Pilgrims

They come to us bearing
their wounds,
Whether hidden or brazenly displayed,
Wounded, nevertheless.

They cross the threshold into the drumming center,
This tabernacle of rhythm, place of drums, Feeling Hopeful
Fearful
Angry

The rhythms of these ancient drums have
Permeated their first days in this
Place of learning and healing,
This place of growing,
But as far as they know,
It’s just another placement in a system
that they had no voice in.

And yet, they can hear it.
They can hear the drums playing in the distance.
They hear about it as well,
From their newly met peers.

It feels different. A bit mysterious. Welcoming. Maybe frightening.
After a few days, they approach the drumming center
for their first exposure
to this ancient, new opportunity.
They cross the threshold into the Room,
Round, visually rich, full of drums, full of life.

It sounds powerful, inviting even,
But also another chance to fail,
to fall short in public,
and to put themselves in thrall to people
they don’t know and have no reason to trust.

They grapple with the beginnings.
How to hold it
How to hit it and make sounds
How it feels to the hands.
How to hold their own rhythm
In the face of many others,

How to feel strong
even when struggling with something new.
Without even being aware of it,
They begin to join the community of drummers.

They find no judgment from the others.
They encounter a space, an activity, a community,
Where their voices are welcomed,
where they are encouraged to make mistakes
in their quest for greater understanding and enjoyment.

In this most compelling endeavor
they recognize,
or remember,
truths that are older than they ever were.

—Tom Harris