Goodnight, Courtney Love opens in a little over 2 weeks: Friday, Feb 19th at 7pm Saturday, Feb 20th at 7pm Saturday, Feb 27th at 7pm

In the Leisure Swimming Pool at The North Boulder Recreation Center.

FREE and Family Friendly.

3. Classes are full, and I am galloping along, at top speed.

Because I am in the pool a lot, rehearsing for Goodnight, Courtney Love, your Dance Mission for the Week is to imagine you are also dancing in a swimming pool. What sort of movement emerges when you are in the water: fully submerged, floating on the surface, sliding in along the edges with half of your body underneath the water and half of your body out of the water.

What happens?

Here is a chunky piece of music to get you going.

Share, post, make a comment…you know what to do.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes, Joanna of Joanna and The Agitators sweetly agitating/persistently upending www.joannaandtheagitators.com


ps.  Simone Key sent me this drawing she made on her phone, after class.  I love it.

Interstellar Space Activity

How are you and how was your holiday?  

Mine was quiet and cozy, with long days unfolding into hours of hiking, cooking, reading, and friendship.


I’m a little bit anxious about moving away from that and getting back into my schedule, where everything has it’s place within a pre-determined time limit.


I am comforted though, by this quote I found on Facebook, while procrastinating this morning:


“Dance is an interstellar space activity”  — Nia Love


It is?


It is!


Interstellar (which I just looked up) means: “Occurring or situated between the stars”.


So there you go.


This drops me right back into the timeless wandering I was embarking on these past few weeks, even as I scramble to meet deadlines, pay the bills, and catch up on all the work I let slide to a screeching halt over the holidays.


My sense is that simply arriving into a given situation, not matter what it is, noticing your breath, and then waiting to see what emerges is the place to explore right now.


The waiting, the noticing - that’s what is situated between the stars.


Lately - if I am patient enough, and allow myself to wait and notice - I fall into a dance that I never could have imagined.


A dance where I am being carried and transported through space and time.


Of course, I don’t always fall into this kind of dance.


Sometimes it takes awhile before I fall, sometimes I’m falling in and out, and many times I muddle around in the dark for hours, never letting go, never falling.


All are intriguing to me though, some experiences more delightful and pleasurable, but all curious enough that I continue to follow and allow for the discomfort that is inevitable when participating in an interstellar space activity such as this. When I’m in this waiting, this noticing, this not sure if I will fall or not fall into interstellar space, I feel my grandmothers with me. They are sitting and watching, waiting and noticing to see if I will let myself fall into and among the stars. For some reason, this brings me comfort and solidity when I am spinning around in space.


Your dance mission for the first week of this new year is to notice your own interstellar space activity as it occurs throughout an ordinary day.


When you are doing the dishes, paying the bills, or giving the kids a bath:  notice your breath, feel the palm of your hand against the rim of the bathtub, feel your fingertips on the keys of the computer:  keep noticing - everything - and see where you land.


With Warmth and Jivey Vibes for a brilliant and bountiful New Year, Joanna of Joanna and The Agitators sweetly agitating/persistently upending www.joannaandtheagitators.com


When my niece was in 6th grade, she asked her teacher about the constant whirring sound she was hearing in the ceiling above her classroom.

He said, with a wink, that it was the hamsters, who lived in the ceiling of her school, running and running and running, in their little hamster wheels, to keep the lights on in the classroom.

She missed the wink.

I missed the wink, and for a few days both of us were mesmerized by the vision of thousands of hamsters, running, to create a vital source of alternative energy for her school.

It was only when I wondered aloud about the intricacies of this innovative and cutting-edge method of keeping the lights on, that my ever intrepid partner Glen, steered me back to reality.

But sometimes:

When I am in that delectable state of surrender,

When I am waiting, noticing, and following the dance that is emerging, both from within me and outside of me,

When I hear the sounds of the world around me: a dog barking, someone talking on their phone, a baby crying, the clicking of the computer keys, the birthday party next door, someone making a deal with someone else, across an ocean,

I understand that it is me who is the hamster in the ceiling, running.

I understand that it is the dancers, painters, singers and writers who are the hamsters in the ceiling - running and running and running - making sure that the lights stay on.

Let’s be the hamsters right now, you and I.

You know, and I know about the fear and the greed that is taking hold of The United States at this very moment.

You know, and I know that this fear, this greed, has the potential to strangle and twist our humanity into something unrecognizable.

Let’s be the kind of hamsters that are willing to do the work of keeping the lights on, so that when it is dark, we can use that time to rest and dream, with ease, contentment, and tranquility.

I’ve got my hamster running shoes on, do you?

I’m gonna start my run how I always start my run these days:

By lying down on the floor to give my nervous system a rest, as I wait to be moved by a dance that I cannot understand, and will not know until it begins.

"May we all move freely some day in bodies that are authentic and vulnerable and valued."

— Margaret Harris, one of my first ever dance students, who began dancing with me 13 years ago when I first started teaching, who now lives in Wyoming, and who I miss terribly.

Thank you Margaret.

As I begin my hamster run this morning by lying on the floor, feeling my body against the earth, waiting to be moved, I will let this prayer wash over me, imprint on me, and descend into my bones.

Your Dance Mission for the Week is to put on your hamster running shoes, and wait.

Lie on the floor, notice your breath, and wait until you are moved to dance.

Wait as long as you need to wait.

Don’t hurry it along.

Don’t make it something it is not out of fear or anxiety.

Just wait.

The dance will emerge in it’s own time, and when it does - go.

Share this newsletter far and wide, so that we are not the only hamsters working to keep the lights on.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes, Joanna of Joanna and The Agitators sweetly agitating/persistently upending

Very Bad Teacher

This memory came to me the other day, when I was in my clowning workshop with the amazing Elizabeth Baron (so many memories/images/complexities/connections/understandings/revelations came to me while I was in my clown, whose name happens to be Milkshake, but this one seemed the most urgent, for some reason, to share):

Dancers (or at least the dancers I hang out with) tend to change their clothes right in the studio or rehearsal space without going to a locker room or bathroom.

