Blood Pump
The words, “Don’t exit this life and be left wanting”, float through my head just about every day, even though I don’t know where they came from.
Someone close to us remarked recently that our space is an extension of our home. I don’t think they meant it as a compliment but I took it as such. They could have been talking about the warmth only found through intimate strife. Or the structure that can only be built without plans, an organic, living entity that can be a Coliseum as much as a refuge, but probably not. What they meant isn’t important because it allowed me to understand much of what we do and how we do it.
It took time before I could tap a drum without stinging the ears of those in proximity or understand that what I sought was rhythm. Finding a beat to walk to in life seems like a universal mystery, playing that out on an instrument reveals just how much I desire, and how far I am from making my life harmonious, let alone a song. Each time I sat down on top of that wooden and goatskin-capped tube I would start over. I would have to find where I left off. So I would search with my hands and my head. Some days it comes fast and I pick up and feel all of the lessons and work that I’ve put into it, a positive vibe that only affects me. Other days I struggle, the frustration has its own percussion and irritation; the kind that alarms anyone in earshot. My failures affect others, a deeply injurious result. This is how most of us live: private success, public failure.
It wasn’t until my friend George picked up my drum and pounded out a glorious little beat that I started to question my approach. I assumed he had a previous history with percussion and was both impressed and sullied when he offered that it was his first time playing. George is known for his military career and vast fitness knowledge, but he is also known as being all heart. He wears his emotions externally and proudly, a rarity in the military community, dare I say he is a misfit in the sweetest sense. The warmth he has found in the rhythm of his own heartbeat exudes the kind of celebration I was left in want of.
If you inhale deeply, hold your breath at the top of what your lungs can tolerate in capacity, and wait, you will hear it; your heart pounding away without command from you and despite all of your negligence. You can feel it in your throat, see it beneath the thin skin between your ear and neck, and hear your sternum return its echo. Day in and day out, it sets the cadence to whatever you seek. It is underneath but also above everything that ranks as important in your life, yet few of us hear it, or feel it, or recognize our dependence on it.
NonProphet was built with heart. Guided, often blindly, through a web of human refuse. Soiled relationships, soured marriages, spite and hope for human nature were tinder for the bridges that we burned. So high are the flames from our arson, that others saw the signal. Many are on the outside, wondering if the fire is too hot, questioning whether they can handle the temperature or if we might burn them for misstepping. Others think they know what they see, volatility born of volition and idealism. Few have gathered, but those that have, find warmth and familiarity with the temporal nature of a house that nurtures fire, a flame bellowed with heartbeat.
The rhythm isn’t always pleasant, we sometimes have to reexamine and remember our practice. Sometimes we play what is in our hearts and sorrow makes us hard to listen to. Often anger and rage vibrate repeatedly because we don’t know how else to play frustration. What you can count on is that we are listening to that which drives us. The framework is not a blueprint, it can’t be copied — anymore than I can play George’s rhythm, or you can play ours. But it is a home. A house built with the familial blood of the misfit.
Some who enter, pick up and play beautifully, shocking us with their raw ability to create harmony. Others fumble, and we guide them, we show them what we have learned and how it has made us better people. We open them to our vulnerabilities, we guide their hands and their heart toward rhythm. And we accept that some will come in but never stay. They will make the sounds and echo familiar tones and we will dance but sometimes discover they only mimic heart rhythm; an act with no spirit.
This is the instrument we are all learning to wield, our bodies and our minds, heads interpreting hearts. Playing them in a way that allows others to feel our melody and common struggle. There is nothing as beautiful nor despairing as mismatched rhythm because it encapsulates the importance of timing — time, and how little of it we have. But as long as we are here, we will house those who value effort, honesty, and spite. We will keep tapping away, not for the soothing of ears but for the fire in hearts. We won’t apologize for not being what everyone needs. We can only play better, louder, and not be left wanting.
