The aboriginal hum of the shaman hangs in the air. The drum begins to beat, its stretched leather reverberating into the hollow of my being. This morning my muse is a Maasai Warrior. His feet thud into the earthen clay below my own. He is dancing, with strength, yet ever so gracefully. Each move conjures spirits from the lifetimes beyond this consciousness. I watch as the ethereal rain lights up in the sky. The thunder strikes in rhythm with the chaos of the drums that make the air alive with ferocity. My heart beats faster, lightening dives into the earth, and my own feet begin to dance. Our bodies are covered with the luminous liquid of Father Sky. His back is bare, and each sinewy muscle is harmonizing under the moon light. My hair is slick and slaps against my shoulders as my body rises and falls with the throbbing of the drums. Legs are splattered with mud, as we thump out the tune of war. My body screams into the night! It is not rage that drives us, it is shear passion! The ground begins to shake in rapturous tremors with the roaring of the sky. And here we are, caught in this ravenous hunger, this wild and uninhibited vortex of raw being where the layer between the worlds is thinning…

But that was this morning…

I wonder what awaits me tonight.