When I was living in NYC, the studios and rehearsal spaces I was frequenting didn’t have any locker rooms, and the one bathroom was always taken, so everyone just changed, right there in the dance space.

No problem.

Dance pants came off after class or rehearsal, and work pants got put on as we chatted and caught up.

It was part of the culture, it was part of what I knew and experienced, day in and day out.

It was a habit.

I forgot that most people don’t tend to change their clothes in such a public setting.

One of the many jobs I had while living in NYC was teaching dance in the public schools.

I had just been assigned a job teaching creative movement to a kindergarden class in Brooklyn.

At my initial meeting with the principal of the school, I had rushed over from a dance class in Manhattan, and hadn’t had time to change out of my sweaty dance clothes.

I had a fresh pair of dance pants and a clean t-shirt in my backpack.

After shaking hands with the principal and introducing myself, I stripped off my old sweaty dance clothes, stuffed them in my backpack, and was pulling out a clean pair of pants, chattering away to her the whole time, when I happened to look up and see her face.

She was staring at me, with her mouth hanging open, gripping the side of her desk.

I looked down and realized I was standing in the principal’s office in my bra and underwear, casually chatting away about the importance of introducing movement based curriculum to kindergardeners.

Oh the shame!!!!

I think my whole body blushed.

I quickly covered myself up, pulled myself in, and sputtered an incoherent apology/explanation/reason for my near nakedness.

Needless to say, my explanation didn’t go over well, and I was asked to leave right then and there.

I arrived home to my apartment, highly embarrassed, but also a little bit curious at the way habits and customs collide.

The way comfort and knowing for one, maybe be highly unacceptable for another.

The way perception of an event is shaped by one’s own understanding of the world.

I still change my clothes in the dance space, but I make sure not to change them at anymore job interviews, company meetings, or public gatherings.

I learned my lesson the hard way.

Your dance missions for the week is to have a Thanksgiving Dance Party.

Before, after, during your dinner: Dance.

On the side, right in the middle, and out back with the moon: Dance.

In your underwear, or fully clothed.

You decide.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes, Joanna of Joanna and The Agitators sweetly agitating/persistently upending www.joannaandtheagitators.com

You Might Now Want To Read This

But you're reading it did anyway, I see. So I guess I have to go ahead and bite the bullet then, huh?

I have to tell you about that thing that I’ve been putting off telling you about.

That thing that I was hoping would never come up in our conversation.

And that thing is that I’m terrified:

Terrified of dancing in front of people and looking like a fool.

Terrified I’ll be found out to be a fraud.

Terrified no one will show up.

Terrified that they will.

And on the other hand, I’m eager.

Eager enough to engage in the work of showing up so that the terror is quieted.


Sometimes the terror is so immense, I freeze in place and can’t move until the sun comes up, and even then it takes me a few more days to completely thaw out.

There was a long period of time when I was dancing in a way where I couldn’t feel anything.

I couldn’t feel my body.

I couldn’t feel my mind, my spirit, or my connection to something bigger.

If I wasn’t dancing though, I felt itchy, antsy, and unsettled.

So I kept dancing.

I kept executing the movement as it was presented to me, carefully following the instructions.

If I was dancing for long enough stretches of time, it kept the terror at bay.

And then….

Well, then the terror welled up in such a way that I had to stop, disengage, and withdraw from dancing altogether so that I wouldn’t disappear.

And what I have to tell you, which I don’t want to tell you, is that I’m in a place of terror again.

Something is different in how I’m approaching dancing, living, being, experiencing, sensing, and I am uncertain and afraid.

But this time, I’m not disengaging or withdrawing from the dancing.

I’m not freezing

(That is so not true: I’m totally freezing. But at least I can recognize that I’m freezing).

This time, I’m listening, as best as I can, and I’m leaping in.

I have no idea if this “leaping in” thing is the smartest thing to do in this situation.

What if I twist an ankle?

What if, mid-leap, I disappear?

What if, god forbid, I look like a fool?

I’m leaping in anyway, because I need to know where I will land.

You have two dance missions this week:

Take your long arms that you imagined last week, and now dance from the fingertips of those long arms. 2. Notice when you feel afraid. Keep showing up anyway, and when you are ready, leap.

Feel free to post a comment here.

And if you like what you just read, please share this newsletter far and wide.

The more people who read this, the more dancing there will be.

Which we need right now, desperately.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes, Joanna of Joanna and The Agitators sweetly agitating/persistently upending www.joannaandtheagitators.com

Long Arms

I’m gonna talk about Martha Graham today. One of my favorite books, The Year of the Flood, by Margaret Atwood, is about an apocalyptic future and the pods of goodness that are surviving in the midst of the chaos.

One pod of goodness is taking shape at a small liberal arts university called The Martha Graham College.

It was the kind of college for the kind of kids who didn’t fit into or understand or want to take part in the mainstream.

In this apocalyptic future, The Martha Graham College is falling apart, with big chunks of the walls and the ceilings caving in on themselves.

Survivors of the flood move in to The Martha Graham College, and gingerly begin to build their own society and culture inside of the crumbling structure.

I am 20 years out of any sort of college or university or school situation, and I still have nightmares - sit-up straight in bed nightmares, can’t catch my breath nightmares, sweating and panting and moaning nightmares - about DANCING IN COLLEGE, both undergraduate and graduate.

Weird and embarrassing.

My most common reoccurring nightmare is that I failed a required course, and I am still in college.

I am still in the dance studio with the marley floor and the big wide windows, and the ballet barres encircling the space.

