Dancing Alive

I can still smell the humid Southern night mixing with the lingering scent of homemade falafels and BBQ sandwiches (eastern NC style, thank God). We had been there two nights by this point, and the intermittent but frequent rains were beginning to dampen my good time, pun intended. Several vendors hung in there past sundown to display their wares in hopes that someone with actual money would stop by instead of all these hippies, but I, feeling satisfied that I had scoured all the ceramic mugs and  rasta colored blankets I cared to, trudged through the thickening mud to the dance tent. I had no idea who was playing, and although grassroots music didn't bring the passion for me that so many people there seemed to have, I was beginning to bore of my party members and their fireside chit chat. Jeff followed, of course, but I could tell our argument earlier was still brewing on his mind, and in an effort not to anger him further, I chose to remain silent along the walk. About half way to our destination he matched his stride with mine and reached out for my hand, surely a sign of desired forgiveness, which I readily accepted. We were happily strolling, discussing our breakfast plans for the next morning (I favored a coffee and weed sampler platter while Jeff pushed for the more traditional biscuit...a girl can try though right?) when I heard it. 

It was a bass drum, pounding out a rhythm that would have made a tribal chief green with envy. The closer I came to the beating the more intense it felt, vibrating sound waves through my flesh directly into my inner organs. It literally felt as if my pulse began keeping time to the beat. We reached the edge of the dance tent and I hurriedly stepped up on the wooden platform, straining to see who was playing. It was a band of three; two men and one woman. They had the haggard appearance you would expect from a tribal/reggae band that frequented these types of events, complete with dreadlocks, hemp jewelry, and outfits far too lightweight for the cool spring night. As I mazed my way through the crowd the drums softened and she began to sing. 

Her voice was raw, guttural...it made me want to weep. The sweet notes leaving her lips permeated the entire area around the tent, hushing everyone into a state of awe. Soon the bass started back, precisely timing his beats in her breaks, and I found myself swaying back and forth in time, completely unaware of my surroundings. I unconsciously inched my way closer to the stage, having all but forgotten about Jeff, enveloped in blissful harmony that I never wanted to end. I can't say how long the song lasted, or if it was even just one song, because time and space had stopped for me altogether.  As I came so close to the band I could have reached out and touched their instruments.  I almost did before catching and stopping myself, preventing an embarrassing social faux pas.

Suddenly the bottom fell out. The rain poured bucketfuls, and where there was already so much mud built up around the dance tent it began to sound like rain falling into the ocean. The rain seemed to key the band up even more, as the bass became more thunderous and mixed in with the steady stamping of peoples mud soaked feet on the plywood floor, I felt the growing energy take me over. Soon I was spinning, stomping once with my right foot, then my left, arms stretched out horizontally in form reminiscent of a Native American rain dancer. In fact, I felt exactly as I think they would have, overwhelmed with hope and emotion, feeling as if anything were possible and didn't matter all in the same moment. Before I knew it I was out from under the shelter of the dance tent, splashing up mud and water under my bare feet all the way up to my hips. Others followed my lead and pretty soon the outside of the dance tent was more active than inside. The band adapted by turning around and playing towards the growing crowd. Each step sunk me lower and lower into the ground, although everyone else seemed to be shrinking at a similar rate, until we were all knee deep in mud and movement.  A girl in a long cotton skirt, completely soaked and dragging so low on her waist that it appeared to weigh 50 pounds, attempted to help me out of this "quick mud", but with a swift jerk upwards her feet sailed out from underneath her and she landed tail first in the mud.  She began laughing hysterically, still holding my right hand in hers. I too began laughing uncontrollably. For a moment it sounded as if everyone around us was laughing as hard as we were. 

I don't remember falling asleep that night. All I remember was laughing. All I remember was living.