My heartbeat

The drum lessons have been invaluable. Shaz is quiet and shy, but he's got the groove, there's no denying that. He sits beside me and speaks softly, telling me about tempo's and sound... about speed and rhythm... but it's not until he takes over my seat and begins his little drum solo's that he forgets about being shy and turns into a funkmaster.

He smiles as he plucks bossanova beats from thin air. He puts together a Latin arrangement and finishes with an impromtu riff. I watch, trying to sponge in the way his arms move, the way he rides the tom-toms and the bass with such ease. The he stops, passes me the drumsticks and says "You go." He slides back into his corner.

I begin playing, ever conscious of the fact that I am nowhere near as smooth as he is. I approach my "rhythm and groove" with apprehension. I have not learnt to let go of myself. He quietly interrupts. "Let go. Let go. It has to come from here." He taps his heart. "Your heartbeat is the beat."

I nod, eager to show him I can do it. I play... and then I stop. My heartbeat is the beat, huh? I begin to wonder about that... how do you groove when your heart feels far from rock and roll and bossanova's? How do you feel the beat when your heart thumps out an entirely different sonata? Silent ode's that have no rhythm.

I close my eyes. I hear my heart, walled inside the fury of moments past and present. The room spins, and for a moment I am lost. My heartbeat is the beat, and for now, it is still. I can not deny that, and he see's right through me. He nods. He knows. I put my drumsticks down.