Sometime in the fall of 2011, the drum circles lost their heartbeat. Vernon Lewis, drummer, teacher, friend, and among the most peaceful people I’ve ever known, passed away after a hard fight, his lungs finally giving out in the ICU. And though the drums he loved have gone quiet in his hands, the rhythm he set still echoes in everyone who ever sat in a circle with him.
Vernon was never the type to demand attention. He drew it anyway, the quiet way, through steadiness, through warmth, through the sheer joy he took in the beat. I don’t think I ever saw him angry.
Not once. He was laid back in a way that made the people around him breathe easier. Always fair. Always honest. Always exactly who he said he was.
I didn’t write a formal obituary. I wrote the story of how a photographer and a drummer crossed paths at a Renaissance Faire, and how his easy generosity pulled me into a world of rhythm I never expected to love.
How We Met
I met Vernon the way I met a lot of good people back in those days, I was the photographer, and he walked up to me. That was common. Someone would see the camera and ask for a few shots. Vernon wanted photographs of himself and his girlfriend, Vic, VicToria, and so I took them, the way I always did. It was fun. It was easy. And that was that.
Except it wasn’t. Because Vernon didn’t just want a photographer. He wanted to share what he loved. And what he loved was drumming.
The Drum Circles
Vernon got me into drumming, at least for a little while. He brought me out to several drum circles, and I had a wonderful time at every one. If you’ve never been to one, a drum circle is a group of drummers sitting together in a ring, sometimes around a fire, sometimes around nothing at all, just gathered in a circle, playing. Sometimes for hours. The rhythm builds and folds over itself and carries everyone in it somewhere better.
I didn’t drum much myself. My wrists were always sore, especially after a long day working the Faire. So I did what I do best. I photographed them. And I got some really good photographs, Vernon at the center of it, surrounded by his drums, completely at home.
He had a whole collection of them, the Middle Eastern hand drums with the skin stretched over the top, each one with its own voice. He knew them all.
Village Mandala
Vernon built something bigger than a circle. He called it Village Mandala, and it was a fixture at the fairs and belly dance shows around Southern California. It was a community, drummers, dancers, friends, and Vernon was its steady center. He secured the domains for it, dreamed about building it out online, and used whatever tools he had at the time to keep everyone connected and coming back.
“How about joining me and the gang at Village Mandala to drum in the New Year? It is nice to be with friends.”
That was the spirit of it. Vic sent me that invitation one New Year’s Eve, and it captures exactly what Village Mandala was: an open door, a warm room, a place at the fire for whoever needed one. Free food, drummers, dancers, casual dress, no plane ticket required. Just come as you are.
More Than a Drummer
Vernon came to my birthday parties and drummed for hours. He gave without keeping score. One year he gave me a hat, a Middle Eastern one, with little mirrored pieces sewn into it that caught the light.
I loved that hat. I wore it to the Faire a few times, and every time I put it on I thought of him.
He signed his messages simply. ~V. He looked forward to shows and always seemed energized after one. When he needed a ride, I gave him one, and the drive was always good company. He was, in every small and ordinary way, a good friend, and I have often wished I’d been a better one back to him.
The Last Chapter
In October of 2011, Vernon went into the ICU on a ventilator.
Vic kept a small circle of us privately informed, guarding his privacy, asking for prayers and good thoughts instead of public posts. His lungs were in poor shape. She sat with him when she couldn’t sleep, open to a miracle. “All prayers and love he’ll accept,” she wrote. We held onto hope. But Vernon didn’t recover, and not long after, he was gone.
He was too young, and too good, to lose.
Vernon’s Legacy
Vernon Lewis didn’t chase fame. He chased the beat, and he brought people together around it. He built a village out of rhythm and welcome. He taught a wrist-sore photographer to hear music in a circle of drums, and he handed out kindness the way other people hand out business cards, easily, constantly, without expecting anything back.
The drums he played are the kind that have been passed hand to hand for a thousand years, and that feels right.
Because Vernon was a link in something old and good. He may be gone, but the rhythm he set still carries. It carries in every circle that still gathers, in every dancer who still moves to a hand drum, and in every photograph where he sits smiling among his drums, exactly where he belonged.
Rest in peace, Vernon. The circle is still turning. We just miss the sound of you in it.
Share Your Vernon Story
If you knew Vernon, from the Faire, from Village Mandala, from a drum circle around a fire, or from anywhere his rhythm reached, I’d love to hear about it. Leave a comment below or reach out to me directly. Share a memory, a photograph, a night you drummed until your hands ached.
Because the beat doesn’t stop when the drummer does. It gets picked up by the next pair of hands. And Vernon’s rhythm isn’t finished. It continues in everyone he ever welcomed into the circle.
