Newness.

Tuesday night I taught my first class as a pole instructor. In week leading up to that evening, a few friends asked if I was nervous. Not really, I answered. I've done this before. And it was true - I've taught friends new tricks, I've walked them through stretches, I've spotted people, I've helped teach before.

But I was nervous, and not for me. I knew there would be brand new dancers in my class. Girls who have spent fewer than five hours spinning and stretching, who haven't yet settled into the fond partnership that the experienced student has with the pole. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to usher them through those crucial first classes properly. Maybe I would make a mistake and somehow embarrass them, or my clumsy new-teacher methods wouldn't enable them to put their limbs in the right place. Maybe they would be self-conscious and I wouldn't be able to draw them out of that shell. Maybe there wouldn't be any laughter in my class.

 At seven, I turned up the first song on my excruciatingly chosen playlist, settled into a cross-legged position in the front of the room, and announced I was starting the class.

Working through the warm-up stretches has always been a meditation for me. In class or at home, I've always made stretching a time to focus on my body and what it is capable of, to push myself and concentrate on taking one breath at a time. A few minutes to ensure that I am fully engaged. I found that pushing into the first few stretches on Tuesday night, as an instructor, it wasn't any different. I was still making it a meditation, but this time I wanted to be fully engaged with my students. Rather than listening to my own body and focusing on each muscle, I wanted to listen to my students' expressions, their bodies. Focus on each student.

We finished stretching, rolled up our mats and put them away, and I thought about what moves to teach first, what explanation would be simple and clear. I'm not used to having to think so far ahead in teaching simple movements. These girls had no reference points - I couldn't just tell them the trick they would be learning was a modified pirouette. For an intermediate or experienced student, they would immediately run through the basic move in their head and be ready to make changes. For a beginner, the same words draw a blank. On top of that, they have no muscle memory, and most of all no idea what they are capable of. Fear is still a big factor. Fear of falling, of failure, of rejection.

 As they struggled through their first attempts, I watched each of their faces, achingly aware of their frustration. I tried to explain it differently. I tried to work with each student on their own problem area. Show me, I said. Show me how you're trying to do this. Wait - that's where you're getting twisted up. Let's try to smooth it out. Like this, see? Hands here, feet here.

 Teaching my first class turned out to be more of a learning experience for me, as cliche as that sounds. There were moments of triumph, sure. Some applause and lots of laughter. However, some of the students walked out never having achieved what I was trying to teach them. Some weren't strong enough, and some were too afraid to really try. I had to be okay with that, enough to move on to the next student - but not so much that I gave up on them. I had to modify the moves for more than one person.

I didn't feel satisfied at the end of class. I wanted to call them all back in and show them over and over again until every single one reached the goal and left smiling and sore. I'm not sure that's a bad thing, though. I want to stay hungry as an instructor and always be eager to push them a little farther than they can reach on their own.

I'm already looking forward to next Tuesday.