You are at the winery for a performance including flamenco dancing and poetry. An older man with a strong, deep voice reads poems of Fredrico Garcia Lorca mixed in with some of his own work inspired by his years of living in Spain, some of them while the dictator Franco still ruled. He recites Lorca’s verses in Spanish and repeats them in English. His own are in English. All are drenched with the love of freedom, of earth, sun and wind. There is a guitarist playing classical and flamenco music. He plays intermittently during the readings and more boldly when the dancer steps up, a woman dressed in a long red dress trimmed with black lace. She wears black, large-heeled shoes for creating her own music against the wooden platform. She is passionate and attractive. She too recites poetry during her dance, all of it in Spanish, all of it from the hand and heart of Lorca. It is late afternoon and children are playing under a sky darkened with summer clouds. There is thunder in the distance. You are surrounded by hills, one of which is adorned with two wooden crosses leaning precariously atop the razor-like summit. Grapes are planted nearby. You are drinking wine made here. You are with a few friends.
It is quite a day: wild, spacious and passionate. You feel a thirst. It is both a wanting and a having. It is boundless and undefined. It is more real than a thing or the wanting of a thing. It is simply a thirst. There is no fear, no thoughts, no meaning, at least not yet, but when you do come back to yourself, you feel an empty place within, not like that boundless thirst but an aching and a need. Will it be satisfied and filled one day? How or who? When? You think of a lost lover. You are grateful but lament anyway. Life has changed. The thirst is not the same nor is the drink as deep. Is it age? Have you been hurt? Have there been too many attempts at things and relationships that you tried fooling yourself about? And it is hard not to wonder if you had never known the kind of love that satisfied that deep ache for a while, would you feel this way now? You think, “ I need to find what I need within myself, not out there, not with another.” It is a thought. You know it is a good thought, but today something has opened and thoughts seem irrelevant at best and a distraction the rest of the time.
The poet reads, his voice sounds like the heels of the flamenco dancer against the wooden floor, strong and decisive. Then he evokes the defiance, fear and anger of a bull facing a matador. Late he takes you into the Pyrenees Mountains as a refugee from political oppression. People die. There are people who are like the bull, looking at their oppressors unflinching until the last of their blood flows out, who say, “ I am here. You may take my life but not my thirst.” You become the poet and the musician singing of these tales and hopes and they become firm beneath your feet. You stand on them. You see death as one color of many. You are beyond fear once more. You love the color of the sky, the touch of a lover, the taste of wine, the dark earth and the smell of rain. You feast.
She, the dancer, spins and taps. She is tall and her facial features are as sharp as her figure is full. She reaches out, then up, her arms twist around each other and she spins and stomps and looks beyond you to the hills and the vines, the river and sky, and she recites poetry in what may be the most beautiful language you know of. You know some words, but not enough to worry about meaning. Unburdened of meaning you are free to listen to the sounds of words, to her voice and feeling, and it is good. The guitarist watches her; she looks at him; they do this for you.
You are grateful for being thirsty. You are grateful for those you have loved. You are glad there are young people who bear and raise children, who dream of what life can be and have the strength and time to build, and farm and create. There is redemption and healing for you and the world. You remember how little you know of your own future, or for that matter, of the present. Is your thirst a remnant of the past or a seed waiting its season? You don’t stay with this- it is too confusing, and it is a good day to drink wine with friends and enjoy the poetry, music, and dance. You see life as a deep dark well. We drink of it. We thirst for its water. Thirst and water, they are like dance and music: there is no negation, no satisfaction at an ending. They commingle in their yearning like the arms that reach and twist and spin round and round. Thirst is the beginning and end. Together there is fullness. We dip our cups and drink deeply. We have friends. We are not alone. Friends that sit with you and drink with you and want you to have your fill even if it cannot be so, for thirst drives life down to the smallest of our cells. There will always be an empty space and there will always be a well to drink of.
They have finished. The dancer relaxes and looks around her. You and others applaud. You drink and talk with your friends. You feel good.