I am still in my leotard, tights, and ballet slippers, with my hair shellacked into a tight bun.

I wake up in the morning from these nightmares, with such relief and liberation in my heart that this isn’t my reality anymore, that I have been known to jump up and down on the bed, whooping with joy, waking all parties who were just moments ago sleeping cozily in said bed.

This expression of exultation at 6am does not go over well with the humans and the non-humans at my house, therefore I would not recommend this method of release at your own home, in your own bed, when you yourself wake from a nightmare of being back at dancing school in an outfit that makes you feel like a sausage spilling out of it’s casing.

But back to the crumbling down Martha Graham School in Margaret Atwood’s The Year of the Flood:

I have found this school, The Martha Graham College, right here in Boulder, CO., the year after our own flood rocked this town to its core.

And since attending this particular dancing school, my nightmares have started to abate (which thrills my household to no end) and the idea of dancing school or dance class or any formal dance training is not so distasteful to me at this moment in time.

I have found my own little pod of goodness in the back corners and darkened hallways of the very shiny town in which I live.

Every time I enter into my own Martha Graham College, I feel Ms. Graham sitting there waiting for me, along with Doris Humphrey, Isadora Duncan, Hanya Holmes, and all the others who, with their tireless and renegading spirits, generously invite me, and you, and your mother, and your grandmother, to step into the dance that has always, always been there, just waiting for all of us to notice.

Your dance mission for the week is to imagine that your arms are long, longer than they actually are.

With your extra long imaginary arms, begin to dance.

Right now, at your desk, or on the floor, or while sitting on the train on your way to work.

Dance with your very long and articulate arms.

Here’s a song to get you going.

Leave a comment here, and share share share share, everywhere.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes, Joanna of Joanna and The Agitators sweetly agitating/persistently upending

A Guru? A Teacher? A Specialist? A Swami?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about gurus and teachers and specialists and swami’s.

I’ve been thinking about the time when my swim coach yelled at me to shave two seconds off my time, and I nodded and I sputtered, and by god I shaved off those two seconds, and was then shamefully pleased when she gave me a friendly pat on the butt and a high five and a “Good job, Jo” at the end of the swim.

As someone who could care less about racing and speed and competition (Actually, I love competition, so much so, that I try to pretend  that I don’t, because it scares me how much I care about winning), why was I so pleased? 

And I was thinking about the time when I was in grad school, and seeing a Reichian Therapist. 

He had me stand about a foot away from the wall, with my back arched, and the crown of my head pressed into that wall.

Then it got quiet.

For a long time.

I waited, and waited, and waited.

Back arched, crown of my head pressed into the wall.

My neck was cramping, my legs were trembling, and I couldn’t feel my toes.

I don’t know how much time passed before I finally stood up and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Then the therapist said:

“I’ve never had anyone hold that position for as long as you did.  Why did you stay there, in that position, past the point of your comfort and your well-being?”

I nodded, and I sputtered, and I left that office as quickly as I could, and I never came back.

I’m thinking about the time I was in a workshop when I was teaching at The Omega Institute, years and years ago, and we did one of those awful exercises where you have to sit across from your partner and stare into each other’s eyes for a gazillion years.

My partner was the leader of the workshop.

I stared and I stared into his eyes.

And yes, his face did turn into a million different incarnations of all of the people in my life, and in one instance I saw my great-grandmother, and in the next I saw a lion, and then I saw all of the stones in all of the lands holding all of the suffering the world has ever known.

I saw myself as the lion, and the great-grandmother, and the stones.

When it was all over, and we had to share what we had experienced, I told my partner all of this.

He said:

“All I saw was you, without your clothes on.”

And instead of throwing up, right there in his face, and instead of calling out truth and honor and justice - loudly - I smiled and laughed and shifted uncomfortably in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest.


I’ve been thinking about the time I was in a dance class, and was told to follow what was true for me, rather than to focus on what I looked like or if I was doing it right.

I had no idea what this meant, how to do it, or why this instruction was given.

I ended up having my first major panic attack that day.

But I came back to the class, over and over and over again.

I slowly began to soften in my belly, and for the first time in my dancing life, I had a felt sense of my body.

I had a felt sense of who I was in relationship to everything around me.

I had a felt sense of my connection to the earth, and I discovered the larger delight of following my own instinct, intuition, and knowing.

Eventually, I developed an embarrassing crush on this teacher that was undignified and sloppy.

And yeah, we had to have the kind of talk that leaves one feeling flayed.

But we had the talk, which was honest and kind.

We had the talk, mortifying as it was, that was enveloped in deep respect and understanding.

The talk meant I didn’t have to walk away, or gossip about the crush with my friends, or create a story in my head that wasn’t real, or speak poorly about this teacher to keep my dignity in tack.

The talk meant that I could keep coming to class, and that I could continue to uncover and experience the listening, the sensing, and the perceiving of the body in relationship to the larger world that I still practice to this day.

Now THAT was a good teacher.

So, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about gurus and teachers and specialists and swami’s.

When to stick with them, and when to walk away.

When there is uplift in the teaching, and when there is not.

Those times when we leave an experience with a guru or a swami, a specialist or a leader, a teacher or a coach, and we feel liberated.

Those times when we leave that same sort of experience and feel a little ick. 

I don’t really have anything to say about any of this, I’ve just been thinking about it.

Your dance mission for the week is to put on your favorite song and dance.

Then turn the music off, and touch in with your breath.

Get a sense of how your body feels.

From there, from the quiet of your own body and your own breath, begin to dance.

Share this newsletter with a friend or two, post it on social media, and then tell me what you think and/or share your own story about a guru or a teacher or a specialist or a swami.  You can post your thoughts right here.

And here’s what’s happening these days with Joanna and The Agitators!!!

Performances and Showings:


Dog Dance

Friday, December 18th at 7pm, $5.

