Gypsy Dancer Remembered (and Resurrected)

Yesterday, at the May Day Parade in Powderhorn Park, I celebrated the earth and the seasons with thousands of beautiful and light-hearted people. It was truly a day filled with sensory overload and delight, as I was lost in a daze of people-watching, colors flying, children running, music soaring, and puppets - oh man, my dream puppets - entertaining us, teaching us with the kind of magic and grandeur only Heart of the Beast puppets truly command.

I don't think I could have packed more into my experience of the event - I felt like I was everywhere with everyone doing everything there was to be done. I saw the parade, I danced to the bands, I ate the greasy food, I had bird's-eye seats for the Tree of Life Ceremony, and even canoed around the lake at sundown with five colorful, face-painted, costumed beauties, as the sun beamed down upon us, and we floated in the epicenter of all the day's love, joy and spirit.

There was a moment for me, however, a real moment that stands out above the rest. It took me by surprise, and I didn't even recognize it as it was happening, but it ended up being the one moment that drew from within me the ancient connection between my spirit, the earth, and all that lives and has lived upon it. As evidently primal, and even predictable, as it may be: ladies and gentlemen, I speak to you now... of the Drum Jam.

For all but maybe the first eight years or so of my life, I have lived in part or whole in what would be considered the "counter-culture." For me, this has been made up of years performing and traveling the Renaissance Festival circuit, traveling with those gypsies to other countries in the world, living for years in international artist communities, singing for a decade in a band whose main draw are the New Age hippies, enrolling in a school for priestess-training, singing with modern dance companies, attending National Rainbow Gatherings, etc, etc, etc. I'm a hippie, ok? I get it. (I actually prefer to think of myself as a "lipstick" hippie, but, I digress...)

Drum jams are as old hat to me as just about anything. I have participated in hundreds, and have been in community with probably thousands more. Like a lot of those old-school scenes (fire-dancing, body-painting, the drum jams, et al), I've lost a lot of interest over the years. I appreciate the effect it has, particularly on the novice, but also the positive community vibe it all works together to create. Maybe I've been a bit snobbish, to tell you the truth. Most often when the drums circle up these days, it sounds more like a pounding competition rather than a real "jam."

When I grew up at the Ren Fests, from 8-yrs old and on, my favorite part of it all was the drum jam during the last half-hour or so of each show day. My step-sister and I lived for it! We would never miss the opportunity to be free and dance bare-footed to the rhythms, which then sounded exotic and triggered endless imaginings of being real gypsies somewhere out there in the world. For years and years, this was "our thing, " and our parents would even take turns sneaking away from the booth to come and watch us, to witness our spirits celebrating pure joy and love for life.

I was about 14-years old and at the Bristol Renaissance Faire when "the gypsies" first took notice of me. It was one of the drummers, "Antone the Great," who came to speak with me after the jam. He wanted to know who I was, and to mention that he had noticed me before, and that I should come dance with the gypsies in their show - which completely bowled me over! I had grown up loving and living for Gypsy Camp - all the colors, the cool costumes, the exotic music, and the characters! Oh! Jiva, Sarina, Adnan, Sindibad, Jodea, Antonio... all the cool people of the circuit! And here was Antonio, asking me to come dance with them?? Yes, he was indeed. And from that one moment, the young Aida Blue was born.

Stories from my years traveling and performing with the gypsies are vast, and not intended for today's writing, except to mention my tutelage in reference to the drum jams. Now that I had joined the Gypsy Camp, I was a part of the REAL magic of the jam - not the huge circle that took place for a half-hour as the faire closed each day, but the small circle of our family, that would jam around a fire deep into countless moonlit nights.

From the drummers, I was taught rhythms, naturally. I learned to tell the difference between (and the names for) rhythms and instruments from Africa, the Middle East, Latin countries and beyond. I also quickly noticed the hierarchy of the drummers; there was an unspoken acknowledgment and respect given to the masters. While the novices would often set the early pace, the masters would control its flow and direction. Anyone was allowed to solo, but if a master was playing, the space was always reserved for him to embellish and color the overall tone when he chose to. There was also respect for the instruments - one would never play or touch another's drum or instrument without asking first - and if you were in the know, you understood that there were certain times and certain instruments which you would never even ask to play. You were expected to know what was sacred, and if you did, you were more highly respected and honored in the circle.

