I am totally obsessed with the improvised swing dance competitions. The contestants are paired randomly, a song begins, and they have a minute or two to create a dance. Before the music begins, they physically connect. There is a sense of danger and play. Upon hearing the music, one of them tosses out a stylistic gesture that becomes a theme and both lead and follow using the very strict form of swing dance. They know exactly what to expect and have no idea what will happen. They have sway.

In the same way that we must be rooted in order to find sway in our bodies, we must have a structure in order to find sway in the content of our talks, agendas, and even tricky conversations.

In the post, Memorizing vs. Knowing a Talk, we looked at finding the balance between the rigid monotony that can come from memorizing and the inconsistency that can come from “winging it.” The balance is found, once more, in form and freedom. Preparation matters. Form matters. Only then, can we let go and play with abandon. Ask a professional improvisor how many years of study and hours of rehearsal have they clocked in order to become fluent enough in the form to find their sway. The form I like for most presentations and speeches is…Read on.

I vividly remember my grandmother, Kay, in the months before she died. Her lovely, papery skin, her mischievous blue eyes and bobbing brows, her long silver hair falling about her shoulders. In the mornings, she would twist it up with hairpins, slowly, but with the muscle memory of a life-time of this gesture. People would gather at her house most evenings, after an event, talking late into the night. By the end of the day, her feet had swollen terribly, so someone would hand her a finger of gin, take her feet onto their lap, slip off the binding shoes and medical stockings, and massage her precious feet. Feet that had danced with Isadora Duncan. Or, as she would correct me, “FOR Isadora Duncan. No one danced WITH Isadora.” Barefooted and briefly free of the pain and watery constraints, she would rise, her stance growing into the earth, her arms moving like soft ocean waves, and she would dance for us. Even as she stretched towards 90, walking slowly, holding tightly to an offered arm, pausing to rest at each step, my grandmother’s body had sway. To communicate with sway, we start with finding sway in our own bodies. This week:…Read on.

This morning I took my dog on a walk in the woods. A place I’d never been. At some point I realized I was lost. I went around a bend, hoping to see a familiar landmark, but found a whole new path. I knew exactly what I needed to do next: panic. My heart started racing. My voice went up an octave, “It’s OK, Harpo, we’ll make it home…” My eyes darted here and there. I started running through the wet, tick-infested poison ivy. Rounding the corner, I came across a big log to sit on with a sign reading, “Breathe. Listen.” I stopped. Looked around for the wood nymph, Puck, playing games with me. Then, I laughed and followed Puck’s wise advice. I sat down. I took a deep, fresh breath. I listened. I heard the wind. A bird. And then soft voices. And a car. Aha! That way!

This is exactly what I say to clients when they get lost on stage.

Breathe. Listen. The way home will become apparent.

This is what I practice with my clients:…Read on.