Music in the Night

Generally, as I lie in my bed, the gentle breeze from the mountain cools the heat of the day. The murmer of the little river across the street is my lullaby as it tenderly tickles the rocks that cradle it in. Tonight is different however. Tonight I cannot hear the little river. Tonight the roaring of traditional Macedonian music bellows into my room like smoke pours out of a room devastated by flames. It would seem the vastness outside my window is not enough for the percussive melodies of the drum and the harmonies of the gaida and clarinet type instruments. No, they must escape to my room and fill my dreams. I will dream that I am not lying in my bedroom, alone and sleepy. I am below, where the music is. Vish! Look! It is not only the drunk old dyados from my mahala! The whole mahala is out. We horo and for once, I know all of the steps. When I miss-step, my neighbors giggle and sqeeze my hands. When the music stops we drink ice cold water and rakia. But we are not allowed to rest. the rhythm of the drum starts my feet again. Slowly the pounding increases in volume and intensity, frequency. Our feet move in such harmony- this ground has been stomped on in this same pattern for thousands of years. Before the communists, before the Turks, before Byzantium, before Christ, this ground was sacred. Here we danced. Here we will dance for years to come. This is Bulgaria, the rhythm, the melody, the harmony, the steps, the tradition.