At the end of each day, Firefly workshops end promptly, like boxes tied with neat little bows. That’s when my people gather to plant their feet in the dirt around the fire ring. We are about to witness the birth of a drum circle. This child will be similar to its siblings while at the same time, unlike any collective human moment that has ever existed since primal beings first stretched skins over hollow logs.
I’m no judge of numbers, but it seems like 150 to 200 people are spread across this hillside. The moon is lazily rising over an eastern ridge. Before me, an uncredited hero builds up the fire. Meanwhile, percussionists unzip cases while talking about tuning and technique. Fledgling drummers appear with eager looks in their eyes, grateful to be given a spare djembe or tubano.
Soon the drumming begins in earnest, in contrast to the fire which at this point, is a smoky disappointment. Thanks to our unsung hero, the temperature begins to rise. I take the opportunity to go and tuck my sandals and a jacket (just in case) under a chair, knowing I probably won’t find them again until morning. When I return, the flames are cavorting as earnestly as the first dozen dancers.
I still remember high school dances, with my back up against the wall. I was, in my opinion, an awkward, clumsy geek. Thankfully I was a decent musician, so in time I made a confident transition from the back wall to the stage where — to my delight — I never had to dance again.
In truth, a small part of me wants to join the growing congregational procession around the blazing bonfire. With assurance, I hold back — not against the back wall, but as close as I can get to the front without tripping people up. A rise in tempo and timbre infuses the dancers with a primal passion. Instinctively my knees catch the rhythm and I begin to sway. I place a hand on my chest and telegraph the rhythm to my heart. The fire-keeper waits, watches, dashes through a breach in the mêlée and offers more fuel to the hungry fire.
Each drum circle is like a journey, without map or compass. Some travelers prefer to linger back in the shadows, while others are the music makers. And some swirl, seethe and shake in a wild ride that descends through burning coals, to Hades and back up, erupting into the night sky like Vesuvius, sending sparks of energy to the stars. I simply close my eyes and imagine these same sounds and sights in this very place … coming from the voices and feet and drums of ancestors long ago.
Déjà vu.
Continuity.
Synchronicity.
After midnight, the drummers pause to wring their fingers and hands. People scuttle into the darkness to pee, have a smoke, or just to call it a night. I notice that the landscape has changed dramatically. The caravan that started with hundreds has dwindled to 60 or more.
The marvelous journey continues through a striking and ever-changing landscape. I am awed by the skill of the drummers and dancers. And yet I don’t feel like a spectator. I am not an other. Somewhere in this journey, we mystically have become one. I am now part of a fierce choir, joining in feral howls. I shout and others shout with me. Like a primordial call and response, one vocalizes melodies that others echo.
Unashamed, I reach my arms to the sky, combing my fingers through the Milky Way. I feel mighty, though in fact, I’m a toddler in comparison with the raging fire. The fire-tender (a part of the collective we who I don’t even notice anymore) has clearly been doing his job. Sweat pours down the dancer’s faces, bellies and limbs, their bare feet pounding into the earth from which they came … into which they will return.
It is well after 1:00 now and the numbers have again halved. A chill shadow at my back drives me forward. Without apology, I trespass into the dancer’s space. The adolescent recklessness in the drums from early in the night has aged like wine, becoming ripe and mellow. A voice calls to me from across the circle and I harmonize. Others join in antiphonal response. Soon a melody too rich for words is being woven and colored and lifted and hurled with sensual abandon far beyond Appalachia, blanketing seas and continents.
This is glory. My diaphragm is strong and my voice confident. This is majesty. But it’s not sustainable. We may be gods; but we are only human. The song begins to waver. This tapestry which we have woven has risen to the stars, but gently begins to fall.
As do I … and those gathered by my side.
We fall to our knees.
All one … performers in a timeless dance.
We kneel as close to the fire as we can possibly get. Voices and rhythm slowly settle — ever so gently, like sparkling stardust to the ground. Fingers press their final impression into ancient hides. Hoarse voices become silent. A collective breath is taken … then slowly exhaled.
Silence.
Why do my eyes water so freely?
The only voice now is that of the fire. The only beating is within our chests. Abruptly, my arm receives a firm squeeze by somebody beside me who I don’t even know, one of my soul-mates in this astonishing journey. Through the flames, each one sees themselves in the other’s eyes.
“What just happened?” someone whispers.
Nobody answers.
Everybody knows.
I wipe the tears from my eyes. I am struck, more than anything, by the profound oneness here. We linger in the sacredness of soil, blood, air and fire … Breathing in. Breathing out … as the transparent veil between the natural and the sublime slowly thickens.
