I’VE BEEN READING a book on theoretical physics lately. It’s not your usual cuddle-up-in-front-of-the-fire material, but it fascinates me. The ideas the book contains ask me to reconsider things I assumed I knew. I like that. It keeps my thoughts fresh, and it keeps me curious.
I never fared well in science classes at school. I believe it was the teaching methods that discouraged me. Dissecting frogs and making baking soda rockets and exploding volcanoes was fun but not really inventive. My reading during those years was about Ptolemy, Copernicus and Einstein’s early work on special relativity. So science class was drudgery. Some part of me understood implicitly that the universe was a living, growing thing, and I wanted to understand it better. I was a long way then from the traditional teachers and awe-inspiring metaphysics of my people, but I carried that yearning like a hidden gene. Something big out there was calling for my attention.
When I did get the chance to learn about our Native beliefs, I was ready. I never had a problem accepting the presence of unseen worlds or beings. I never struggled with the concept of Great Spirit, of all things existing as energy. The strong connection between Western science and Aboriginal belief systems has become ever more apparent to me over the years. Both have the capacity to evoke wonder. It’s a very human experience to peer off into a web of stars and feel awe descend on you like cosmic dust. Wonder is the place where theories are born. It’s where legends and teachings and ceremonies have their genesis. Wonder connects science to philosophy. It also connects people.
There’s no one among us who hasn’t been floored by something unexpected, new or strange. All of us have been touched by the wondrous in something simple or common: the gleam of a dragonfly wing in the sunshine, the whirr of a hummingbird, the haunting call of a bird in the dark.
The hand drum that hangs on our wall is made of deerskin and wood. Although it’s imperfect, it’s beautiful in the plainness of its construction and the intent of its design. A Cree woman came to Vancouver to give a drum-making workshop when Deb and I were living there. Neither of us had made a drum before, and we were excited at the prospect.
The workshop took place at a local college. I remember it well, because of the laughter and the joy the participants took in learning something new. There were all kinds of people working together that day: First Nations, Asian, South Asian, German, Australian and English. Every face wore a look of pride.
There is a philosophy involved in drum building. From our leader, we learned that all cultural groups have drums. Drums are common to our human experience. There is also a science to the making of a drum, and I appreciated being introduced to the principles of elasticity, geometry and resonance. The day flew by. Deb and I came away with a feeling of fulfillment and a pair of great-sounding drums.
For a while, we played those drums often. Then, when a friend helped us move to our new home in the mountains, I gave him my drum as a gift. That’s the tribal way. You offer things you have created, struggled for, to honour the act of gift-giving. My friend had never owned a drum, and my gift to him strengthened our friendship.
We still have the drum Deb made, and we use it regularly in ceremonies and at gatherings. That drum has been blessed and smudged. I played it during the entry song for Deb at our wedding. It’s a valuable tool for us on our spiritual path. And every now and then, whether in the quiet of the evening or early morning or when the room is full of friends, that drum will make a sound all on its own. Sometimes the sound is like a pluck on the thongs that keep the drum strung tight. Other times, it’s as if someone had tapped softly on its face. Sometimes the drum even shifts a little in its position on the wall.
Friends unfamiliar with drums will stare at our drum uncomprehendingly when that happens. Deb and I just smile in the drum’s direction and say hello. It’s as though an unseen visitor is assuring us that we are not alone, that we are being watched over and protected. That’s a very special feeling, and one we welcome. Drums embody all the love and energy that went into making them, and those sounds are like that energy returning. Some people would attribute them to changes in the air, to dampness or the heat from the woodstove. But for us, the drum sounds indicate the presence of the spiritual.
Magic and mystery exist all around us. I believe that we carry moonbeams and stardust and the whirl of comet tails within, and we will merge into those elements when this physical life has ended. By greeting our universe with wonder, we prepare ourselves to receive its secrets. That’s not scientific, perhaps, but it sure feels better that way.