Dance 'n' drums match the rhythm of my heart

Djembe drums. My new instrument.

For most of my life, I’ve claimed to not being a creative person in the arts. I profess to be clumsy, klutzy, in dance, likening myself to a lumbering elephant without the elegant sway. Feet that stumbled finding the pattern. Limbs that moved without grace. Going through motions more determined to “get it right” rather than simply move.

I avoided dancing because of everything I told myself I was not. Did I yearn to dance? Yes. But finding a style of dance that I would feel comfortable with would be a challenge — mind over body. And so, several years ago, I found myself signed up for a bellydance class. And everything I told myself I was, I became. Until the day the instructor gently, but firmly, insisted I stop walking. She looked at me and told me to walk with attitude. I breathed deeply for a few moments, eyes closed. And when I opened them again, I walked with attitude. With sensuality. Head high, shoulders back, my hips — wrapped in a coin belt — swaying. I felt sexual. I felt desirable to myself. 

It was the start of my love affair with dance. Not traditional dance but dance that focuses on expressing myself sexually. COVID-19 took away many dance opportunities but, after the pandemic, I went back to dancing occasionally. I don’t profess to be good but I am a woman who sinks into her own rhythm and dances for her favourite audience: herself.

I've studied a bit of burlesque, as well. And I always left the studio walking taller, feeling empowered. 

Life would’ve kept going in that vein except for the plot twist of arthritic knees. A dancer's bane of existence. And as they got progressively worse, I’m finding it can be painful to do the shimmies, the bumps, the grinds and most of the moves in the two dance types that bring me joy. And so I’ve temporarily parked my creative outlet until I get some relief. 

I miss the dance, obviously. I miss the way I feel when I dance, the confidence it instills, the sensual way I can express myself. I miss feeling the rhythms, the beats and abandoning myself fully. Not knowing what to do, I thought my creative dance pause would last until my knees could get replaced. I’ve accepted that and it is my reality.

To help pass the time, I’ve looked at different things I might want to try. I’ve always been interested in trying an afternoon drum circle. And so, before Christmas, I began looking for opportunities. I didn’t find one; however, what I did find was hand drumming lessons. The cost was more than reasonable and the drums were supplied. I cleared my days off request to accommodate with my manager and enrolled.

It is with complete transparency that I tell you I had absolutely no idea exactly what I’d signed up for. But, I’m your “yes” girl and I had hit the payment button, so the lessons began.

The day of the first lesson, I walked into the studio and grinned. Floor to ceiling windows let in all the natural light. The view was of a park, blanketed in snow. It was peaceful, calm and serene. My nature is to arrive early and I did. I introduced myself to the instructor and to a fellow student and helped set up chairs and pull drums out of padded drum cases. I looked at each drum closely as I did, grinning inside that I was going to learn to play a little on one. 

Students began filing in. My instructor — one of the best players in Canada and beyond — introduced himself. He showed us bass. He showed us tone. And he showed us slap. And then, well, we played.

Much like my foray into dance, I tried to force my mind to be logical. I wanted to tell the instructor to slow down, to teach pattern by pattern. I wanted to say this isn’t the way to learn something new, by diving in and following along. My hands would get confused. My brain would get confused. I would get flustered.

But I did not speak up. The instructor beat the patterns out and I played what he played. Did my hands get confused? Sometimes. Did my mind get confused? Sometimes. Did I get flustered? Not at all. I thought about my bellydance instructor who told me to move with attitude! Feel the music and the rhythm. And so, when I got lost, that’s what I did, I paused, listened for the start of the pattern and joined in again.

My body swayed as my hands played. I’m not familiar with djembe music but I knew it. I felt it. I played it. We played for 90 minutes. A few times my instructor gave me tips — loosen my hands, especially with the slap — but he looked at me and the other students and mostly said: “That’s it."

This isn’t dance. This doesn’t make me feel sexy in how I move my curvaceous body. This doesn’t extend an invitation to seduction, self or partnered. 

But this is sensual. This is playing as it’s been done for centuries. This is the call to dancers to celebrate and honour. Drumming, like dancing, throbs in my veins in a way that caught me offguard and continues to catch me offguard. There are eight weeks of lessons and I look forward to my drumming day with an anticipation that’s indescribable.

Once my knees get the fix, they need I will dance again. 

But as much as dance is part of who I am, so, too, is drumming. I look forward to a lifetime of learning and feeling the rhythms of both.