C R E A T I V E    W R I T I N G 

I bend down into earth’s dust, tracing patterns to follow my train of thought. Something travels through, inviting me in. Where is it coming from? I lean closer. It whispers its secrets.

 

“Ga-ding-ga-da, da da”.

 

I lift my hand and allow dirt to race through my fingers, then reunite with earth. A vibration runs across its surface like an electric current. My eyes follow to its source, and as sight marries sound, I understand.

 

Moving. Moving. Spinning, stomping, lifting, singing, laughing, trilling, roaring, clicking, shouting, clapping, back and forth, all around, call, response.

 “Ga ding-ga-da, da da”. A circle of people in brightly colored tunics rest on the horizon of my vision, weaving in and out of a rhythm determined by the ferocity of hand meeting drum, … tripping in, out, and over light prisms and sound waves, bursting with joyful exclamation into sun’s radiant face.

 

Voices cry out with the tension of truth, resounding in a polyrhythmic kaleidoscope painted onto air’s canvas.  Their collective motion is like the tides, particles moving in such unison that they become one wave, going in and out, back and forth to the drum’s call, and they respond, layering movement texture into a tightly woven tapestry that sees no single starting stitch: they create one piece, one body, one rhythm, one cry, one call.

 

My heart hears. It answers. Before my mind may reason, I stand from the dust and move towards them. The earth sings beneath bare feet – its melody pulls me closer. It calls to me through the message of the movement in the ground, propelling me from the soles of my feet to the beating of my heart. As I draw closer, I feel the deep resonance in my own chest.

 

There are no spectators here. Those who do not drum, move. Those who do not move, sing. Those who do not sing find that they can. Each has their appointed turn, waiting for the precise moment. They communicate, always back and forth, in a language just for this moment. It creates a meeting place: each smiling face rejoicing in its belonging. Each heard; each seen; each gathering around what has brought them together.

 

It is here that I learn: listening is not just for the ears. My feet begin to move: almost subconsciously at first. This movement seems to exist outside of sound or pre-arranged choreography. It is its own force, and perhaps the force carrying us all: the drummers, the singers, the dancers, the call, the response. We are carried by it: its power, its might. As I find language for heart’s longing, I increase in wildness, ferocity, joy, and distinction. I have found my song, as it finds me. I rest in its arms as it crashes over me like wind into mountainside, wave greeting sand. What is me, what is it, I no longer know. I simply follow.

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