I will be doing my first showing of this new solo at Julie Rothschild Movement Studio, 1510 Zamia Avenue, #101.


Goodnight, Courtney Love

Sometime in February  in the swimming pool at The North Boulder Recreation Center.

Laura Ann and I are still waiting to hear back from the NBRC to confirm the dates and times of the show, so I will let you know as soon as I know.

This one is FREE and Family Friendly.

Class, Class, Class:


Holiday Workshops:


Sunday, December 27th from 10-5pm

Sunday, January 3rd from 10-5pm

Sunday, January 10th from 10-5pm

Sunday, January 17th from 10-5pm

A one hour lunch break from around 1-2pm, with 10-15 minute breaks throughout the day when needed.


One Workshop is $100

Two Workshops: 10% Discount, $90 each ($180)

Three Workshops: 15% Discount, $85 each ($255)

Four Workshops: 20% Discount, $80 each ($320)


The Boulder Circus Center.

These workshops are starting to fill up, so if you’re interested, or have any questions, email me and we’ll talk.


Anatomy of Improvisation:

The next dance session starts on February 2 and goes through the end of May:

Tuesdays:  11-1pm

Thursdays: 11-1pm

Saturdays: 10-12pm

At The Boulder Circus Center.

I’ll send more detailed information about this upcoming dance session next week.


Free Classes:

If you haven’t never taken a class with me, and you’re curious to know what it’s all about before committing to a whole session, these classes are for you:

Tuesday, January 12th: 11-1pm

Saturday, January 16th: 10-12pm

At The Boulder Circus Center.

Feel free to email me with any questions or concerns you might have about all or any of this.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes,



Joanna and The Agitators

sweetly agitating/persistently upending


Meet Me at the Watering Hole

  I’ve been thinking about resting lately.

No, that’s not right.

I’m haven’t thinking about it, I’ve been doing it - resting, I mean.

Because I don’t have a choice right now.

My body taps me on the shoulder and says: “Enough. Now it’s time to rest.”

My mind stops thinking clearly and that’s it, I’m done.

After a few hours of going, I can’t go any more.

Which is WEIRD.

I only had the chicken pox for goodness sakes.

But that’s what’s happening, and so I’m noticing.

Noticing that there is a little bit of hidden relief, and dare I say, Glee, in this demand from the part of myself that was ill, to do less.


That’s a secret, what I just said. I’m not telling anyone but the beagle about that hidden, gleeful part of me that is grateful to be doing less, so let’s keep it hush hush for now.

It’s been kinda great to wake up, have a slowish sort of morning, go to town to teach The Anatomy of Improvisation, and then come home and finish the work day slowly, with breaks and walks with the beagle.

And it’s been amazing to teach again. The people showing up, the dancing, the conversation, the willingness to dip into this illusive art form, to see, feel, and notice where it all leads…it’s been magical.

A student, Christine Crotzer, wrote to me right before I got sick with the chicken pox and said:

"I have often thought of class as an interesting gathering place, almost like that of a watering hole. A place, where us humans, we can gather and nurture and take care of ourselves-shedding the rules of society and returning to our true animalistic instinct. Grooming and stretching...moving and playing- without the mental rules society places upon us. Just as we are. As animals are."

It's been wonderful to be this slow throughout the day, like an animal, making her way down the mountain to the watering hole.

But it’s disorienting and uncomfortable too.

I’m not sure where I am exactly.

I’m not sure what will happen next.

I’m not sure if this is enough.

I’m not sure how to sustain this level of rest and ease in the reality of this world and all that goes along with it.

All I know for sure is that it’s time to amble down to the watering hole, and take a drink with the other animals.

It’s time to paw at the earth.

It’s time to dig a hole.

It’s time to scratch my hide against the nearest tree, and nuzzle into the herd.

It’s time to shake everything off that isn’t in my animal nature, and then make my way back home.

Your dance mission for the week is to do a dance that is initiated from your bones.

And then do a dance that is initiated from your hide.

Here is a song to get you started.

Here's another.

Notice how it feels.

Notice your breath.

Notice if you paw at the earth, or dig a hole.

As you know, I love hearing your thoughts, experiences, stories, and ideas.

So post a comment here.

And if you liked what you read, share this newsletter wherever and with whomever you wish.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes, Joanna of Joanna and The Agitators sweetly agitating/persistently upending


I’m baaaaaack!

(Where is that line from? Is it from some awful horror movie with a doll in it named Chuck?  Or is it from E.T.)?

I still have “spots” - tons of spots - and I’m not totally up to snuff, but I think I’m turning a corner, so thank you for your patience, understanding, and lovely emails these past two weeks.

Enough about the chicken pox though, let’s move onto another avian related topic: The Owl

There was a time when I wasn’t dancing, and instead was living in a farm house in New Hampshire, teaching outdoor and environmental education to 6th graders who would come up to our facility for a week at a time.

We had a little nature center where we kept bones, nests, cool rocks, etc.

There was an owl there, who had gotten injured and was being rehabilitated.

His name was Fred.

A certain 6th grader who came up with his class one week.

This 6th grader had no friends, was extremely shy, and had a hard time socializing. 

He spent most of his time in the nature center talking to Fred, The Owl.

They would hoot back and forth at each other for hours at a time.

A few weeks after this boy had been with us, we got a letter from him.

Or rather, Fred got a letter from him.   

Here’s how the letter went:

Dear Fred, My Friend, The Owl:

Hoot hoot hoot hoot hoot?  Hoot hoot?  HA HA!!!  Hoot?  Hoot, hoot hoot hoot hoot.  HOOT!

It went on like this for 3 pages, singles spaced, front and back, all written in pencil, with tons of erase marks.

At the bottom of the last page, at the sign-off, the boy had scotch-taped an owl pellet to the paper and had draw  a big heart drawn around it.

