I seem to be with the rhythm of dancing feet this morning, with the image of the feet of Native Americans tapping and meeting the ground. Yesterday three year old Zach would pause periodically and look intently into my eyes and I would respond by looking into his. I thought of the gorillas and how they sit and look into each others eyes, and what it means to look, just look and receive another in such a personal and intense way. Zack always says his eyes and mine are blue and white. He acquaints me with the sails, the petals, that support and augment the rich circled root.
Here is a poem by Robinson Jeffers.
NEW MEXICO MOUNTAIN
I watch the Indians dancing to help the young corn at Taos Pueblo. The
old men squat in a ring
And make the song, the young women with fat bare arms, and a few
shame-faced young men, shuffle the dance.
The lean-muscled young men are naked to the narrow loins, their breasts
and backs daubed with white clay.
Two eagle-feathers plume the black heads. They dance with reluctance, they
are growing civilized; the old men persuade them.
Only the drum is confident, it thinks the world has not changed; the
beating heart, the simplest of rhythms,
It thinks the world has not changed at all; it is only a dreamer, a brainless
heart, the drum has no eyes.
These tourists have eyes, the hundred watching the dance, white Americans,
hungrily, too, with reverence, not laughter;
Pilgrims from civilization, anxiously seeking beauty, religion, poetry;
pilgrims from the vacuum.
People from cities, anxious to be human again. Poor show how they suck
you empty! The Indians are emptied,
And certainly there was never religion enough, nor beauty nor poetry here
..... to fill Americans.
Only the drum is confident, it thinks the world has not changed,
Apparently only myself and the strong
Tribal drum, and the rock-head of Taos mountain, remember that
civilization is a transient sickness.
- Robinson Jeffers