When I chant, when I dance, when I feel the ground beneath my bare feet – sometimes my heart soars, sometimes I feel a deep grief. A grief I haven’t always understood. But I’ve come to realize it’s a mourning for my spirit, my spirit that feels trapped.
When I chant, when I dance, when I feel the ground beneath my feet – my heart is cracked open and I am living in a commune, dancing by the fire, chanting with war paint across my body, with a community of people to help raise each other’s children, to help each other, to dance wildly, to scream and sing and roar with abandon.
We live so separately, we cloister ourselves and thus our spirits. We don’t let our bodies explore the space around us. We sit, stand, walk, maybe run, maybe a few sun salutes. We drive, sit, stand, drive some more. Sheltered by concrete walls and metal cars. We don’t move. We don’t let our spirts burst through our bodies so our limbs have no choice but to stretch out and explore the air around us, the air between our fingers, the dirt between our toes. We keep our voices on mute or on a setting that won’t disturb anyone around us. Our tone is always appropriate.
But we have a wild soul deep down in there, somewhere. And it so desperately wants to come out. It so desperately wants to dance, move, feel the ground, explore the sky. So we can. We can move and let our spirits run wild. We can place our cheek upon the floor and roll until our bodies become one with the earth. We can run our fingers through the sand until there is no difference between each grain and our skin. We can roar as our limbs expand into the wild. We can sing. We can shriek and scream and howl and laugh. We can live. We can move and let our spirits run wild.