BOOM boom boom boom BOOM boom boom boom BOOM BOOM BOOM boom boom boom.... I was haunted by that rhythm as I watched dozens of dancers celebrate the Mexican holiday, El día de los Muertos. My three incredible friends and I stood side by side and scarcely breathed as tireless dancers in elaborate feathered costumes beat their souls onto the ground with heavy stomps of their feet. I did not know what they were dancing for, but felt that I too could dance with equal spirit when the time came.
BOOM BOOM boom boom boom BOOM BOOM boom boom boom.... Each rhythm was different, requiring a unique set of steps. Though they had only the beat of a drum to direct their motions, not one missed a step as they jumped, turned, stomped in unison. The deep, echoing drums reverberated in my chest and I knew that I would recognize that beat whenever I heard it again. It spoke to something primal and ancient within me, and I began to understand how the dancers reacted instinctively to each change in beat or rhythm. It was inside them, awakening a fierce joy that needed to be unleashed.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM boom boom boom boom boom boom boom....The incessant beating soon became too much for me. I had to escape. The costumes were no longer exciting, they were terrifying. The dancers seemed to get bigger and bigger as the beat continued, their feathers stretching higher into the night, their painted faces contorting into true versions of the skulls they depicted. I want to blame my ears for being too sensitive, my eyes for being too myopic. In truth, I was afraid of what the drums were raising inside me: anger, fear, mania. The incredible noise of the drums blocked out most other sounds, and I could barely hear as my friends whispered gleeful statements to each other. I was lost in the pounding rhythm, my entire reality dissolving to yield to the beat, beat, beat of this ancient instrument. Why should such a rhythm cause me such alarm? I had been excited at first, reverent, as I watched them dance. But now, I was angry and fearful. How could they keep dancing? Weren't they tired? I was exhausted just watching them! Stop dancing! Why are you still dancing? Do you even know what it's for? Stop!
No longer within earshot, I was able to regain some composure. My bugging eyes and clenched jaw had relaxed, and the rhythm was fading into memory. Why had I been so upset? They were only dancing. I needed to breathe. I had felt my entire being restricted as I watched them dance. Slowly, I began to understand: I was afraid of such raw emotion. I've spent the last two months hurting, feeling every pain, and I've been able to cope by analyzing myself. As long as I could explain and intellectualize my emotions, they were safe. But the drums spoke to something deep inside me that had no words. On the day to celebrate the dead, I was driven to fury.
This experience has given me new food for thought, but perhaps I should not think about it for a change. It's one thing to chart my own progress in the stages of grief; it's another thing entirely to be undone by a repetitive sound. There is no right way to cope. But I will say this: I appreciate the irony that the rhythm of the drums made me feel more alive than I've felt in quite a while.
BOOM boom boom boom BOOM boom boom boom BOOM boom boom boom....
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