stream of consciousness on the drum circle

by Alice Mulford

Walking up to a ritual already in progress, my extreme nervousness mounted and became outright breathless panic.

Where are their shoes? Where am I supposed to put my purse? Could someone steal it without my noticing? Why didn’t Nancy stay with me? Why are they walking in a circle? Am I the only one without a drum? Should I take off my socks? I wanted to work on my scarf! I don’t want to have to drum! Where am I supposed to go? No one’s talking!

It was freezing, I was hungry, and I knew no one in this group of people. I had no “safe place.” There was no one to sit next to who would smile and me and communicate to me through glances what I was supposed to be doing. Worst of all, it was too late to back out. Soon everyone would know for sure – I am always in three pieces, I have no rhythm, and I will forever be lost in this class.

I spent the entire length of time I was there trying to fade into the background, determined to blend in and not call attention to myself. I didn’t want anyone to know I was there. I chose a very large drum, one I could hide behind so that no one could see what my hands were doing and I adopted what I hoped as a blank expression to disguise my terror.

Looking around the group, I worked out that there were three kinds of people there: the people who were cold and miserable and unsure of themselves, the people who knew exactly what was going on and looked like they had reached a place of spiritual bliss, and the people who were banging the hell out of their drums eagerly and with big grins on their faces, but who had no concept of any deeper meaning beneath it.

I tried thinking about drumming. I tried not thinking. I tried listening and adding what I could where I could. Only once every five or ten minutes or something did I feel like I was adding anything. After a while, it occurred to me after a while that the drum circle was like a conversation. You have to let other people speak. You can’t take over the interaction. You need to respond appropriately. It’s an art.

Once I got to a point where I felt tolerably comfortable with my place in the circle, we switched instruments. This did not work out well for me. I couldn’t hide any more. I had to be innovative. I had to try and force my spirit into my new instruments: a cymbal, a stick, a block of wood. I couldn’t find myself in these. I couldn’t incorporate my nails and fists as I had been able to in the large drum I’d had before. I missed my drum. It was like putting on someone else’s shoes. I didn’t like it.