It began in kindergarten. Most memories from that time in my life are fuzzy, but one remains clear. I was assigned to play the cymbals. And I failed. I still remember the humiliation of making a loud, clashing sound when everyone else had fallen silent. Then it happened again. And again. My brain was apparently wired for the offbeat. Perhaps that experience foreshadowed a life-long drama of being "different." Or maybe it was just youth and a lack of practice. Whatever it was, I didn't pick up another percussion instrument for a very long time.
Despite those memorable and inauspicious beginnings, I am drawn to music with a beat. Now, in studying music appreciation, I begin to see why. Rhythm in music is a reflection of life on a broader scale, with its intrinsic patterns of tension and release, expectation and resolution, exertion and recovery. The heart beats. The lungs breathe. The legs walk. The sun rises and sets. The moon cycles from new to full and back. Seasons come and go. People are born and die.
I love listening to music, especially to live performances of orchestral classics. However, much as it was in kindergarten, my response is offbeat. No, I no longer make loud noises in gaps of silence, but I move. I can't help myself. The beat throbs in my body and it has to respond. I can't fathom how an orchestral audience is able to sit still, hands in laps, listening politely until it's time to applaud. Even at a percussion concert, I find the audience is more passive than engaged. It doesn't seem natural. It doesn't work for me.
This week marked a whole new chapter in my relationship with rhythm. I attended my first class in West African drumming. I overcame a decades-long fear of the humiliating offbeat, sat in a circle with a bunch of other grownups, and drummed. And drummed. The rhythm arose from deep within, organic and physical. It was OK to move. It was OK to make noise. (In this class, it was even OK to miss or add a beat her and there.) It was active and engaged. It resonated with a lifetime of longing to act, not just to listen. It offered me a chance to share the experience with those similarly inclined.
It has been 64 years since I failed at cymbals in kindergarten. All that time, I have shied away from making public noise for fear of getting it wrong. It feels so good to set that fear aside and to do it anyway.
What hidden desires have you been postponing? Why? Is it time to challenge your fears and overcome barriers that have long outlived their utility?
