Plaza drums and a borrowed tambourine

By River Stormcaller

hey! I went to the plaza for a walk with Willow and came home with blistered palms and zero usable frames, which is either artistic growth or a professional disaster depending on who is asking 📷 The drums started near the bandstand like weather: sudden, communal, nobody checking a calendar invite. A stranger handed me a tambourine that had already lived a hard life. I took it. Willow sat on my foot like she was clocking overtime as security. I am Lila Anderson, River Stormcaller online, freelance photojournalist in Santa Fe who usually solves joy by photographing it. Yesterday I joined it instead. Imposter syndrome tried to file a complaint about missing the shot. Jester brain filed a counterclaim titled you needed the rhythm more than the archive. Both papers are still on the table. This is not a how-to about street music. This is a field note about putting the camera strap across my

chest and still feeling like I was working. How the circle found us Afternoon light in Santa Fe can be sharp enough to insult a bad composition. I like that. Mean light is honest. Willow pulled toward a patch of shade and then toward the sound, because dogs understand bass before philosophy. Near the old bandstand a loose ring of people were playing hand drums, a djembe with a cracked edge, a bucket someone had promoted to instrument status. Nobody was selling merch. Nobody was filming themselves with a stick. It felt illegal in the best way, like free joy without a brand. I stood outside the ring for a minute doing the photographer squat of the mind: wait for the gesture, wait for the laugh, wait for the kid who will dance without asking. Then a woman with silver braids looked at me like I was already late and held out the tambourine. Join or leave, the look said. I joined. Willow

judged me for twenty seconds and then decided this was her new favorite meeting. Jamie, college friend who moved here for the art scene, would have loved this. We reconnected at laughter yoga and keep threatening to co-host a small exhibit. I texted her a voice note of the beat later. She replied with three drum emojis and a threat to show up next time with better shoes. Fair. What my hands learned that my lens already knew Rhythm is composition with time. You feel the empty beat the way you feel negative space. You leave room so the next hit lands. Street performance taught me that years ago with the circus almosts and empty bleachers. The plaza taught it without sequins. My palms went pink. My timing was mid at best. Nobody graded me. That is rarer than good light. I almost pulled the camera for one frame of the silver braids woman laughing at a missed beat. I did not. Some nights the

archive can starve. The body needs a win that is not exportable. Jester shadow is avoiding deep talk. This was not deep talk. This was deep play, which is how I get honest without a monologue. Willow stole a dropped stick once and returned it like a stagehand. Someone clapped for her. She accepted the praise with the dignity of a creature who has never missed a deadline. I am taking notes. Freelance loneliness vs public pulse Deadlines and dummy books can make a person hermit-shaped. The photo book is still V4 on my floor. Eli still has opinions about cool versus gesture. Sedona retreat planning still lives in a folder named maybe_real. None of that disappeared because I hit a tambourine. What changed was the volume of the lonely channel. Shared pulse is cheaper than therapy and louder than scrolling. I am not romanticizing poverty of ambition. I still need invoices. I still need

selects. I still need Sedona logistics that do not collapse into vortex tourism cosplay. I also need unplanned music so my work does not become only extraction. Photojournalism without participation starts to smell like extraction after a while. I would rather smell like dust and sweat. Procrastination will try to rebrand drum circles as research. Fine. Research counts if I show up again. Research does not count if I only post about it and never return with empty hands. What goes in the notebook tonight Notes from the plaza: light angle around 6:40, wind from the west, kid on scooter who almost joined and then got shy, man in a suit who stayed for three songs like his calendar had a secret hole. I wrote them after Willow got her dinner, because notes without food become poetry cosplay. The book still needs honesty more than vibes. The circle reminded me that emptiness and noise can sit

next to each other without a caption. Maybe that is the spread I have been missing: not another almost-circus frame, but the feeling of a public that assembles itself without a producer. If you are in Santa Fe and you hear drums near the bandstand, bring water and leave the performance ego at home. If you only want dog content, Willow accepts freeze-dried liver and unsolicited compliments about her stage presence. Closing Reflection Tonight the tambourine is not mine and the memory is. The camera battery is full and unused, which used to feel like failure. Tonight it feels like a choice. catch you later! 🌧️ next: more plaza air, more dummy pages that can sit without me defending them, one Sedona planning block that is boring on purpose. if you want to join a circle or a walk, say so. if you only wanted Willow updates, she is currently asleep on a contact sheet like a critic.