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October 16, 2011

Pulse is life.

Your heartbeat is your life.

“What is your drum?”
the man asked us.

I don’t know, I don’t know what my drum is.
I don’t know where to find it.
But I know I must.
Notes scribbled, hastily, in big,
looping hand
with no regard
to paper waste,
wanting only to record
something, anything, to jog my memory,
to bring me back to this extraordinary moment,
to help me remember, later,
the way skepticism melted to
cold chills,
the way hollow tubes
in the hands of a group of loosely connected risk-takers
and dream makers,
transformed into instruments of unity,
and of hope.
When the drum circle grew
to encompass the whole room.
I was almost moved to tears
by the way we all,
all 700 people in this sterile auditorium,
found our way to a collective rhythm,
and how as we played
the song found its way to us.

In dreams,
though you may fly
and I may run,
the pulse is the same
and the song finds us
when we are ready to sing it.

And though you may start
with rat a tat tat
and I may start with
rat tatty tat ratty tat tat
in the end we are nothing more,
nothing less,
than dum-dum dum-dum

Pulse is life, the man said.
The song finds us when we are ready to sing it, I countered.

What is your drum?

(From TedxCharlotte. Holy SHIT that was mind-blowing. More to come I’m sure.)

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