The Young Girl Dancing
The van smells of patchouli, dog hair, incense and cake. She is being expertly piloted through the dark wooded roads by the driving and navigation team of Dad and Uncle. Her mother deftly balancing a cake with five lit candles on her knees as the chorus of “Happy Birthday” begins. Full of love and raw joy, she catches her father’s eye in the rear view mirror, as her Uncle turned towards her offering her a tenderly wrapped small package.
The van is a wheeled extension of their home. It is fully lined with tapestries and oriental carpets, smothered in the sweet aroma of Nag Champa. Music, in the van or at home, was always playing or being played, creating a soundtrack to her life. With the family’s hairy mut lying on her feet, her belly full of birthday cake, the sway of the van up and around the winding roads reminding her of a very comforting rollercoaster, she fell asleep quickly,. She slept only as a five year old can, with the innocence and sacredness of never doubting “all is well” in the world surrounding her like a cloud.
She woke with the bright sun beaming onto her cherub face mashed with dog hair. She emerged from the deep snuggle of her red cotton sleeping bag, “Pandy”’s side flattened from the pressure of her head while she slept. As she sat up she habitually reshaped the polyester stuffed panda bear that her dad had won for her last year at the fair. Sleep flitted from her being. She could already hear the music from the distance, calling her to fully awake and smack into her family’s campfire breakfast of pancakes, bacon and orange juice.
Consciously preparing for her first day as a five year old she stepped into a colorful cotton slip of a dress her mother had made for her earlier that summer. Commenting as she measured and sewed through gritted teeth full of pins “she's in another growth spurt” and as if in a parental call and response, “Growing like a weed” is what her dad would say immediately after. The dress was just a few months old, yellow, her favorite color, spattered with a light floral pattern but was already too short. Her legs, still carrying a touch of toddlerhood ojas, were elongating and poked out from the rising hemline. She slipped on the beaded bracelet her uncle had given her the night before, it fit perfectly and she already knew she would cherish and wear it every day. It was just like the bead she always admired around his neck, large, brown, entwined on a rough rope. He wore it every single day.
Forgoing her usual braids, she made the five year old decision to let her long blonde hair flow free, free to fly when on the swings, free to twirl when flipping cartwheels and free to stream wildly with her when she danced. Her mom tied her dad’s old blue bandana loosely around her neck. They were ready.
Her small hand anticipatorily engulfed in the huge calloused palm of her dad’s as they set off across the field, this small pod of a family, passing through other’s campsites, the blue haze of their morning fires sputtering into the thick air. As they walked triple stride through puddles from last night's rain, they got closer to the sound of the music. The camps grew closer and closer together. She tried to be respectful and tiptoe around tents and over the sleeping bundles of bodies wrapped in blankets on the ground. More and more people, tighter with every step. As they crested the hill she stood in wonder at the field below. Never before had she seen so many people in one place. The stage in the distance was secondary to the mass of humanity laid out before it with contrasting yellow tarps lining the sides of the field offering shade, first aid, and food for those ill prepared.
Stopping to take it all in she was nearly distanced from her pod. Like the vigilant watchful bird he was, her Uncle swooped next to her gently humming into her ear “stay close, little bug, don’t want you to get lost in this crowd”. They found a spot on the side of the hill and laid out their red and black plaid blanket. The were enveloped between the others, a mandala of softness, hair, bodies, scents, smiles, words and rhythms.
Her mom’s brother was perpetually shirtless 19 year old. His white skivvies ever so slightly rose above his work-pant waistband when he danced a certain way. His young facial hair darkening his upper lip, his black hair was relatively short compared to the current style. He was tall and easy to spot in a crowd, his ever present bead bouncing and rebounding with his every move. He was like her shadow, a crow, simply there, never intruding, never overstepping, often never even really talking, a peaceful guardian.
With his sister’s nod of approval he took the new five year old and led her closer to the stage, slowly they inched their way through the masses. Their hands never leaving each other’s, and once he even snatched her up like a sack of potatoes and landed her high on his broad tanned shoulders as he walked. They found their spot. He took off his shoes. She took off her shoes. He began to move, she mimicked him. She saw his elbows bend, his head cocked to the side, a smile across his face, the bouncing bead around his neck. She followed suit, she allowed the music to wash over her, to feel the energy of the others, the moving and shaking swaying and gliding breathing of the collective.
Her eyes closed, the music entered her and her body responded, the lyrics diving into her ears at first, then deep into her soul. Even without full comprehension of the lyrics, the feeling behind them couldn’t be translated. She didn’t resist their force on her sweet open heart. She felt transported to somewhere else while simultaneously fully feeling a part of the whole.
Click.
A picture, a snap of an image, a holding of time forever.