By Morgan Hannah, Life & Style Editor
Outside the car window, bodies reached new energies as they tore across an asphalt stage; no music but the humming of engines, crashing of waves against the pier, and the slapping of skin against steel. Gleaming with sweat, those bodies moved in a frantic, fervent rhythm, beads and bangles dancing up and down arms with each motion. Teeth flashing, eyes wide. Gooseflesh on sunbaked skin. Sensation.
Giddy with a need to join them, a scream erupted from me before the car door even opened. I needed this—we had slept in the desert, we had climbed through the earth, we had even driven at breakneck speed just to taste the wind on our tongues out the window.
Stretching limbs, flowing fingers, sweeping hair, and I had been spotted amongst the crowd. I approached the leader of this new tribe as he called to me. He wanted me to battle-cry. He must have sampled the capacity of my lungs earlier—all that pent-up time on the road, and all those jitters—those sparks of life, now out to play. My body was free, given a chance to explode with movement. Pulling, twisting, peeling through me, another scream rolled out and across the waves of bodies, dipping, shaking, and sliding. They cheered. Yes, we were now dancing.
We praised the gift of these glorious shells—how they move, how they bend, and how they attract and connect with those of their tribe. We are all the same, and we are dancing.