Merry May!

Monday we danced at our first May Morning as members of Seabright Morris. We started by the westside lighthouse around 6:00 am, which is to say, we slept at least an hour later than we would have on the east coast. The sun rises later because we are both five degrees of latitude farther south and more westerly within our time zone.

We danced in a closed parking lot on the inland side of the lighthouse, a disconcerting distance from the shore for a newbie Californian; when I see the ocean, I naturally gravitate toward it. We danced continuously until we could see the sun, three consecutive dances as it was behind mountains and then clouds for a few minutes after official sunrise. Good thing this is not the custom in Boston, where we sometimes don’t see the sun even by May Afternoon.

Nine of us ate breakfast downtown, then skirted the UCSC Mayday protest line to dance at the Waldorf School. Fifteen third graders donned bells and performed a lovely dance, ending with a “man down” who was revived by a maiden’s kiss, leading to a “team down,” to the chagrin of the maiden, who was selected from the audience. Kudos to the teacher and devisor, who is clearly fluent in this tradition.

Our last stand was outside the Bookshop Santa Cruz, a common stop for us; uncommonly, my husband and I didn’t buy anything. We engaged a few folks on the sidewalk there, including a Brit who seemed resigned to encountering Morris dancers so far from Devon. We finished with a crowd favorite, Parameter Setting, in which we use keyboards instead of sticks, necessitating a cleanup afterward.

This was a lovely, fun day with friends, yet notably different from the Boston version. Our first stand had twelve attendees, including the team, rather than 200. There was no English dancing, no Maypole, and no real singing, though my husband and I brought songbooks and managed to drag one song out of the group. I very much enjoyed the company and the dancing, but I keenly felt the lack of the preponderance of the traditions of the day.

I often find myself thinking about having two decades or so of life left–an arbitrary number, but certainly not implausible. For me it’s not the “bucket list,” it’s the experiences. Twenty more May Mornings. How shall I spend them?