Beat of the Heart

A drumstick rests between two fingers while being caressed by the others. It is a foot-long, light wooden pole. As it slaps the drum, the floor shakes with the vibration, the tip of the drumstick diving deep into the world. The stick as a whole is worn in time and worn with love. I have grown up with the stick, often slamming it on a cold hi-hat cymbal that sits in my spider-filled basement. A few weeks ago I was on a stage, performing, with around fifty people listening. The energy of the room was immense, the whole room vibrating with just the flick of my wrist. The crowd would cheer like a roaring ocean. It made me feel good, performing; I was just far back enough that no one could see, but with the stick smacking the drums it was as if only I could be seen. The same feeling consumes the basement when I play alone down there. Bonding with me, my drumstick has seen mental breakdowns, great jam sessions, and boring practices of hitting only one drum. I have tried other sticks, such as a holographic one, a purple one with skulls and spiders, even a brick- and graffiti-styled one. They either don’t make the sound I want or just don’t feel right. The sound with the others is too clean, too pure. I need a sound that is grungier, a sound more rustic and genuine. But the plain, simple light tan ones, my sticks, are my precious. I am the dragon and they are my jewels; I love and protect them. 

The tip of the drumstick is wooden and bulbous, pointing itself in many directions as if it were a compass. It taps on the cymbal, begging it to sound. But the cymbal will only sound when it’s ready.  The drumstick yells at the cymbal. It is ready to have its three seconds of fame. As soon as the crash comes, the noise is gone. Utter silence fills the room. The tip of the drumstick is like the edge of a knife, cutting through silence with crashes and bangs. The tip does most of the work for the drumstick; the bulging end taps the skin of the drum like a young child poking her mother’s arm or like the slap of a father. It is as if the drums and the stick create a family dynamic so strong, so brave.

The butt end of the stick holds a different story. This is the sheltered side, free from the hits and the fame. My palm covers this end like a tent in the rain, only allowing it to come out when all else is silent. This is no time for games. My fingers hold the stick loosely, making sure it doesn’t become butter in my hands. I do not want it to slip out of my hands. As the hand jumps up, the stick dives into the deep ocean that is the subtleties of the music, the core of the music. The core and middle of everything.

The middle of the stick leads to the neck. I have given up counting the divets in the spindly neck. It has the texture of grainy sand. Protectant that once covered it has been worn away by repeated hits. The abuse has left marks on its neck like hickies on new lovers’ necks. It is the passion from a drummer and the stick, swaying together to keep the beat and keep the peace. 

The beat of the drum, the pulse from heart to brain to hand to stick to drum, marks time in the realm of existence. Without time, the cycle of birth to growth to death cannot happen.  It is the fundamental beating of the heart and pulse in all living creatures. 

The drumstick is like a foal, galloping across multiple drums, with each step making a different noise. Each drum speaks its own sounds: whirs and pows and crashes and rattles and thuds. On their own they sound like nothing, but together they become the backbone of everything. The drumstick becomes a microphone and a conductor, allowing each component to speak on cue, and magnifying it so everyone else can hear it, too. The stick chooses who can speak when. 

The relationship between the drummer, the stick, and the drum set is one of give and take. As one hits the other, the other produces for the first. The stick is only the connection between point A and point B. The drummer speaks to the drums through the stick; she is the one who decides when and how loudly to play, and the sticks execute commands from the drummer. But it is not the drummer nor the drums that choose. It is the link. It is the stick. The stick is the train that connects the thought of the music to the new station. The train is long and thin and rarely stops. It is a bumpy ride on this train though, doused in light, the stick getting more tired as the night goes on and the performances or practices continue.

I am not just the owner of the drumstick; I am the drumstick. I have my own fair share of fights and battles. I know what it is like to consume a beat and know what it feels like to be used. The beat is both in my hands and in my heart. Just like my stick, I take command and let others speak, but other times I submit to others. The stick and I are not the highlight of everyone’s show. People only notice what becomes of us. Our sound. The stick is only noticed when it slaps the drum; I am only noticed when I hold the door open for others. We get used and expect nothing in return. But somehow, we become what is important.