In my dazed and spotty state these past few weeks, images and memories like this keep knocking at my brain.

And it makes me wonder about connection.

How, and with whom do we connect?

Like dance, this hooty letter dug underneath the conventional wisdom of relationship, and unearthed something profound.

It was - like dancing can be - mysterious, unknown, and sublime. 

And - like dancing can be -  it was also functional and unadorned:  A little boy making a connection in a way that made sense to him, because that’s what was needed at the time, and so he followed it to it’s end.

In a peculiar way, this comes up all the time in dancing:  “I don’t have an idea.  I don’t know what to do.  I feel lost. I don’t know how to connect. I don’t feel the magic.”

And that’s where the functionality of the dancing takes hold:  Following what is presenting itself to you, and doing the work of showing up, noticing your breath, and staying curious.

The magic and the mystery builds from the day to day practice of dancing. 

The exhaled nature of dancing constructs itself when we notice what is there and when we  follow that, OR WHEN WE DON”T follow that, and we notice what happens then.

Your dance mission for the week is see the moments, all of the moments that pass us by - see them, feel them, hear them, and then try them on as a dance.

Follow what is presenting itself to you.

If you like what you read, would you share it on facebook or any other social media thingy?  And/or share it with a friend.

I would love to hear your thoughts, ideas, musings about this newsletter, so post your comments here.

With Warmth and (OMG, dare I say it??) JIVEY VIBES!!!



Joanna and The Agitators

sweetly agitating/persistently upending


PS:  Important:

Goodnight, Courtney Love has been postponed because of the Chicken Pox.


When I know the dates for the rescheduled performance, I will let you know.

xo jo

The Next President of the USA Needs To Be A Dancer

Politicians and their bodies.

Do I even attempt to dive into this pool of pariahs?

My first impulse is to cringe - I want to say no, let’s not even make the attempt - but it seems I cannot, for the life of me, stop myself.

So let us - as a brigade of madcap seekers - let us consider this:

What would happen if our politicians were embodied?'

But then I have to stop and reconsider immediately, because what does that even mean, “embodied”, and embodied how, and by whose standards, and by what authority?

For this particular conversation about this massive topic, with it’s inherent hypocrisies and inconsistencies, the lens which we will be looking through is my own.  

It is imperfect and faulty, stock piled with my own biases and sensibilities.

It is blemished and unrefined, influenced by my history and my experience on this planet.

I take full responsibility.

So imagine this:

The White House - with it’s bowling allies, movie theaters, decadent hallways, and fragile cups of tea - what, just what would happen if there were a White House Dance Studio, and dancing was a required part of the start to everyone’s day?  

What if?

Let’s take it one step further:

What if it wasn’t just any kind of dancing that took place in The White House, what if it was the kind of dancing that emerges from deep within the body, rather than from an already established form?

To be more specific, what if the dancing that took place in The White House was the kind of dancing where everyone took off their suits, their pantyhose, their high heels and ties, and instead put on soft pants and t-shirts.  

And what if all of the politicians and all of the leaders, and all of the people with all of the money who are making the decisions which corrode and corrupt a true democracy, what if they all lay down on the floor, together, and began by simply noticing the quality, the length, and the depth of their breath?

And then what if, from this place, they began to notice if there was an impulse to move, or not.  

And then what if, from this place, they choose to follow that impulse, or not.  

And then what if they continued on like this for some time: 

Noticing their breath. Noticing their impulse. Feeling their body in connection with the earth. Sensing the others in the room.

What would happen then?

Would decisions about health care, school lunches, net neutrality, gun control, Guantánamo Bay, the prison system, climate change - and so much more - would those decisions be considered in a slightly different manner, with a slightly different outcome?

Would greed subside?

Would intelligent and thoughtful consideration of all beings become more important than profit? 

Would we consider implementing a restorative justice system rather than sticking with the punitive punishment one we currently have?

Would every child’s well-being be in the forefront of every decision made?

I know this is a very simplistic view of an extremely complicated political situation, but I do think that the answer to all of these questions - and there are way more questions to ask - is YES.

If every day, or every other day, or even once a week, our politicians and world leaders put on their soft pants and lay down on the floor together to take the time to notice their breath leading them to their bodies, their creativity, and their imagination?

Then YES, I do think more considerate and compassionate decisions would be made, simply because there would be space to vision the world with the same creativity, the same imagination, and the same embodiment that those politicians felt for themselves, lying down on the floor in their soft pants.

Your dance mission for the week is to put on your soft pants and dance while you are watching, listening, or reading the news.  

Dance before the news.

Dance during the news.

Dance after the news. 

Let me know what happens here.

I am very curious, and will be waiting to hear from you.

If you like what you read, would you share this newsletter on Facebook?  

And would you share it with a friend? 

And would you encourage that friend to sign-up through my website so they too can get these emails every Wednesday?

Thank you so much in advance!

And OMG:  

The first class of the Fall Dance Session took place yesterday and it was so much fun.

The attention to detail, the clarity, and the cosmic curiosity happening in the room was magical.

The grit, grace, and humor?

Oh my.

it was simply a stunning beginning because of everyone’s willingness to show up, to wait, and then to relish in what unfolded.

There are only a few spots left in class, so if you want to join me, you still can.  

Click on this link to register, or email me if you have any questions.

And if you have a friend that might be interested, send them on over and I will get them all set up and ready to go.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes,



Joanna and The Agitators

sweetly agitating/persistently upending


Soften Your Belly

I am in Ouray, CO., visiting an old friend, eating lunch after an exquisite hike. We are talking about soft bellies.

We are talking about how a soft belly gives you access to the juice - the life force - that drives creativity and imagination.

When I was in my prime as a ballet dancer

(which was never very prime)

and the ballet teacher walked around the room giving corrections, I would pull my belly way in toward my spine as she walked past me.

