My old bodhrán was in the attic. It'd been there since maybe 2004, warped beyond repair from the damp. So I bought a new one last week. Good quality, nothing fancy, but it feels right in my hands.
I've been practicing most evenings. Just me and the rhythm, in the kitchen while the telly's on in the next room.
Strange thing, though. My hands remember the patterns before my brain does. I'll be thinking about where to hit, and my hands are already DOING it. The muscle memory's still there, all these years later. Like my body never actually forgot, just waited for permission.
The bodhrán is like that, you know? It's not complicated. You learn the basic rhythms, and they become part of you. They live in your hands and your wrists and your shoulders. They sit under everything you do, waiting.
This morning I was playing before work and I realized I was smiling. Just grinning at nothing, in my kitchen, keeping time with a drum.
That's what I miss most about the sessions, I think. Not the craic (though that's grand), not the company (though that's grand too). It's that feeling of coming HOME to something. Like the music's been there the whole time, waiting for you to remember.
I'm bringing the bodhrán to Cruise's this Friday.
Slan go foill,
BogLord2002