Last night I tucked my daughter into bed,

with a story near and dear,

to our family and our culture,

passed down from year to year...

When I was little,

my grandma would dance.

She stomped her feet around the fire,

and waved around her hands.

On tribe land she was born,

and raised a Cherokee girl.

So it was in her blood

to love to spin and twirl.

Dancing was a way of life,

to celebrate, pray, and heal.

She danced when she became a wife,

and to show thanks for every meal.

She passed along tradition,

and taught the dances to my mother.

She learned the Sun Dance and Rain Dance,

as well as many others.

Along with the dances and tradition,

my grandma passed along,

special dancing shoes, that knew

the rhythm of every song.

My mother danced her heart out.

She fell in loving with the drumming beat.

She felt the rhythm and the spirit,

from her head down to her feet.

She danced, and danced, and danced

some more.

Listening to her special dancing shoes,

tapping on the floor.

And then when I was your age,

to nobody's surprise,

she passed the dancing shoes to me

with memories in her eyes.