The other day I was part of an unexpected pagan ritual. Luckily there haven’t been any recent stake-burnings, but with current trends who knows how much longer one can get away with such lavishly earthly delights. It’s not everyday one takes the time to say goodbye to the sun with a group of humans to the beat of drums. But that’s just what I did.
Funny too that it was the last official day of summer--if you’re a Venice High School student anyways. (And where else but Venice beach could one bare witness and be part of such a cultist experience). The boardwalk was empty of the common tourists hordes since it was a Tuesday evening. Mario, the boyfriend of my long time friend Cheri, always manages to attract the most unexpected and socially unconventional characters. Somehow he stumbled upon a hippie while on a five-minute jog who invited us to witness the sunset and help make a drum circle, well, more round. The invitation was taken with a grain of salt as we went on about our own selfish adventures. Yet somehow we found ourselves right where we needed to be as the sun prepared to set. The drums must have lured us in the right direction but I can’t remember hearing them.
As we came upon the grassy knoll where the ritual was taking place I became very uneasy. Three different drummers played along with one another, all facing the sun while an amoeba-shaped group of maybe ten people spread around. A dark sister with long, thick braids held her hands above her head, tempting glances to her naval as she thrusted her gold belly chains back and forth. An unshaven, tan young man in cut-off jean shorts twirled a gymnastic-like ribbon-stick in circles and waves from atop a hill of grass as he interpreted the drums with his whole body. His ribbon and fancy footwork intoxicated a blonde who would every now and then concede to her obvious urges to dance too.
As I followed Cheri and Mario deeper into this circle of strangeness I thought to myself, “These people are crazy! They must all be on drugs!” I felt like I was going to be judged similarly by others as they passed. I begrudgingly sat down in the chosen spot, two feet from ribbon boy and his off beat twists and turns. Honestly, I wanted to move. But I was facing the sun, I told myself, I could focus on that instead of all these weirdoes. I am not yet a sufficient writer to paint the picture, but the colors splashed across the sky were fantastic. As the sun sank, the drums pounded louder, faster, aligning with the deepening yellows and oranges. The voice of a drummer in swaths of neutral cottons and headress started chanting, repeating over and over again the simple name, “Sun… Sun… Sun...”
It was infectious, gained voices, became the mantra. A man who looked in his thirties, wearing an old LA Raiders baseball cap from which escaped chunks of dirty blonde hair, kept looking in our direction as he delicately hopped on the grass. As the aura of the Santa Monica Mountains turned to reds and purples the ribbon waved faster and the dancers danced harder. A man with a half-blue painted face rolled up on his skates and stayed, maybe feeling a little more at home. As the music and chants and colors intensified others who had been waiting, doubted, and avoided the strange event moved closer. Some let the words and music move them. The sun was halfway gone and everyone who was within earshot could feel the fleeting light and quickening tempo sounding it’s departure.
It’s not something I normally do, the sun is always there, goes down every day, comes up every morning...but this moment shook me from that routine. This was the sun, powerful amazing warm, life-giving sun. It was leaving us, gave us our daily bread and I had been taking it for granted—until now. What if it wasn’t coming up again? What if this was my last chance to say goodbye? I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who realized. We were rhythmically carrying it away. We were it’s human protectors, appreciators of the life-force, callers of it’s morning rises and singers of the farewell praises. I became lost in a beautiful fantasy. My lips opened and I too was whispering.
“Sun... Sun… Sun…”
I now was one of these crazy people.
Even a Latino family picnicking near the ruckus joined in, shouting appropriate noises and screams in tempo. A tiny mustachioed man with a cowboy hat produced a bell and the chiming seemed right on queue. I spoke to the sun under the noise around me. Secrets.
Only a sliver of sunshine was left now and we could all feel it would be over soon. We shouted to it, sang, and whispered goodbyes as it disappeared behind the shadows of the Santa Monica Mountains until every sparkle went out.
An outline of the crescent moon hung over the ocean, begging for the same attention as the horizon darkened and the drums faded.
Considering the 10 hours a day I invest trying to pay bills, following the path of the dollar, 10 minutes following the path of the sun was nothing really. But for some reason I was sad to see it go. These are the last days of summer. I am not so good at saying goodbye. The irony is that I notice the metaphors of natural phenomenon too late. My brother asks me why I am the way I am. Why I use such an inefficient gauge, emotion, to direct my course of life, my actions, my reactions, etc. I will tell him next time, even though I had a hard time saying goodbye to the sun this day it doesn’t mean it’s rays haven’t stained a glow upon my skin.
