Domestic Resurrection of the Guru

... so when I cast my mind back to that summer of ninteen thirty-six, there is one memory of that Lughnasa time that visits me most often. The air is nostalgic with the music and of the thirties... a mirage of sound- a dream music that is both heard and imagines and everybody seems to be floating on those sweet sounds, moving rhythmically, languorously, in complete isolation. When I remember it I think of it as dancing... dancing as if language had surrendered to movement- as if this ritual, this wordless ceremony was now the way to speak, to whisper private and sacred things, to be in touch with otherness. Dancing as if the very heart of life and all it's hopes might be found in those assuaging notes and those hushed rhythms, and in those silent hypnotic movements. Dancing as if language no longer existed because words were no longer necessary.