I'm in a large concrete shack with vaulted ceilings, where dim lighting exposes a small circle of people sitting so close to each other their knees are touching. Each of them holds an African drum between their legs. The smell of incense is missing, but the air is redolent with it. The light scent is pervasive without offending.
When we entered this back room, with its orange concrete walls and polished hardwood floors, we took off our shoes. Everyone else kicked off their slippers. I however, unworthy intruder that I am, had to unvelcro tennis shoes before entering.
There are only enough chairs for the worthy, so I sit cross-legged against a wall and watch.
Between sets, they discuss posture and stretching the hands to prepare for the intensive drum sessions. The teacher is a spindly youth, with glasses, a beard, and bells on his feet. There are three women and one man in the acolyte circle. They range in age through the 30s and 40s. Jeans and casualwear abound, except for the man, who sits in a business suit, jacket thrown over the back of his chair. He uses his lyrical British accent to impress upon the class the fact that slavery caused the migration of music.
The drum itself has really only two sounds, a thick baritone from striking the center, or a tinny tenor from tapping the edge. The only other way to change the sound is to strike harder, varying the length and volume of the sound.
But this isn't really about the sound that one drum makes. By giving each person one specific rhythm, they can combine and mesh, fading in sections, then releasing them.
It's the rhythm they are studying, not the sound. They are learning how to work together, how to hear each other, how to predict. The teacher calls this a "life skill" and I'm not sure everyone knows what he means.
But I see one student swaying with the music, eyes closed, with hair hanging over her face. I look over at the wall where they keep the yoga mats and the tiny Buddhist shrine, and I think there's something beautiful here.
I would not be here, sitting against a wall in this tribal room, feeling the percussion in my bones match the beat of my heart, if I were still married. That's not an accusation, but rather a joyous recognition of what my life may yet be.
There are many drum circles. There are dances. There are plays. There are games. There are sports. And there are people. Oh, so many people.