The minute her back was turned, I would let everything hang out again.

She would circle the room, come up behind me, tap my belly, and I would suck everything in.

When she walked away, I let everything go, and took as many breaths as I could before she circled around again.

Suck in.

Hang out.

Suck in.

Hang out.

That’s how it went for years.

And then this happened.

It doesn’t have to do with a soft belly.

It has to do with the soul.

I was at the barre, extending my left leg in a developé, and the teacher came up right next to me and said:

“Let me see your soul.”

I dug deep inside of myself to show her my soul.

She said:

“That isn’t your soul. Show me your soul.”

I reached as far down as I could, and wrenched my soul up from the depths of the marly floor beneath my right foot.

She said:

“That’s not your soul either. Stop messing around and wasting my time. Just show me your soul.”

I extended my left leg as high and as far as I could, summoning my soul to make an appearance from the deepest part of my leotarded body.

She grabbed my foot and said “I want to see your sole, is that so difficult to understand?”

Then turned my left foot out so that she could see the bottom of it.


My belly button was sucked in so tight throughout this faulty encounter, it just about poked its way out the back of my spine.

Your dance mission for the week is to notice when you are pulling your navel toward your spine, and notice when you are letting your belly be soft.

Let’s try it right now:

Sitting here reading this blog, is your belly soft or are you pulling your navel in toward your spine?

Just notice.

If you are pulling your navel in right now, try to let it soften and release.

How does that feel?


With Warmth and Jivey Vibes, Joanna of Joanna and The Agitators sweetly agitating/persistently upending www.joannaandtheagitators.com

BIG PS TODAY: Do you wanna come dance with me this fall? If so, register here. And do it soon. Classes start on Tuesday, Sept 1st and I am almost all filled up.

If you have any questions or concerns about class, feel free to email me.

xo jo

what is "real" dancing?

A long long time ago (isn’t that the first line to a famous song?), I got invited to teach dance in a one room schoolhouse in Cortez, CO.

It was like pulling teeth.

After each class, the smallest child there would ask, “But when are going to do some real dancing?”

And all the others would chime in, “Yes, when? We want to do real dancing.”

Each time this happened — which was every day, multiple times a day — I would say, in my calm and soothing teacher voice:

“This is real dancing. It is just different than what you are used to. Try to have an open mind about what we are exploring together in our dancing.”

And then this very small child would cross her arms over her chest, scowl at me, and say:

“No. This is not real dancing. I know what real dancing is, and this isn’t it.”

I would look around the room and see 15 little faces scowling back at me.

We went back and forth like this for awhile, all of us getting more and more frustrated, until I finally had the insight to ask what they meant by “real” dancing.

The smallest child immediately jumped up, grabbed the hands of her classmates, and they all started skipping in a circle with huge smiles on their faces.

“Oh!!!! You mean, “REEL” dancing!”

“Yes!” She bellowed.

We spend the last few days of my time there skipping in different formations while holding hands.

I stopped pulling teeth, and instead, relaxed into what was naturally emerging.

So what is “real” dancing anyway?

This scenario happened many years ago, but I still get asked this question all the time.

I also get told to change the name of what I am doing to movement instead of dance.

And since I’m a Taurus, I’m not changing the name, no matter how many times you ask.

I’ll keep pulling teeth on this one. Because what I am doing - what we are doing - is real dancing.

No, I don’t emphasize big leaps or spins, though if that happens, YAY for big leaps and spins. No, I don’t emphasize quick and complicated footwork, but if that happens, YAY for quick and complicated footwork. No, I don’t emphasize flourishes and high kicks, but if that happens, YAY for flourishes and high kicks. And no, I don’t emphasize making a pretty line. Crickets. I don’t care for pretty lines…sorry. Tangent:

I was on a dance excursion awhile back, and the photographer working with us kept yelling, “Extension ladies! Extend Please! Extend! Let me see a pretty line. “ Things did not end well. I have a long history of training in ballet and modern dance, and I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

I’m grateful for the hours I spent pliéing, barrel turning, and tour jetíng.

But my questions now, my curiosities now, my interests now, after all those years of training are:

Where does the impulse to move come from? How does it settle in my body? How does it arrange itself in space and in relationship to others? What sort of movement/stillness/sound is bubbling up inside me that is beyond form? What sort of movement/stillness/sound is bubbling up inside me that is inherent in form? What impulse/instinct/urge/inclination/sensibility is driving the dance? Is it the 1st or the 10th impulse that I act on? Is it the 2nd or the 700th? How do I listen and what I am listening to? How is my dancing connected to the larger world, outside of the dance studio?

To me, this is real dancing.

Living, breathing, and bona fide dancing.

Your dance mission for the week is to notice which impulses you move from.

Let me break it down a bit more:

Lie down.

Feel your body making contact with the earth.

Notice your breath.

Notice if there is a desire to move.

Notice if there is a desire to be still.

Notice if there is a desire to make sound.

Notice when you feel an impulse - to be still, to move, to make sound - and then notice if you follow that impulse or if you let it float on by.

Notice again when you feel an impulse - to be still, to move, to make sound - and then notice if you follow that impulse or if you let that one float on by.

Now, just see what happens.

Let the noticing soften.

Let your attention to your impulses soften, and give yourself permission to step into the dance, whatever kind of dance it is, that is already there, just waiting for you to begin.

Here is some music to get you started.

On another note:

My last free dance class of the season is happening on Saturday, August 22nd from 10-12pm at The Boulder Circus Center.

Will I see you there?

I hope so!

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes, Joanna of Joanna and the Agitators sweetly agitating/persistently upending www.joannaandtheagitators.com

ps. To register for the fall session that is starting in a just a few weeks, click on the link below. There is paypal button about halfway down the page where you can sign-up for the amount of classes that work for you.


pps if you want to leave a comment on the blog, I would love that. You can do that here. You can also email me directly, that works too.

ppps. Feel free to share this newsletter with a friend, or facebook or twitter or instagram or pinetrest or in the town square.

xo jo

are you bendy enough?


