Improbable, Impatience

On Thursday evening I was a passenger in a car heading from Denver to Boulder, about 30 miles away. Four of us - myself, a new acquaintance, J., and two of her friends, R. and W. - were traveling to a potluck holiday party at the home of a Ghanaian gentleman who runs a group that uses African singing to facilitate personal growth. Loving food and song, I was up for this adventure.

Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).

It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.

Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.

"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."

Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.

"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."

By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.

"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.

We were headed home and that was all that mattered.

Indistinct, Intellectual Interference

I will attempt to reestablish my blogging rhythm (so far somewhat erratic) with a posting about drumming. I'm enrolled in a "Beyond Beginner" African drumming class, a level in which students are supposed to remain for a few years before moving into Intermediate or Advanced. Two summers ago I took the Beginner class. I have hardly touched a drum since.

But as I remembered during my first "Beyond Beginner" lesson a few weeks ago, rhythm isn't really a problem for me. Most of the time I can quickly pick up what the instructor is teaching us. And closing my eyes while drumming prevents the thinking part of my brain from seeing what I am doing, having an opinion about it, and therefore screwing it up. My hands generally know what to do as long as there is no interference from my intellect. I can play for a longer amount of time if I feel the rhythm, rather than try to understand it or memorize it.

The biggest challenge for me is creating the proper sound with my hands. There are basically three sounds that we use to make music. The bass, created by a flat palm in the middle of the drum; a tone, created when the bottom of the hand hits the rim of the drum and the fingers - but not the tips - land on the drum head; and the slap, which is like a tone but the fingers land at a slightly different angle, creating a sharper sound. At this earlier stage in my drumming life, my slaps are sloppy and my tones are tentative. And the faster we drummed, the sloppier and more tentative they became, respectively. A classmate described her slaps and tones as indistinct as our rhythm picked up speed.

Indistinct indeed.

And since my technique stinks I am inclined to use more force to generate separate sounds so I can feel as if I'm "getting it right," but muscling through a song is exhausting and unnecessary.

"Coax the sound out of the drum," our teacher, a portly retired gentleman, explained the first night. "You don't need to bang it to get a good bass."

The best drumming happens when the mind and body are relaxed but alert. I'll think of it as musical meditation.