Like most small towns in America, summer brings a festival. (I know we are several weeks off from summer, but it never hurts to anticipate.) A weekend of festivity, gastronomic adventure and community identity. On Vashon Island we celebrate the Strawberry Festival. A long time ago, there were strawberry fields on our island. No more. But the festival name persists. (I think in large part because those enormous banners are very expensive to replace.)

 

On festival weekend, Saturday night is dance night. We're a one-horse, one-street town. So our main street is shut down, and becomes our dance floor under dusk light that lingers until well past ten.

At 7 pm, the Portage Fill-Harmonic fills the night air with big band swing music. The musicians are all islanders who play for the love of music. We know them as our neighbors, carrying out their daily jobs, but on this night, it is their avocation, which takes center stage. The cares of the world drift into the sky on the wings of the music.

At 9 pm, we shift gears, and the mood gives way to Great Divide and old-time Rock and Roll (for the uninitiated, this is music which predates 1973).

And everybody dances.

Five years ago, my son Zach--aged 10--stirred by the music, charged to the front of the pack, near the stage. And he began to... well, I'm not sure what to call what he began to do. It was a combination of jujitsu and tai chi and Saturday Night Fever. All fueled by sheer and unabashed delight.

 

Other dancers began to make room for this enthusiastic young artiste. And his presence was known. People near me--as I stood near the back of the crowd--began to point and laugh, out of solidarity I suppose, but even so, I could feel my heart skip a beat.

"Look at that kid," they said. (Actually, since this is a small island, they said, "Look at Terry's kid.")

 

I took a step forward. I confess to you that my knee jerk response was to go toward the stage, in order to rescue or protect my son.

Rescue from what, I wonder? From fear or embarrassment or awkwardness or shame?  Is public opinion that severe?

"What will they think?" swirls, a question still ingrained from my childhood.

Did I fear that others would consider his spectacle extravagant and unrestrained? (Lord knows I'd hate to have a group uncomfortable on my account, just because I was delighted.)

 

We all wrestle with some internal governor prescribing some need for moderation or temperance, which translates, "it's time to put the kibosh on all manner of joy or ecstasy or elation or God forbid, wholeheartedness."

 

Here's the deal: When we give way to such a shackling measure, we put a lid on our passion and our spirit, and we short-circuit the bounty and generosity that would spill from our heart.

 

This all begs the question: What is the reason we internalize this script, and how does it procure its power?

In other words... why, oh why, do we allow ourselves to live so small?

 

Gladly, on that Saturday night, I did not take a second step.

Instead, I took a step back.

Because I realized that what I felt was not shame.

It was not chagrin.

No. What I felt, was pride. My son experiencing and touching and relishing what I too desired. I recognized that there will be many experiences in his life that will dampen or quench that spirit, and I don't want to be one of them.

Through my tears, I watched him dance.

After two songs he raced back to us, animated, "Mom and Dad, did you see that? Wasn't I great?"

"Yes, indeed, son. You were great."

At some point every single one of us is connected to a life source, or life force--a grounded place of ecstasy, joy and hope. And it wells up and spills out to all around us.

 

Before we get ahead of ourselves, it helps to remember that this isn't something you learn or add or acquire. Unabashed joy is already inside. It springs from within. It is a well of abundance that you draw from.  

"This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine."

 

So. Have you taken to the dance floor lately?

I wonder... What are the ways we cover the light that is within?

Let's turn that question on its head, shall we? What bounty can we tap into? What well can we draw from?

 

I tell this story now because it captures the events of my past week.

On March 3rd, I walked the Selma bridge to commemorate Bloody Sunday. To commemorate courageous and spirited individuals who were willing to say that this life-force of joy and hope and justice and reconciliation is available to all. 

These marchers were told, "Not now. Don't rock the boat now." Public opinion rears its ugly head again... and thankfully those who marched or sang or danced or sat, did not listen.  

John Lewis, Ralph Abernathy, ED Nixon... Rosa Parks.      

 

And I spent this past week with Principals--from the schools of the Diocese of Fresno, men and women working hard to create environments where children blossom and question and flourish and push boundaries.

 

Last night on Vashon, a concert of our local Free Range Folk Choir--music from around the world, including music from South Africa. The story is told about the tactics police would use to dissuade any "protest" gatherings during Apartheid. What the police couldn't stop, was church, where South Africans worshiped and sang. And at some point during church, the members would stand, singing, and walk out of the church. When confronted by the police, they responded, "But we're not protesting, we're singing."

 

I witnessed this life force for good, for meaning, for compassion, for celebration, for justice... alive and well in Montgomery. And in Fresno. And on Vashon.  

And I witnessed it in a 10-year-old, dancing his heart out. 

 

When we don't play small...

We honor the heart.

We savor the miracles in ordinary moments.

We right wrongs.

We let joy ring out. 

We nurture hope.

 

Let freedom ring.

Let dancers dance.

Let hope live.