I woke up and did not know where I was. It was cold. It was dark. I was curled up on a forest floor. I shivered a little. I got up, brushed the dirt and leaves off my clothes, and looked around. I saw a light a long way off through the trees and headed in that direction.
I stopped as if struck by lightning. I could walk! I could lift my arms and work my fingers! I said, "Hello," tentatively and shouted, "I can talk!" I spent the next half hour working my muscles and marveling at my strength. Then I walked toward the light again.
I came to a large clearing and had to cover my eyes. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I was amazed at what I saw. There in front of me were thousands of people dancing. They were of every skin color, young and old, male and female, and they were all moving in a marvelous dance. All the dancers, young and old, were healthy and vigorous. They were dancing to the most beautiful music I had ever heard. I slowly and uncertainly moved forward.
The dancing appeared incredibly complex. At times it was a knee-stomping barnyard square dance, and then a statelier ballroom dance, then a rumba, and then everyone danced his or her own native dance. A woman with red hair danced an Irish jig, a Maasai warrior jumped high, and a little Hawaiian girl did a hula.
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| My daughter, Emma, and friends in Haiti |
The light came from the dancers' bodies. Each person had a beam of light shooting upward out of his or her head and shoulders. The colors were so intense that I wondered if I had ever seen color before. An Eskimo's glacial blue made me shiver. The French winemaker's purple was so inviting I could taste the grapes. The Amazonian farmer's green was so verdant I could smell the dripping wet jungle. All of the colored lights combined over our heads to create a dazzling white light. It lit up the forest around us and those in the trees who were watching, waiting, and deciding if they would join us.
The music had the same intense reality as the colors. I could not only hear it, I could taste it. It had never occurred to me that music had flavors, but it seemed perfectly normal to me now. When the girl did the hula, I heard Hawaiian drums and tasted pineapple. The Honduran guitar music tasted like coffee. Along with the tastes came the rich smells of chocolate, apples, peppermint, and many delicious meals. The more complex the music, the more complex were the tastes and smells.
Then the Master of the Dance appeared among us. His robe was almost blinding white. We recognized his face and bowed to him out of reverence and awe. When we heard him laugh, we raised our heads and saw that he was dancing. Everyone joined his dance. I was swept along and was surprised I had rhythm! He called us by our names and danced with each of us. Before he left, he invited us to come to his Great Feast.
The serious business of this place is Joy. I think I could live here forever.
(This article was first published in the Asheville , NC
