Breathwood Didgeridoo – Vancouver BC

I played didgeridoo at a small but incredibly warm, inviting Open Mic night at the Wilder Snail in Strathcona this past Sunday!

I’ve written recently about reaching a plateau and realizing that it takes time to climb higher, that it makes sense to slow down. I’ve rediscovered how important it is to practice what we already know rather than always try to learn something new. This became clear immediately after playing at the Wilder Snail.

I played through a series of rhythms, demonstrating different sounds, doing what I thought made sense for a didgeridoo player performing for a small group of people who were unfamiliar with the instrument. All of that was fine.

But I played through everything far too quickly! I wanted to impress everyone. I wanted to fill the space with sound and more sound. I was trying to do way too much! Before I knew it, I was done, and there wasn’t the feeling of satisfaction of a performance fully offered and received. It was like a snippet.

And so a nugget of feedback from a friend ended up being totally invaluable: what I did was beautiful, she told me, but I needed to take my time. The audience was right there with me – they were entranced! – but I needed to give them more of a taste, more time to absorb what I was doing.

Of course, I also realized I needed to give myself more time as well – more time to hear and enjoy what I was doing right alongside the audience.

This is where the plateau comes back in. I already know SO much. Now is the time to stay with it, breathe it, embody it, become full with it, and know it inside and out. Then slow down and listen, even as I play.

It will be a month or two before I’m able to return to the Wilder Snail for the next event, but I’m looking forward to it! Perhaps I’ll play the same song, the same rhythms – but next time, I’ll give the audience my presence and attention as fully as they gave me theirs this past Sunday!

Here I am, awake. I should be sleeping, but this is when I want to play my didj! The time just seems fitting – the rest of the neighborhood is asleep or nearly so, the rain drips from the eaves, the building sighs and settles into middle-of-the-night quiet, and I want to add to this tapestry the soft drone of my sleepless song.

I love playing in the morning. I practice in the afternoon. Evenings are good too. But this is when I want to blow auditory dreams into the air. Roommates are sleeping, though. Neighbors’ lights are off. I have to wait until day arrives again.

And so, instead of playing, sometimes I . . . hum. Whisper. Buzz my lips. Dream up rhythms. Push the speed of my takas and sometimes even try again to mold my mouth around more awkward gidilee gidilee and takawakatakawaka (circular breath on wa oh my!) . . . and of course it’s nothing like playing. It’s even less like playing under trees near a fire with other players around. But it’s something. Sometimes we forget that practice can continue even when the didgeridoos are lined up in a corner.

Sometimes inspiration can be molded to fit the moment. Sometimes something new still emerges.