The Broom Dance: Ceremony - Pt. 2

The Broom Dance: Ceremony - Pt. 2

Not long ago,
I prayed for a ceremony,
for drums and pipes,
for meaning to find me
and wrap me like a shawl,
to warm my soul,
to gently place leather moccasins
around my feet, and lead me to the gathering,
to urge me to dance clockwise with others
who also felt the beat of drums in their chests.

Then I sat watching my little boy
at a Native American dancing demonstration
just days after my prayer.
He sat behind the rope staring intently,
his feet moving along with the drums,
as he studied the dancers
each donning feathers, shields, ceremonial garb. 
And as for the drums,
I couldn’t help but smile. 
My son felt the drums.

The announcer asked for volunteers,
and I sat watching my dark haired boy
walking around the arena,
through the eastern opening
into another life he’d never lived.
He danced the steps, and really felt the beat, 
and I was proud, so proud of him. 
Then it was time for the Broom Dance,
for men and women, mothers and sons,
to enter the arena. 

I almost didn’t go, me, the one who asked,
“Where was the ceremony?”
But as I sat there with my son
urging me to come, my father behind me
urging me to go,
I had only one choice.
I had to stand up for what I prayed for,
what my son needed,
for me to live and walk
what I wrote and dreamed.

You see, having my father there was another dream
and I felt my world circling back to a new beginning.
This moment, with my son and father,
all three of us hearing the drums within us,
this moment deserved a ceremony
and so we made it one.
I danced around the arena, shielding my son
from broom wielding dancers,
knowing he desperately wanted to be chosen
so he could go to the center.

So I shielded a little, but not too much, and he was touched.
My little man, on his seventh birthday,
eagerly ran to the center with the broom
and tagged another woman’s son. 
When it was over,
I watched his face light up
as the youngsters were invited
to remain for another dance. 
I took the seat beside my father,
and saw him smile as he watched his grandson.

Together, we witnessed another generation
eager to learn about the old ways.
We felt connected to each other,
and to these people with whom our souls,
if not our blood, are connected.
It was this moment that brought me wisdom. 
Ceremony isn’t a place or an event,
it is the celebration of our relationship
with our universe, and with each other.
We are all related.

SWPoet

Below is my revision of Ceremony (Pt. I) The main item was entered in a contest and cannot be revised yet.)

Ceremony

I feel ancestral drums
in my heartbeat,
and the wind sings in my ears
a sacred pipe song. 
My feet tap
to the rhythm of ceremonial dances. 
But where are the drums, the pipes, the ceremony?

Where is the ceremony
to show I have learned to see my creator
in the flowers
bursting through concrete,
to hear the music
of the winged ones
from the throat of an awkward child? 

I strain to hear the grandmothers
whisper soothing words
when impatience threatens my balance. 
I crave the words of the grandfathers,
to challenge me when I'm weak. 
But where have they gone,
the grandmothers, the grandfathers?

How do I celebrate the changes inside me
that allow forgiveness for myself
and my fellow man,
acceptance of the path for which I was created,
strength to encourage others in their journeys,
and the realization
that we are all related?

If hell is our separation from God,
what do you call the absence of ceremony,
the stillness of the wind,
the paralysis of dancing feet,
the silence of the drums,
or the noise that prevents us from hearing
the whispers of our ancestors?


SWPoet