For now, however, the three suspicious goat pelts stuffed in the CSA trash occupied our attention.
"I think Nii'Anung repaired his drums," I replied. "There are two with new, damp stretched skins in the greenhouse." They made the place smell more like a slaughterhouse or a tannery than a nursery.
I went to my first drum circle on accident. I knew that Polly and Nii'Anung (for those of you who are new to the blog, they are one of the two couples who live here on the farm, and they run the CSA portion of the business) hosts them on Friday nights with a few musical friends, but it was Saturday that night and I wasn't expecting percussion as I ambled down to her house at the far end of the driveway one evening to give her a message. This was before I got my cell phone back--I was without it for the first month here.
They're usually pretty shy; they play for fun, not for performance, but they invited me to stay and I ate this intriguing beet salad one of the women, a Russian, had made and settled on the couch to watch.
Since then, I've been back a few times. I usually bring fresh bread for my potluck offering and after dinner I melt in the dim background of the house and let them play. One night they tried to teach me dance, but my complete inability to stay upright while hopping on one foot and doing the shimmy axed that idea. Maybe I'll try it again.
Some people might find African drumming monotonous--there's certainly little of the central melody, climactic structure, and harmony within which we live and breath and have our musical being in the West. It's a different language. For me, there's something of it of the heartbeat, the bird's song, the hummingbird's thrum. Both Chesterton and Fr. Capon speak of God giving the sun an encore every morning, applauding the seasons through their perpetual cycle: "That was great, let's do it again." Chesterton particularly points out that the pursuit of novelty marks age; children always want to play the same game of peakaboo. I know my favorite books as a child were worn through at the spine and my parents had memorized them long before I grew tired of them and moved on to other things.
If you distilled down the rhythm of the world, damped down the tones and kept the pulses, I think you would hear the beat of an African drum song. It isn't my language, I can't follow it or appreciate the laughter into which those Friday night songs often dissolve because someone started on the wrong beat. But it does make me hear the world differently when I leave. I pay more attention to the texture of the crickets straining over the cicadas and the frogs chiming in.
You can get lost in the visions melody strings up, but at least to my untrained ears, the drumbeat calls you to here and now. I suppose we recognize that in the West by using percussion for the soldier's march, the judge's gavel, and the orchestra's climax which knocks us out of our wandering minds and into the present. The drumbeat at the circle makes the whole room an instrument--the percussive crush of couch against my shoulder, the thud of the oak-board floor against my heel.
But hold the ecstasy, or rather hold me in it because I am standing outside. I'm not inside the circle; I don't know this music. I can only speak in charmed ignorance.
I found myself there at Polly's last Friday night because I couldn't stand the thought of being along another hour. So yes, I love my little hilltop kingdom, but let me tell you something: it's really hard. It's really hard being alone with myself. It was tolerable for the first two months, but now I'm terribly lonely because I'm always looking in from the outside.
They say here in Floyd County that if your family hasn't been here three generations, you're not from Floyd. Sometimes I feel this way about all the world--that I've never been anywhere long enough to know anything or anyone. I'm a continent away from where I grew up and far south of my collegiate home of the last four years which I also left just as it was becoming home. You have to stick around to know anything, to be from anywhere, and I've never stuck around. I'm not from here.
I'm not from here, and I'm tired of living temporary lives with people I'll never really know. It's exhausting, always investing in a new place and knowing I'll never be there long enough to really reap or sow. I'm not part of the drum circle, even though I'm more than welcome to watch and try a few beats.
But really, I'm not outside, of course. I'm an alien, but aren't we all? I'm watching now because watching is a part of learning to play. The apprentice is part of the farm, too. This is my pilgrimage, the next step of the past twenty-two years. And every evening that I'm alone I think back on the communities which I've been so blessed to call home, if only for a while: St. Andrew's Academy, Hillsdale, my family, of course. I'm a stranger in a strange land, but I've had some great camp sites--this one, too. Maybe some day I'll learn how to stick around long enough to grumble about the summers getting warmer, to forget when the neighbors moved in, and to harvest the orchard I plant, but this is training for that time which paradoxically for me means learning to live well now, with myself and with other people, rather than always looking ahead for some future fulfillment.
"Contemplative waiting is consenting to be where we really are ... People recoil from it because they don't want to be present to themselves. Such waiting causes a deep existential loneliness to surface, a feeling of being disconnected from oneself and God. At the depths there is fear, fear of the dark chaos within ourselves."--a monk of Thomas Merton's monestary, from Sue Monk Kidd's When the Heart Waits (courtesy of Marieke van der Vaart)