I wander off from the spectacle to browse the pile of clothing in the clothes swap. The song wafting out from the meadow where the aerial rigging sways buoys my interest. The blonde girl-child deftly hoisting herself up the rope in time to the music. . . “Blue lips, blue veins, blue, the color of our planet from far, far away.” I stop in my tracks like a bird watcher off the beaten path, rewarded with a stolen glimpse of magnificence. Later, I spy the teen hanging back near the fence and summon up the courage to ask her her song. “Blue lips, by Regina Spektor”, she says, beguiling.
Fast forward. Rigging is coming down though the sun is still up. The girl-child’s mother appears and tells me that I know her child, though she has grown up out of my sight and transformed into the radiant being present today. I was brave in leaping across the divide to converse with what I thought was a stranger. It’s a testament of the power of music to dissolve boundaries, and compel us to approach a deity who ends up being a member of our tribe. “Blue, the most human, color….”