Twerking on God's Great Dancefloor: The Glen Day Seven

This final day of the Glen Workshop, there are so many things I could say. I could document my early morning walk. My rising with the sun to traverse the Atilayah trail, distracted by beauty at every step. My sad realization of workshop time winding away. The beautiful songs our groups wrote and performed. The parting words of wisdom from Over the Rhine

I could recall that final trip to Santa Fe. The run to the souvenir shop. The installation art at Site Santa Fe. The feeling of youthful pride, being denied a beer when I forget my ID. Just-barely-making-it-back after missing the day's last bus.

I could reflect on Richard Rohr's final words, or the impartation of blessing during the anointing service. How each artist pulls meaning from the oil and the hands and the cross. How I wait my turn and watch Barry Moser in my periphery, knowing from his own story how he values this ritual.

I could gush at Over The Rhine's intimate parting performance or brag up my front row seats. I could sit in those final moonlit moments on the walking path back to my room, knowing that I could never say to these new friends all I want to say. Wondering if and when I may see them again.  

I don't want to spend this final Glen Workshop post on any of those happenings. I want to shine a light on the experience that outshines them all. The Saturday night dance party sits atop the rubble of my memory, more than a week later.

To tell you what it is like to dance with middle-aged artists–moving to music I don't let my kids hear–is not nearly enough. I took no pictures. So, I will leave the task to that most expansive of forms. I will end this series with a poem.

Wrestling With my Body

Top 40 guilty pleasures 
are the soundrack of this final 

Stars pale 
against mirrorball refractions
upon the heads of holy poets
limb-loose and chainless

We are all learning
there is nothing but the dance

First the toe tap dip
into deep then dive
Wet and salted
We are
fish in the school of joy
Bodies flopping thirsty
scales opalescent in moonlight

One song fades 
to prayers
for another
that comes
like a torrent of grace
Boom, boom, bop, boom

We sing past lyrics
Past pasts and futures
Here and now
to the beat of

When poets chant pop
is there a room on earth smiling with more teeth?

I don't have 99 problems
I don't rob banks
I don't like big butts
and God knows
I am no wrecking ball
but there are truths beyond these lies

At these wild edges
I wrestle with my body and
the sight of
my sanctified sister
twerking on God's great dancefloor

Oh! Witness
what we make sacred by our love!

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