Last night, to celebrate my father-in-law’s birthday, we built a fire on the beach & drummed.

There was food & drink, some close friends, and some strangers. We switched off which drum each of us had whenever it seemed appropriate to do so. One guy brought his guitar (which stayed in its case) and his Tibetan flute. The flute got passed around, but no one could play it except him. And we drummed.

Those of you who do not know me well may be surprised to hear that I have no rhythm. Not an ounce. One might think that my Celtic ancestry might include the ability to at least not feel uncomfortable in such a drum circle, but no. I still had a lot of fun, though, and did not feel as though the rhythms I ended up making were discordant with the rhythms of the group. It’s very difficult for me to describe it, except that I totally get it now. When I heard that this is what we were doing, I was confused as to why this might be an activity someone would choose. But now having spent a few hours with rainsticks, drums of varying sizes, sticks, hands, throats, and cheeks, I get why it’s fun. Why it makes one feel part of something more (whether simply part of a group or part of something spiritual), and why one would choose to do it.

It seemed like the kind of event where mood altering substances (beyond mere alcohol) might have a place, but staring into the fire and having a drum nearby is all that I, personally, required. The night was cool and the fire hot, the stars winking through a sky with no clouds, and the moon rose over the horizon after a few hours of blackness. I’ve never seen moonrise before. We saw a halo of silver light (if I were in LA, I’d've assumed it was a city, or other such lights) just over the hill. Then it broke over the horizon and the halo added light to our gathering. When the sun rises, it does so slowly, and you can’t look at it. When the moon rises, you can see it moving upward, inching its way free of the horizon. It was magical.

We went in two cars, so when we go to the (then moonless) beach, we used flashlights to stumble our way towards the fire. There was something primal about that, about being apart from the group and making your way back toward it. I don’t put much stock in what-other-people-think-of-me, which causes my parents endless grief, but standing in the dark and cold and walking toward the fire made me realize that there were certainly times when it made a hell of a lot of sense to do whatever was necessary to remain part of the tribe. Even with a flashlight (maybe because it was sorely in need of new batteries), I would not be able to make it without that fire. Not just for light and not just for heat, but I knew that around it were friends and food.

When we walked away, after covering the fire and leaving it to be eaten by the tide, the moon was so bright that we did not need our flashlights. But it was a cold light. It wasn’t warm or welcoming like the fire was, it was simply there. Felt almost like I used to think of God: watching but uncaring.