You are bendy enough.



Someone said to me yesterday, “I’m a little nervous to take your class because I’m worried I won’t be bendy enough.”


You know what?


There is so much to worry about in this world of ours, that I will take your  "bendy enough worry" and hold onto it for you so that you don’t have to.


I will put it in my pocket and pull it out for its annual dusting — wait, who am I kidding? I haven’t dusted anything since I moved into my house 12 years ago (please don’t share this newsletter with my mother).


I will just keep it in my pocket and let it gather the dust it was meant to gather.


Being bendy is not a pre-requisite for dancing.


Yes, if you want to be a soloist for the New York City Ballet, you need to be bendy, but at this point,  is that really what you want?


The hours are god-awful, you have to wear tights all day long, and I hear you can’t eat cake for breakfast.


So let’s re-think that career path AND the bendy myth.


Instead of thinking of it as trying to get more bendy, let’s start thinking about it as trying to move in a way that feels good to YOU.


And if you are so inclined to take a yoga class to work on expanding your bendy quotient that would be an excellent option.


And if you are more inclined to stay in your pajamas all day eating a bagel and lox, that would be just as  excellent.


Both have their own inherent benefits.


Either works and both will make your more bendy in their own way (eating  bagels with cream cheese, lox, onion, tomato, and eggs? They make your lips very bendy).


I was born inherently bendy, and at this point it has become a bit of a problem for me.


My ligaments are over extended from stretching too far, so now I am  re-working the entire bendy paradigm.


I am also addicted to the sensation of stretching as far as I can, which means I am now struggling with finding comfort in less bendy movement patterns.


It's not going so well.


Lucky you if you are not inherently bendy.


You are working from a place where there is always somewhere to go.


But let's be totally honest:

There are some dance circles where bendy is important.

It is an inherent value in that particular culture.

That’s fine.

I love moving in that sphere sometimes, and I think there are a huge amount of attributes that are satisfying and gratifying about it.


But in the little dance culture I circulate in?

Bendy just isn’t so important.


Some people are bendy, some people aren’t bendy.

Some people are tall, some people aren't tall.

Some people have curly hair, some people don't.


That is what makes this work so endlessly compelling to me.


I am not looking for, or drawn to, bendy.


I am looking for, and am drawn to:  truth, veracity, goodness, humor, absurdity, incongruity, and the instinctive logic that only comes out at night, right before I fall asleep and begin to dream.


Your dance mission for the week is to  follow that night logic.


I don’t know what that means exactly, but I think it means noticing the space between sleep and consciousness.

I think it means  listening to what is humming right below the surface.


That’s where the dancing comes from.

That place we cannot see but that we know is there, just waiting to be remembered.

If you could be so kind as to share this blog with 2 of your unbendy or bendy friends, eat some cake, and then start a conversation around this topic, I would be thrilled.

And then post a comment here about how it all went.

I would love to hear from you.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes,



Joanna and The Agitators

sweetly agitating/persistently upending



Unicorn Tears


Did you know that Lulu Lemon made a pair of gym shorts that has a pattern on them called Unicorn Tears?  

Did you know that these gym shorts with the Unicorn Tear pattern is so popular that Lulu Lemon sold out of these gym shorts in just a few days?

Did you know that these gym shorts with the Unicorn Tears pattern is now being sold on e-bay for $500?

If you didn’t know about this before, now you do.


I don’t know how I know this, but it pains me that I do.

It makes my insides drop and my spirit go sopping wet.  

So please, just hang me out to dry.

Here’s the deal:

Women and their relationship to body image has been talked about ad nauseam, right?  

But we’re still gonna to talk about it - because of the Unicorn Tears.

Those god awful Unicorn Tears.

Do you think it’s a long term, highly sophisticated, and well thought out strategic ruse set up by…

The Government? 

The Media?  

The Koch brothers? 

Scott Walker?

to get us all to spend our brain and buying power on Unicorn Tears rather than spend it on standing up and railing against the machine?

There are days when I say yes.

But who am I to say?

And who I am to judge?

I am more open, generous, available, open-hearted, accepting, and curious when I feel good in my body.

So if that means that someone feels good in their body because they’re wearing their Unicorn Tear gym shorts, then good for them. 

Mazel Tov.

But let’s just break this down for a minute:

How much time and money is spent by women thinking about and buying into the Tears of the Unicorn?

Too much.

I have dealt with body image crapola on and off  for my whole adult life.

And it sucks.

It’s a total brain drain.

It’s boring.

It accomplishes nothing.

It’s a game I’m playing that not everyone has the time or privilege to play.

There was a time when the standard of female beauty was zaftig and plump because that “look” was equated with wealth, affluence, and leisure.

The lean, trim, and muscled ones were the field hands, the serfs, and the workers.

That standard sure has flipped itself upside down and on it’s head hasn’t it?

So let’s flip it around again and create an entirely new paradigm together.

Are you up for it?

Great, let’s do it.

First off,

Let’s agree to stop body shaming each other.

Now I know that you don’t do that, but sometimes these little jabs slip out that are kinda like,

“What?  Really?  Did you just say that to me?”

Little tiny barbs that dig at you so subtly you’re not even sure if you just got poked, but you did.

I get these all the time, from well meaning folk that really have no idea what they just said.

For some reason, most of them have to do with my boobs.

Things like:

“Don’t you think you should wear a more supportive bra?”


“Isn’t uncomfortable to have your nipples facing straight down?”


“I couldn’t concentrate on your dancing, ‘cause I was just looking at your boobs.”

& “I’m so glad I don’t have big boobs.  It must be really hard to be a dancer with boobs that size.”

