Broken Thought Process Day, Days, ok, a week or so....

Or maybe it's shattered thought process. Or melted though process. Anything but coherent, lucid thought process.

Yesterday was one of those cursed days in the kitchen, the kind of day that makes me want to fall upon my whisk. (It's like falling on one's sword, without the messy consequences). The kind of day where I think perhaps I went down the wrong path. Today went much better, and ended around 11:30 or so.

We've been starting at 6am, and leaving around 1-2pm, because of the heat. I put foil on all the windows to deflect some of the sun, so now it looks like a white trash meth lab. But clean.

I haven't been to Facebook or Twitter in over a week. Nothing to say worth reporting on a daily basis.

Went to see Celtic Woman at Red Rocks Wednesday night - first time I have been to a concert there. OMG - the climb! Next time will wear walking shoes. Wondering why no outside beverages are allowed in, even more wondering why the concession stand takes the caps off the bottled water & wine, and why the soft drink cups don't have lids, or straws. Do they think they are being invaded by deadly ninjas who can hijack the amphitheatre with a small platic cap and a straw?

The drummers and the fiddler were fantastic. The fiddler actually danced while playing, in her long, floaty white dress and high heels.

The acoustics ARE really great - I can see what the fuss is about. It started raining during the last ten minutes or so, complete with thunder and lightning. People started leaving, which seemed rather pointless, as it was a good quartermile or so to the parking lots. Stay or leave, you'll get just as wet.

Discovered that Najah and I have rather disparate tastes in music - she really likes falsetto, like Don Henley and (shudder, ick) Michael McDonald. I, on the other hand, think that Michael McDonald's voice is as close as I ever want to get to having redhot needles shoved into my ears.

I'm having a lot of encounters with snakes this week, mostly live snakes, but one perfectly shed skin. Which is out in the garage curing in borax. I really like snakes, although they startle me a bit when we meet each other in the park. I'm sure it's mutual. They are not suited for pets, though. Some creatures should just be left wild.

My current passion is belly dance, aka oriental danse, aka raks sharki, aka beledi. Next session I am adding the intermediate class , so Monday evenings will be 2 back-to-back hours of dance. Someone else(s) is also in the grip of passion, as every one of some 20 or so belly dance music cd's are checked out of the library. I have holds on a few of them. In the meantime, there's always Pandora.

Drumming Up the Sun

The sky is black, the stars are bright, the air is frigid. It's an hour or so before dawn on the morning of the winter solstice.

We can hear the drums as we walk toward the amphitheater. The waning crescent moon hangs over the tall crag that forms the southern wall of the amphitheater. We choose our space, spread our blankets on the icy seats. The drumming continues. Somewhere in the darkness someone plays a didgeridoo.

Najah takes out a tiny cauldron, lights charcoal. We share a cup of coffee while it smolders. When the coals are ready, she scatters a homemade blend of sage, cedar and copal. Smoke spirals up, the scents blending with the cold, the stone, the snow. Frankincense wafts down the rows, the drums keep pounding.

Najah takes up her rattles, I take up my drum. We join in the rhythm. There's no leader, no program, no script. People keep arriving, the drums get louder. The darkness slowly fades. There's no sign of the sun, but now there's enough light to see that the sky is cloudless, except for two banks of clouds rising up from the horizon like the wings of a dragon. The drumming continues, the dragon's wings turn from purple to a fiery magenta. The drumming continues. My shoulder is beginning to ache. I keep drumming. The wings turn to molten gold. There is the faintest line of light at the horizon. The drumming continues. And continues. It builds in intensity. There is still only the faintest line of light on the horizon. We drum and we drum, and the sun does not appear. Time seems to be frozen. The sun is not coming up. We drum louder and faster. The sun is not coming up. And suddenly, I understand the fears of our ancestors. For a moment, I am afraid the sun will not come up, that it has gone away, never to return. A deep, atavistic fear that the world will remain in darkness.

The drumming continues, it gets louder, faster, more insistent. A raven flies across the sky. The crescent moon hangs about the rock. Frankincense, sage, cedar and coffee mingle in the cold air. The line of light grows thicker. The drumming gets louder, faster. The sun peeps above the horizon, only a quarter of it visible. It hovers there, teasing, enjoying the attention. The drumming reaches a frenzy, voices break into ulalations and howls. The sound echoes on the rocks at the sun finally shows itself above the horizon. Hands raise in salute. Hail and welcome the reborn sun!

Now that the sun is in the sky, I can see the faces of the twohundred or so people who braved single digit temperatures to celebrate the Solstice. Everyone is shining.