Gumboot dance

Watching the world news (and in conversation with readers and people who have attended my workshops and retreats), I notice that heaviness and uncertainty pervades our conversations. We can’t help but feel it. And we are easily given to fear. So . . . how does Pause make a difference in this uncertain world in which we live?

A few months ago, on an unseasonably cool spring night — after a week when our island-garden-planting has been put on hold — the Red Bike Restaurant (one of our island’s hangouts) is packed with patrons, for a local fundraiser auctioning creative and bizarrely decorated Wellies. Here in the Pacific Northwest, Wellington boots are considered formal wear.

I expected good island entertainment.
I did not expect to have my heart tugged.
Sporting their Wellies, a group of island fourth graders brought the house down with a Gumboot Dance.

Fourth graders as storytellers. This is as it should be. You see, a long time ago, the Gumboot Dance was born, deep in the gold mines of South Africa. There, under the weight of an unjust and oppressive migrant labor system, workers lived as little more than slaves. Each morning the men were taken in chains, down into the mines and shackled at their workstations — facing long, hard, repetitive labor — in almost total darkness. Talking was forbidden.

This is not a story for the faint of heart, for physical abuse was common, and over the years, hundreds of workers were killed in “accidents.” Sadly, it continues, in part, to this day.  The floors of the dark mines were often flooded, with poor or non-existent drainage, leaving the miners knee-deep in infected waters, resulting in skin ulcers, foot problems, and consequent lost work time. Instead of draining the mine (costly), the mine owners provided each worker with gumboots (Wellington boots). This created what became the miners uniform, consisting of heavy black Wellington boots, jeans, bare chest (due to stifling heat), and bandannas to absorb eye-stinging sweat.

Gumboot dancing was born out of adversity, and blood and sweat and tears. Though forbidden to speak, by slapping their gumboots and rattling their ankle chains, the enslaved workers sent messages to each other in the darkness, creating a means of connection and communication — essentially their own unique form of Morse Code.

Can you imagine what that must have sounded like?
In the rattling of chains and the slapping of rubber boots, is born the music of hope.
The music of angels.
And support. And freedom. And Grace.

Their communication evolved into a sort of entertainment, and the miners developed their percussive sounds and movements into a unique dance form — sung in Xhosa, Sothu or Zulu — which they used to entertain one other during their free time.

I do not even pretend to comprehend the miner’s suffering.
However, I can learn from them.

I do know this: life stretches us all. Sometimes to the breaking point. Life is difficult, and sometimes, unjust. In recent blogs I have talked about anxiety in my own life and about current uncertainty.

Here’s the deal: watching fourth graders, I came to the realization that in the midst of uncertainty, it’s time to pause. And then put on your Wellies, and do a dance.

I learn two important lessons from the miners.

1. You never know the impact of a simple gesture. You have no idea the power of compassion and camaraderie that will allow us to not only get through, but to thrive.

2. In the words of William Kittridge, We need stories that tell us the reason why compassion and the humane treatment of our fellows is more important — and interesting — than feathering our own nests as we go on accumulating property and power.

The Gumboot Dance is about telling a story. To help us remember. It is reminiscent of an Old Testament tradition. When the People of Israel wandered the desert and began to lose their way or find their morale flagging, they would build an Ebenezer, a 12 stone altar, one for each tribe. And then, around the altar, they would tell stories.

For the miners, their music became their story,
their source of strength.
I see chains. They hear music.
I see injustice. They see an opportunity to dance.
I see suffering. They see the light of grace.

This is not a matter of positive thinking or denial or extraordinary faith. It is about embracing the sacrament of the present moment.

I once spoke to my friend, an old squirrel,
about the Sacraments —
he got so excited
and ran into a hollow in his tree and came
back holding some acorns, an owl feather
and a ribbon he found.
And I just smiled and said, “Yes, dear,
you understand
everything imparts
His grace.
St. Francis of Assisi

There is no doubt that we tend to over-think courage. Or compassion. Or resiliency. Or pausing. As if we can create a box or acceptable container. As if it is a task. You know, “tell me what they had, and let’s duplicate it.”

There is no doubt that our circumstances — or the hurriedness and stress of life — can drown or overwhelm the music. When we look for what should be, we miss the music in the disorder of what is. When we expect or demand explanation, we miss the miracle that happens in ordinary gumboot dancing.

Okay. You want a list?

Sometime today, share a kind word.
Sometime today, tell someone you love them.
And . . .sometime today, do a dance.
Slap out a message on your Wellies. It’ll do your heart good.
And unleash love into the world around you, a world that desperately needs it.
Who knows, you may even make a difference in someone’s life today.

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