The list goes on and on, but I think you get the picture.

And you know what’s the weirdest about all those comments?

They all came from women.  

Not men.


So let’s just cut that part out of any conversation we have as we work together to shift this paradigm.

What do you think should be the next step in changing this conversation, this standard, this pattern, this code of behavior and beliefs?

What do you think should be the next step in shifting this modern and western archetype of women and their cantankerous relationship to their bodies?

Leave a comment here so that we can all start to shape this new frame of relating to bodies and each other together:

I am about to turn 45 and I am lucky enough to have a body and mind that are healthy, strong, agile, and fleet-footed.

I am also going grey, I have hair growing out of my chin, my belly hangs over my underwear, and I am now firmly entrenched in Ma’am land (except for this one cashier at Whole Foods who insists on calling me ‘young lady’, which just makes me want to throw up, especially since he is like…12 years old maybe?)

I am actually truly and fully accepting my body “as is” for maybe the first time since puberty hit.

Amen and hallelujah.

Our bodies are meant to age, so I say:

Bring it on.

I’m ready and excited to see how my relationship to this planet and this universe changes as my body continues to sag, sprout, and expand.

Your dance mission for the week is to dance on your furniture.

All of your furniture.

The bed, the table, the chairs, the couch, the desk, the credenza (I only know what a credenza is because Glen just built one).  

And if you can, do it while wearing your Unicorn Tear patterned gym shorts.  

It will only cost you $500.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes,



Joanna and The Agitators

sweetly agitating/persistently upending


how much space are you taking up...right now?


Before you start reading this,  just take a moment to notice how much space you are taking up.

And then imagine yourself getting bigger and wider and bigger and wider.

Spreading out like pancake batter and filling a whole room.

Softening into the space around you.

Getting so tall that your head pushes up and out of the ceiling, your arms poke through the windows, and your legs extend into the center of the earth.


I love that.

And now just come back to you, being you.

Feel where your body ends and the rest of the world begins.

Notice your skin making contact with the air.

Let your mouth open slightly.

Notice what parts of your body are making contact with whatever piece of furniture you are using right now.

Notice how your feet feel against the floor beneath you.

And notice your breathing.

I am now moving away from mindfulness 

(Tangent: my computer just changed the word “mindfulness” to “manfulness” - not kidding, that just happened - which is soooooo weird and so perfect for what I am about to talk about next).

I just read a hysterical little post where a woman walked down the sidewalk without ever getting out of anyone’s way.

She didn’t do any micro adjustments to give space to other pedestrians, and she didn’t move out of anyone’s  way.

She just walked her path - straight ahead, not accommodating anyone in any way.

Guess what happened?


You got it.

She didn’t bump into any women, but she smacked head-on into 28 men, who also were not micro adjusting, moving out of the way, or accommodating any one.


The subway thing that is all over facebook and social media right now, with men taking up 2 or 3 seats as they spread out like that pancake batter I mentioned, while women are curling in and up to accommodate?  

That is what I am talking about.

Who takes up too much space, who doesn’t take up enough space, and who falls somewhere in between.

How much space do you take up during any given day?

How much space do you give up during any given day?

How much do you accommodate so others have enough space to navigate comfortably in their environment?

How much space are you taking up right now?

Just as an experiment, right at this moment, I want you to take up a little bit more space than you normally do.


And a little more.

A little more. 

A tiny bit more.

How does that feel??

And now pull back in. 

And take up less space than you normally do.  

And a little less.

And a little less.

And a little less.

How does that feel?

I just had an experience today where I wasn’t taking up enough space.  

I was making myself smaller than I am because I wanted to do it right, and I was new to the environment I was in, and I was a little nervous, and I wasn’t so sure of my footing, and I felt like I shouldn’t be there

(Okay, fine I will tell you where I was when this happened since you are so curious:

Skate Skiing Lessons.  So hard.  

And I suck, seriously suck, at this sport.  

Someone recently said, “Well someone has to take the role of being the worst one in the class right?”   

I have taken on that role in this class:  Let me just name it and get it over with:   I AM THE WORST ONE IN MY SKATE SKIING LESSON).

And guess what I got called??


The instructor told me I was being too dainty.




I guess in this instance yes, I was being “dainty”  because I was getting small and letting everyone else take up the space. 

I was accommodating and accommodating and accommodating so I wouldn’t get in anyone’s way.  

I was very polite.  

And very dainty.

I am making a pact with myself to practice being “undainty” next week.

Instead I am going to try to be big, unwieldy, and mammoth in my quest to stay upright on my skis.

Wish me luck.

(Dainty actually feels much more comfortable in this situation).

Last Tangent before you get your dance mission for the week:

Speaking of “Dainty”:  I had an imaginary friend named Dainty when I was a little kid.  Dainty was in jail for murdering someone.  She lived on bread and water, but got raw meat thrown into her cell when she behaved.   I loved her, and I loved that she always figured out how to sneak out of jail to come hang out with me.  She always went back though, to jail, every night, right before I fell asleep.


Very interesting.

What do you think that all means???

Anyway, your dance mission for the week (oh how I have missed these dance missions!!!)

is to notice when and how you are occupying the space around you.

Are you micro-adjusting?

How much are you accommodating?

Are you smacking head-on into people?

Are you making way for others to pass by?

Do you want to take up more space or do you want to take up less?

Can you take up space even if you are in an unknown situation?

And just for the hell of it, since I haven’t spoken to you in awhile, let’s go back to a favorite dance mission:  Put on a favorite song,  and just dance.

And, hey, let yourself take up a lot of space for this one.

And then send this blog post along to two people:

To one person who takes up way too much space, and one person who doesn’t take up enough.

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts, so leave a comment here or feel free to email me too.

With Warmth and Jivey Vibes,



Joanna and the Agitators

sweetly agitating/persistently upending