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| Sara Fay Goldman |
For the past two Saturdays in the Miracle rehearsal room, Kelly Carlos, dancer and teacher, has been choreographing the cast of Raíz in a traditional Aztec dance to be featured in our production. Having been a spectator of such dances (at cultural events like corn festivals in the Southwestern U.S.) I was struck by the power of participating in such a ritual. The persistent beat of the drum and repetitive form had always hypnotized my uninitiated mind as a child, but the focus required to memorize the chapters as well as understand the significance of a narrative dance kept me well out of a blank trance. The results of my efforts were more like what eastern traditions refer to as walking meditation.
Whereas a seated meditator strives towards peace and focus by way of stripping away internal stimuli and disciplining the mind to remain on one theme, a walking (or dancing) meditator takes the opposite approach, warding off distraction by occupying the mind and body with organized and sometimes intense tasks. In this case, gathering with a group of supporters, stimulating the senses of hearing and sight, exhausting the muscles, and demanding continuously evolving attention to memory, body mechanics, and gratitude.
This is not to say that a spectator is barred from the profound experience of the dancer. Quite the contrary: the dance first demanded I fully invest my body and attention on the narrative because I was learning something new, but as Kelly pointed out, veteran dancers — whose leg and back muscles have developed even around this choreography — they may take wrong steps because they know the dance too well, and slip into muscle memory. Our choreographer advises us to ward off distraction by investing in the significance of the dance. These are not to be appreciated as abstract forms but cultural narratives. In the hope that the reader will participate in our Day of the Dead festival more fully with some of this knowledge, we share with you here symbolic meaning of the steps which comprise our dance for Raíz; the dance of the earth.
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The first section, punctuated by a break in the drumming and a pause from the dancers, is a ritualistic request for permission from the earth to dance on her surface. You can see the dancers appealing to the earth in four cardinal directions first with the right foot, then caressing the earth softly six times with the left, and then pointing to the cardinal directions again with the left. The request for permission as well as the dance culminate in kneeling poses: gratitude from the women and power from the men, in the form of a raised bow.
The dance that follows consists of a base, like a chorus, alternating with different verses, or flowers, each repeated twice. All together, the pieces of the dance describe different stages in cycle of the earth's power, depicted by a serpent.
In the base, dancers take up gestures of a warrior, miming holding a shield and weapon. The strong stomps serve to raise heat and energy in the circle.
The first flower features hopping forward and back in a gesture of thanks, often indicated by a soft arm, raised palm-up.
The second flower depicts the earth as a life-giving source of water, shown in cupped hands raised from the earth to the sky.
The third flower mimics the second but the hands follow the path of a serpent, the embodiment and path of earth's energy, further generating heat and energy in the circle.
The fourth flower spins the heat created by the group, and you may hear yells from the dancers sharing the energy they've generated with each other.
The fifth flower depicts a clay pot used to hold burning embers, fire being the result of generating energy.
The sixth flower depicts birth, the consequence of concentrating energy.
The seventh flower is another reminder of the serpent, this time drawn by the path of the feet, and offers it thanks.
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