“The Zulu greeting, ‘Sawubona’ means ‘I see you’ and the response ‘Ngikhona’ means ‘I am here’.”

— Sheila Ochugboju (Feb. 8, 2010)

Yesterday I did one of my favorite things. Jim Donovan was in town for a day-long Rhythm Revival — a chance to connect with other people who love to drum, a time to learn some traditional rhythms and chants, a time for experiencing how this shared experience can alter our energies, and a time for finding our own voice in the midst of community.  We drummed, we meditated, we sang, and we shared our experiences.  Thirty separate beings walked in the door at 10:00 AM; and by the time we broke for lunch, we were a community of thirty who had bonded through our shared experiences.

After lunch, Jim told us with excitement that we were now going to be offered an opportunity.  Uh, oh…those of us who have attended his previous events know that “offered an opportunity” is code language for “play a solo.”  Okay.  Deep breath.  I said we are a group who love to drum.  I never said we are a group of great drummers.  For all the good things that each of us brings to these events, we also bring our past hurts, fears, and criticisms.  The opportunity that lies in being offered a solo is to visit those feelings of being less than enough and transform the energy we devote to them into a voice that speaks through our drum.  Okay.  Another deep breath.  I am thankful that this is not my first rodeo.  I put on my invisible t-shirt — the one I earned a year ago, the one that says, “I Survived J.D.’s Opportunity.”

Okay.  He says we’re going to play a base rhythm — a groove — and that each person in the circle will get to play something that adds our own spice to the mix.  ”We’ll go clockwise,” he says.  Oh, crap.  Clockwise.  I count three people between Jim and me as I watch the folks at the tail end of the circle sigh with relief.  ’Fine,’ I think.  Go ahead and enjoy your stay of execution.  The truth is that yours will be the last solos played.  They will be the ones we remember.  Mine will be long-gone from your memory by the time the circle is done.

The groove begins, and soon each of us in turn stretches our comfort zone and steps up to the challenge of letting our own rhythm be heard.  It is a bit awkward.  Nobody likes feeling conspicuous, and we avoid looking up as we play.  Nobody wants to make another person squirm, so we avoid staring at the person who sits in the hot seat.  By the time the opportunity is passed all the way around the circle, there is a feeling of shared relief.  We have endured.  We have survived.  Time to move on to the next thing.

We talk about our experiences.  People share about the negative energy they brought to their experience — an elementary school teacher who told one woman, “just move your lips — don’t sing;” a band director who told another, “you have no sense of rhythm at all.”  Each of us brought our own inner critics to our solo experiences, and every one of us had overcome their messages and done our best.

“Great!” Jim tells us.  Now we’re going to do it again.  But this time we are going to make eye contact while we play.  This time, every person in the circle will look at the one who is playing the solo and offer compassion and support.  And this time, we will go counterclockwise.  Now I feel sorry that I turned it around before, and made going first the better choice.  This time, I will have to wait and dread longer before my turn comes.   The groove begins, and the solo makes its way around the circle.  Something is different.  As I watch each person play their solo, I have no chance to dread my own moment of truth.  I am invested in them and hearing their unique voices as the message in each solo is added to the community rhythm.

I remember something I heard a while back — long before the Avatar movie made it trendy. I remember hearing of cultures who greet each other, not with “hello,” but with “I see you.”  It is a powerful greeting that acknowledges the existence of the other person and recognizes the relationship we have with them.  The response, “I am here,” is more than a GPS location.  It is meant to say, because you see me, I now exist.  This is what we were doing for one another as we played our second solos.  We looked with compassion on each soloist — “I see you” — and each of us used our drums to reply, “I am here.”

Our second solos were far more powerful than the first ones — or maybe we simply did not see each other the first time as we hid in our own anxiety and they hid in theirs.  What is important is to remember that when we open our eyes and our hearts to another person and say from the depths of our love, “I see you,” remarkable things can happen.  Nobody likes to feel conspicuous, but we all want to be recognized.  It is the critic who makes us uneasy; it is the voice of love that calls us into being who we truly are.  As the opportunity landed at my drum, I looked up to the other members of my community.  Their eyes all called out in love, “I see you.”  I took a deep breath, moved my hands toward my djembe, and replied, “I am here.”