The skin of my drum by evening light

I’m not a musical virtuoso. I never have been. The path between my brain and my hands can run a bit long. I’ve tried the piano and the trumpet and abandoned both. But even as my 40th birthday rolled around, the desire to BE a musician (regardless of the desire to do what it takes) has never gone away. Sure, I can sing. Possibly better than most, given the right song. But my hands have always wanted a piece of the action. And they’ve always wanted to the be the beggar who gets to choose.

Late last year, the yoga studio where I learn (The Blue Anjou) hosted it’s first drum circle. I’d never been to one and had no idea what to expect, and was a little apprehensive that I’d just get there and sort of stand around trying to look more comfortable than I felt. Despite having two kids, I wasn’t able to find any of the percussion instruments that we’ve played with over time – at least not any that weren’t made out of cardboard. I was reminded of a part I had in a school musical in 5th or 6th grade. I was supposed to be a sailor. I don’t remember how much advance notice my mom had, but I find myself wondering how, even under ideal conditions, is a housewife in Springdale, Arkansas supposed to come up with a convincing sailor’s uniform? Army, we’d have had covered. But Navy? In Northwest Arkansas? I remember being handed a beret and a dark, long-sleeve shirt with a silvery chevron and star across the chest. Exasperated, and facing God-only-knows what other parenting challenges from my me and my sisters, my mom said in answer to my confused expression, “There. It’s a French sailor costume.” I cried. Even though I was a bit to old to cry over something like this. (By show time, my Godsend of a mother did somehow managed to conjure a borrowed uniform from a former sailor that fit amazingly well.)

So, on the cusp of my excursion outside of my comfort zone to experience my first drum circle, I found myself holding the modern situational equivalent of a not remotely recognizable French sailor costume – a shaker made from an empty mint tin and some rice. All the old feelings where there. I knew beyond reason or sanity that I’d be laughed out of the building, a social pariah, perhaps even banned from the yoga studio for the sheer lameness of my so-called “instrument”. As a 40-year-old husband and father of two, I will still back in elementary school, ashamed of my impending epic social fail.

I went anyway, rice shaker tucked deeply in my pocket. I’d told people I would be there. I wanted to be there. I knew I stood a better chance of playing a percussion instrument and not sucking than just about any other kind. In my mind’s eye, though, the exquisitely exotic instrument in my hand worked shamanic powers to not only channel intense tribal beats through my hands, but to cause women to swoon at my greatness and men to step deferentially out of my path. This mystical, fantasmical instrument would open all conversational doors and make me … cool. However, this talisman of awesomeness was not, and never would be, a rice shaking mint tin. But I didn’t cry this time. But a part of me wanted to.

As I entered the yoga studio and removed my shoes, the drumbeats were already thumping rhythmically. In the entry way, I was greeted and hugged. By a woman. Clearly she didn’t yet suspect my rice shaker. She didn’t yet know that she was supposed to be laughing at me and turning me away. Approaching the circle, I was relieved to see in the middle of the room, a whole pile of instruments. Drums, maracas, shakers (real ones), etc. I was drawn to a blue ceramic drum with a skin stretched over it. It called and my hands answered. Clumsily, but they did. As the night progressed, so did I. Three hours, later, I was having fun but it was time to close up. My hands were vibrating of their own accord. My skin was feeling the drum’s skin, long after they were separated. I’d neglected to take my rings off, and both had worn blisters and were bleeding. I didn’t care. It took over a week for them to heal. I wore them proudly. I was a drummer.

At Christmas, my wife chipped in some money and I got a drum. A heavy wood djembe, hand-carved, with a hand-scraped skin. A deep thumping base with treble tones around the edge. The thing can make some noise. I took it to the January drum circle, and we played each other. I’d messed around on it since first getting it, but this was our first “real date”. And it went well. I asked one of the more experienced drummers to try it out. I’m not a jealous person. I was as excited to hear my drum through master hands as it was to play through them. We both smiled at the richness of the sound. And I’ve gotten a bit better since.

This past week, I took another step. I’d heard there was a drum circle that met on the steps of the Denton courthouse every Saturday evening. I was home alone and the weather was nice. I decided I would be there. When I arrived, most of the other drummers looked to be in their 20’s. College kids. And they were good. Like, really good. And fast. I hoped I wouldn’t stumble in and puke discord all over the place. I noticed that they were able to go off-beat, as I’d seen at previous drum circles, and make it sound like improvisational jazz rather than stumbling incompetence. I want to be able to do that.

As I started to play and warm up and work my drum’s voice into the conversation, that nagging voice came through the back of my skull. “What. The hell. Do you think. You are doing?” it demanded. “You’re 40 years old. These kids are in their 20’s, if that. They’re in their prime. They clearly outclass you. They can even do that weird thing where their hand’s vibrate impossibly fast. What business do you have being here?” But I know that voice, and I’m less intimidated by it than I used to be. I softened my eyes, softened my face, smiled slightly, and answered, “I am doing what you cannot. I’m being present in myself. Watch if you want, but don’t interrupt. We, my drum and I, we’re going to play.”

And we did. As I began to hit my stride and experiment with some of the beats I’d heard the other drummers play, a biker couple came along with their blond curly-topped little girl. After standing at the perimeter for a while, it was clear that she, like me, needed to be part of the music. There wasn’t a spread of instruments as we have at the Blue Anjou, and she hadn’t had the foresight to put rice in a mint tin. But she had a drink with a lid. She marched up on the steps, sat down, and started playing her cup. No concern for what others might think of her more-excuse-than-instrument. And an expression of pure joy. Like me, like them, she was a drummer.

I found myself wondering if this little girl would have put on that beret and dark, long-sleeve shirt with a silvery chevron and star across the chest, and simply ignored anyone who claimed she wasn’t a sailor. Would she have simply decided that she was, and that nothing else mattered? I found myself wondering what else I might have to learn from this little girl. Probably quite a lot.