A few weeks earlier, someone had asked what devotional drumming was. That question continued to roll around in my brain right up until the first few drum beats began to fill the room and the class actually began.
The drumming part of the "devotional drumming" question is easy - Grab a hunk of carved wood with a skin stretched over it and bang. Repeat. Preferably in time with the other drummers, or if you're good at counter-time to the other drummers. It's the devotional part that takes some explaining.
The first conversations about the class had started just a few months beforehand. I'd been asked to teach some drumming basics. A teacher and good friend of mine asked if there was any interest in the local area for a drum workshop. I knew there was. I spoke with several people and it became obvious that "interest" wasn't the right word. "Thirst" and "Hunger" for a drum workshop seemed much more appropriate.
I started planning - The first act of devotion - crafting an event that would honour skillful drummers, new drummers, drummers from vastly different backgrounds, frame drummers and djembe drummers. Finding a place that would amplify and exalt the voices of the drums. Co-creating a flow of exercises and breaks, thunderous noise and silence. It was a rhythm and like any rhythm it became familiar and steady and never far from my mind.
My teaching/drumming partner and I began to feel our own edges - another act of devotion - He, the more skilled musician, encouraging me to step forward and take the lead on certain pieces, trusting that I wouldn't fall. Me, recognizing that I had limitations and needed him to carry more of the load than I had expected. Our relationship changed and deepened. Our ideas began to mesh and weave and the pattern of the workshop formed easily. And still the beat kept moving and changing.
The day of the class had arrived. I got to the venue early. I set a circle, brought in drums, set up food and drinks, and set out a basic altar. My co-teacher and his partner arrived and they, along with my partner began to add to the energy of the room. Flowers and greenery and precious objects were added to the altar. Lights were dimmed and drums were tuned - All this, an act of devotion.
People began to arrive and settle in. Impromptu conversations began - all rhythms in themselves - and then silence. A welcoming. A safe container to hold the energy set. Names announced. Sound traveled around the circle. Voices sang out separately and then together. Hands clapped until they were red and warm. Time stood still. Time stretched. Time became irrelevant as we remembered the rhythms of past lovers, childhood games and the primal rhythms of our ancestors from every corner of the world. For a few hours, twenty voices, forty hands became one singular act of Devotion.
My hands are still tonight and no drums are being played in my house - but the rhythm is still playing and the songs are still being sung.
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