"The girls spun round and round and round the ice cream parlor, scarves in their hands, between their teeth, wrapped around their fingers like scarf rings. They did not dance madly, like Mehnaz from some Greek tragedy, but like muses: graceful and ready to inspire. The spark that lived in all of them rejoiced when they turned in circles, little whirling wild spirits, like junior priestesses of some undomesticated tribe. They went somewhere else as they spun, into a trance of dizziness, as if they were praying. It looked as if they were bad little girls acting like wild sprites, and some of the folks in the ice cream parlor thought them rude and uncouth, but that is only because these townspeople did not know about whirling dervishes and what happens when they dance and pray, pray and dance. They did not know that dance can become prayer, and prayer can become dance."
I'm so blessed to have some whirling dervishes in my life who draw me into the dance (especially one who loves to wear her cowboy boots with anything, including multi-colored striped tights):
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