A Message Through Movement

Today I danced. While homemade peanut butter cookies baked their way to chewy goodness in my oven I stripped off my socks, rolled up my jeans and danced. I stomped loudly, moved with strange jerking movements and at times felt almost graceful. I danced for the stolen, blood soaked land we call America. I danced for those who have injustices committed against them everyday. I danced for those who cannot dance.

I know, it sounds like a strange thing, me dancing. Not really. Not to many years back on any given weekend you might have found me spinning and sweating the night away and into the early morning hours while D.J.’s pumped house beats through speakers stacked on top of speakers. Crowds of people in rhythm together, some but not all aided by drugs or stimulants.

And today although the speakers were smaller and the crowd reduced to one the music still sent out a message that resonated deep within me. One that connected me to a suffering and freedom beyond that which I could express in words or song, so I danced. I remember my mother, being the beautiful woman that she is, would stand at the back of church during worship sessions and dance. She loved to dance; I think she still does.

“We Are All Lepers Here”, that was the name of the song. This group of crazy nomadic folks that call themselves the Psalters wrote it. During the summer of 2002 a few close friends and I traveled to this mud pit in Bushnell, Illinois called Cornerstone Christian Music Festival. We happened to camp next to these people who looked liked gypsies and played every instrument known to man. I distinctly recollect one evening sitting round a fire with this troupe of musicians while they made the most passionate music from their simple instruments.

And so in remembrance of them and much of what they stood for I danced. Legs pumping, arms flailing, body twisting and feet stomping.

There is an old saying that says “the dead cant dance”, so I will dance for them.