Art Food Soul

“When you pray, move your feet.”
– West African proverb

After 9/11 I danced. Before 9/11 I also danced. After we started bombing Iraq, I danced again through tears, dancing out the horror and pain of the women, children and all the people who suffered through that.
Still dancing these days, always wanting to do more, but only managing random moments here and there. I miss the dance classes and a studio space to gather in with other kindred Goddess dancers.
When I returned here, to this place where family still resided, where I’d spent some of my growing up years, it was a broken time for me, for my kids, for our little family. Many times I question the sanity of my return here. In hindsight, the evil twin of foresight, would I do it again? Personally? I hope to Goddess not. But my story for Vermont will have to wait until another day.

This is my Dancer story. I never thought of myself as a dancer…or a writer, for that matter…until I moved back here. My long-time friend from my library days turned me on to Raks Sharqi or Raks Baladi. Westerners know it as “belly dance” but “Khadijah” (our teacher) despised the term and it’s a perfect example of how the language we use does matter. (Too many equate the dance with stripping, and while it can be an erotic dance, it is not a striptease.) It can feel almost sacred sometimes. Khadija did say that perhaps it came to be known as belly dance because of the misinterpretation of “baladi”— “raks”meaning “dance” and “baladi” or ”folk.” At any rate, I found my way to her Egyptian dance class, and before long she had me dancing with the rest of the Kharamana Dance Troupe at the monthly Evenings in Egypt she hosted every month at the coolest, now defunct but memorable Prodigal Son Coffeehouse/Bar.  It was always a fun evening, full of friends, family (kids included), other dancers, fans and curious passers-by. 
Writing this takes me right back to the magic and mystery, the wonder and sense of discovery of those days, my reawakening as I began following the path of the Goddess Dancing. When words fail me, I dance. And dancing always helps me find the words again. So round and round we go. Dancing my own curious circle dance in a place with no beginnings and no endings.

Caveat: by the way, photos are recent from when I was playing with my coin belts. They are NOT representative of what I wore dancing with the troupe.😊

Spent the afternoon listening to lots of blues from Otis and Buddy, a bit of Etta and a splash o’ Nat mixed in (although Nat’s not really blues, is he? Someone clue me in here, please.) Music begging to be danced to. So that’s what I did. And another photo shoot. Meanwhile, tempting as it’s been to share Ukraine  stuff, when I see a photo of the Russian bombing of a Ukrainian kindergarten over there, I have to stop myself and say, but wait, that’s what my country has done — in Iraq and Afghanistan most recently — and I imagine  countless other places — so I certainly can’t point my finger. So what to do? Yes, we can send money, yes we can protest and send troops, but frankly, what ELSE can we do, people? Because this is what governments do — and by governments I mean people in power — because people in power, whether you call them King or President or General, Duke, Lord, Colonel or Princess — this is what they do. They are NOT us. Not Trump, not Biden, not Clinton, McConnell, none of ‘em, Democrats or Republicans — NONE of THEM are US. I think this is why I’ve come to love science fiction in my later life. I’m realizing how close to reality many of the books I’ve read in the past few decades actually are. I’m thinking science fiction has maybe been the canary in the coal mine all along.

It was a delightful afternoon in February, Groundhog Day actually, heading soon into what would be the third year of the pandemic. Now mind you, the days during the pandemic weren’t normally what one would describe as delightful, perhaps endurable might be more apt. And for many, qualify that “endurable” with “just barely.” Still the morning light promised springtime days ahead, and while by mid-afternoon the day had faded to gray, it was still an enjoyable afternoon, dancing and singing around the house while playing with the dog. Drinking hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows and making countless pots of tea, while watching the snow melt — yes, I can think of worse ways to spend an afternoon, despite the perpetuity of the pandemic. Still, I long for a magic wand to make it all go away, many families are beyond the breaking point, while the privileged few continue to flaunt their “individual sovereignty.”

The last good winter storm we had was almost seven years ago to the day on January 27, 2015 — Snowmageddon. Today’s storm forecast is two feet of snow and 70 mile-an-hour winds, and so far it looks to be delivering on its promise. For now, we’ve battened down the hatches — more or less — but to be honest, I wouldn’t be disappointed to find myself in a flying house on my way to Oz.

I may have shared this story here before, I lose track sometimes, I have many stories careening around in my memory bank. Today is my parent’s 65th anniversary. My mother’s spirit hangs out in another dimension now, but I still like to acknowledge the day with my dad. She was 18, he was 20, and they essentially eloped after knowing each other for six months. A JP married them on this day in East Greenwich, Rhode Island. When my Irish Catholic grandmother found out, she was outraged to find they were “living in sin.” My Protestant mother was mortified, my father at most somewhat sheepish, but most likely his usual laissez-faire self. My oldest uncle, Joe, an ex-seminarian drove my never-drove-in-her-life grandmother to St. Anne’s Parish in Quincy, Massachusetts to witness (most likely to make sure) my parents’ proper and sanctified, holy marriage, blessed by the parish priest. Apparently, this wedding was two weeks after the first, on Ground Hog Day, certainly an appropriate day for a Marriage Redo Redux. And that’s the story of my parents’ two marriages. I like to tease my dad about it sometimes, referring to his first and second marriages. Here’s a toast to my mum and my dad, two remarkable parents, who despite their youth always made my sisters and me feel cherished and safe.

This time of year, when the light dims, I tend to also feel my inner light dim. It sometimes can come on without warning, I’m cruising along through the gray days feeling frisky and upbeat, and then out of the blue, the clouds descend. Now this is not some deep despair or despondency per se, but rather more of my baseline melancholia. So I have to really work at keeping my inner light glowing. I find little things help — lighting candles, sipping tea, sitting in a comfortable chair, listening to a comforting podcast, a good book, yes! Always a good book on hand, these things keep my spark from going out. And a daily walk is mandatory. I’m realizing I can also add my writing practice to that list as I’ve truly been enjoying it — both here, and in back and forth notes elsewhere. How about you? What little things do you do when you feel your light dimming?