Everyone Is Dancing the Willow Dance

I've always wanted to visit Greece. It's one of those desires that I cannot remember forming - a desire as innate and instinctual as those for friendship or food- though in my life the wish to visit Greece has been a more constant yearning than my desires for either of those. One Greek folk song I listen to when especially craving that country is "Everyone Is Dancing the Willow Dance," a lilting melody involving pipes (of the wind and wood variety). It at once restokes and controls the fire, assuring me that it won't go out, that one day my goose will be cooked - but while making me miss that place I've never visited, the fire sparks and pops with promise. It inspires me to greater appreciation and hope and pledges to me that my appreciation won't be for granted, nor my hope unfulfilled. Everyone is dancing the willow dance, and soon I will be too.
Today, I made an English mistake, for reasons which remain enigmatic. I felt so foolish. Rather than saying "she and her friends," I said "her and her friends." How ghetto. How crass. How revoltingly improper. But then again, why do I care about these abstract rules? Well, I suppose I care because if they were thrown out of the window, the window would be broken and the crowds beneath the window harmed. And those crowds would be Babel-esque in their inability to communicate - the window would not be fixed and the crowds would remain injured. So I suppose, with a straw-man argument of sorts, that is why I cared.
And now the Christmas lights are up and it is December 1st and there is snow on the ground. Life is good. I don't feel like I've swallowed some CLR or something. Ack. Calcium. Lime. Rust. That cleaner is abrasive, basic, horrible in corporeal systems. I feel like I've swallowed snow. It's a good snow: light, airy, but cold enough to keep me grounded. It nuances the scene of a willow tree, around which people are dancing. There's a fire in the snow, smoke conglomorating in a halo around the circle of dancers. The willow branches are gracing their tips in smoke: a concentric scene. Circle upon circle. The fire ring and willow trunk are the center, around which Greeks dance, around which smoke curls just above the heads of the dancers, and above which stands the willow tree, pieced branches seeming to stem from both trunk and smoke. Everyone's dancing that willow dance - at least everyone who counts. I'll be dancing it soon. I'll be with them. Or maybe I'll dance my own willow dance. In Greece of course. "She and her friends" are dancing the willow dance. Am I the "she?" Am I one of "her friends?" Are they dancing the same willow dance I want to?