Lastly, and most importantly, I came to understand the very mystical and transcendent relationship between drummer and dancer. Many people jump into a circle to play or dance of their own accord, for the liberating expression of the moment. I came to understand the circle on a deeper level. When I would set to dance, with my bare feet pounding ground beneath me, feeling out the rocks and bumps and getting my balance, I would make my connection with the drummers. This could be done by meeting eyes, smiling, a nod of the head. It is a form of offering my gratitude for their skill and acknowledging that I am allowing their rhythms to move through me, to open me, and to act as a conduit for the energy they are manifesting. From that point, it would begin.

It has been many, many years of dancing on stage in 5-inch heels, quite removed from my earthy upbringing. As I listened to the drums yesterday, I recalled my days as a drum jam dancer. I remembered that I danced hard, and fast, and that my legs and overall strength and energy rarely seemed to tax me - I could go on and on for hours in my youth. I would make my way around the circle, from drummer to drummer, listening keenly and locking in when I could: I would hear a tone or rhythm which moved me, would make the gesture of acknowledgment, and would begin the intimate dance with the drummer. There could be a dozen other players around, but in that moment, between us, there would be a conscious connection: my body moving and his hands to the skin of the drum, and an adventure would unfold.

Some drummers would make me move fast and hard. Others, slow and fluid, incorporating sensual arms and expression into my movement. We would be raising energy from within our own bodies and expressing it outwards, into the air and back down through the earth. Sounds a lot like sex in a way, and I can tell you, the pleasure and joy is also similar. As is the feeling of inner power it would create within me. Certainly, as a woman, I have wielded my sexual powers over the years, knowing how to use and play with it to enchant men. Dancing for the drummers is much the same. I understood that my energy and freedom of inhibition would "turn them on," so to speak, which is really to say that it would keep their energy up and heightened, and the drums could keep raging through the night. I played with them, knowingly, flirting through my movement, seducing with my eyes. In the words of Miss Ricki Lee Jones: "When I was young, oh! I was a wild, wild one!"

It will be 20 years this summer since I was first initiated into the Gypsy Camp, "Suliman's Silly Surfing Sufi Circus," and the life-altering experiences subsequent to it. Even more than two decades of drums and fires and bare feet. A long-ass time of what my Dad would always call my "woo-woo."

A long-ass time since I've really danced in a circle, since I've made that connection, and since I've been that conduit. Until yesterday. In a moment, the feeling washed over me, and I was taking off my shoes. I stepped into the jam, trying to find my feet, my place, my rhythm. It took a little time. It took letting go of my own judgments of so many circles of the past ten years. It took releasing some inhibitions. It took a deep breath, opening myself to the moment - another beautiful moment in an endlessly perfect day - and it took the connection: I slowly turned myself to give the eye, the smile, the nod to the novice and master drummers surrounding me, and to receive their acknowledgment in return. With that ancient gesture, my feet instinctively took over, and knew exactly what to do. They made their prayer upon the earth for May Day. For Spring and Summer. For the Sun. For the World.

And I, Aida Blue, became the conduit for it all. Energy streamed through me. I emptied my mind, and simply flowed to the beat. I would close my eyes and hear my own heart. I would open them, and see brilliant, smiling faces beaming their own joy, their gratitude, their connection to this magic. I had transported place and time, like magicians are able to do, and was One.

I cannot imagine a better way to have celebrated May Day, and all it stands for. I cannot imagine a more direct link to Spirit, and to earth. I cannot express my joy and gratitude for the entire day, but especially for the drum jam, for the awakening of my feet, for the primal connections we all shared. I am a lucky, lucky, blessed woman.

I'm filled with eager anticipation for the season ahead... I'll see you there, by the fires... praying with my feet.