Sometimes I feel my ancestors in me as I meditate. Their, joys, and the struggle. The dust some of them had to lick for sheer lack of substience, sometimes I can taste it. Their cries of joy and laughter, and of pain. The tears that rained downed and stained the ground. Their bodies as they were buried in that ground, and then brought up new life from that ground.The hunger, spiritual and physical. The deja vu feelings I get when I hear  Native american and African songs, they bring a sense of familiar knowingness and warmth thats hard to explain. When I walk this earth, this dirt, the same dirt and earth they dug their hands in to plant seed, the same dirt they traversed, danced, lived, ran, got married, died and cried on, I feel a oneness, a strange connection of sorts. As I wonder what THEY must have been thinking as they walked these same patches of earth, the same earth they were at one with, as they danced around the fire, ate and drank in celebration of life. Life does indeed go in circles as I, one of their offspring, makes my way in this world as they once did. In a way I celebrate the memory of such ones.Their music is indeed MY music, as intristic and moving as it was when it was first formed in their minds and hearts. It moves my soul as I feel the rhythm of the beat, the heart beat of my ancestors.