The Voice of the Drums

The Drums

The Voice of the Drums

Grandmother closes her eyes. "Now don't look," she says. "Now listen. Because there are stories you see, and stories you can only hear. This one you hear."

Do you hear it? Far away, beyond the trees. Tum. Tum. Tum.

It's a drum.

It seems like a simple sound to you. One beat, and then another, and then another. But that sound, children, is the oldest voice in the world. Older than words. When people did not yet know how to speak, they already knew how to beat. Tum. Tum. And they understood each other.

Here, in this land, drums were not made just for dancing. They were made for talking. From far away. When one village had something to tell another village, "a baby is born," "the rain is coming," "come to the feast," "watch out for danger," they couldn't very well shout, they were too far apart. And so they spoke with the drum. Tum-tum, tum, tum-tum. And the message flew over my leaves, from hill to hill, all the way to whoever needed to hear it.

I felt it pass, that message. It went right through me. It was the first way people had found to tell someone far away: I'm here. I'm thinking of you. I'm calling you. The drum was the first "I love you" sent from far away.

But there is something even more secret, and I'll tell it to you softly.

Do you know why the drum moves all of us, even today, even people who know nothing of these stories? Why something beats inside us when we hear it, and we don't understand what? Because the drum makes the same sound as our heart.

Tum. Tum. Tum. Put a hand on your chest. There. Do you feel it? You have a drum inside, every one of you. It has been beating since you were born and it will beat as long as you live, never getting tired, without you ever telling it a thing.

And do you know when you heard a drum for the very first time? Even before you were born. When you were tiny, inside your mama's tummy, in the dark and the warmth, the only thing you could hear was her heart. Tum. Tum. Tum. All day and all night. It was the first music of your life. It was your mama telling you, without words, with just her heartbeat: I'm here. I'm thinking of you. You are safe.

That is why when a drum plays, in the jungle, around the fire, people get shivers and sometimes their eyes grow wet and they can't explain why. Because something, inside them, remembers. It remembers the first drum. It remembers mama. It remembers when we were safe and loved and didn't know it yet.

That is why here there are always drums. When they play, in the evening, they aren't just making music. They are calling everyone home. They are telling each one, in the oldest language there is: you're here. We're thinking of you. You are safe.

Tum. Tum. Tum.

You hear it now too, don't you? Good. That one is yours. It never stops calling you home.

The Storm

The Great Orchestra

"Do you smell that scent in the air?" says Grandmother, sniffing. "That smell of earth even before it rains? It's coming. Don't run away. This time we'll stay and listen to it, the rain. I'll tell you about it while it comes."

Rain, here where we live, never arrives by surprise.

It announces itself. Like polite people, who knock before they come in. First it sends its scent: that smell of wet earth you notice in the air an hour before, which means "I'm coming, get ready." I have known that scent for millions of years. It is the rain's way of telling me: I'll take over now. You rest.

Then the wind changes. Do you feel it? It turns cooler, more restless. My leaves begin to turn over, to show their silver side, all together, like lots of little hands waving. It is the first instrument of the orchestra tuning up: the rustle of the leaves. Shhh. Shhh.

Then the sky grows dark, and the second instrument arrives. Far off, at first. A low, deep rumble that gets into your tummy more than your ears. Thunder. Lots of children are afraid of thunder. Not you, from tonight on. Because now you know what it is: it's just the sky's big voice clearing its throat before it sings. It grumbles, but it doesn't bite. Thunder has never hurt anyone. It's all noise and no teeth, like certain big, good-natured dogs.

And then, at last, here it is, the first drop. Plink. On a broad leaf. Then another. Plink, plink. And then a thousand, and then all of them together, and the whole jungle becomes an enormous drum played by a million fingers. Every drop that falls has its own different sound: one on a leaf, one on a stone, one in the water of the cenote that goes "plop," one on the roof, one on the earth that drinks it in silence. There is no music in the world richer than a storm in the jungle. None.

And do you know something? Every drop you hear falling was, a long time ago, somewhere else in the world. It was sea, it was river, it was the cloud that crossed the sky from far away. That drop landing on your nose right now has traveled farther than you will travel in your whole life. And it chose to fall right here, right on you. A storm is made of a thousand little travelers coming home.

That is why, when it rains, I don't tell you to run for shelter right away, right away. Of course, don't catch a cold, come in before it gets chilly. But for one minute, just one minute, stand still in the warm rain. Close your eyes. And listen to the orchestra: the rustle of the leaves, the big voice of the thunder, the million fingers on the jungle.

That is my favorite music. I have always played it, and I will still be playing it when you are grown and far away. And every time that, from somewhere else in the world, you hear a storm coming with that scent of wet earth ahead of it, stop for a moment.

It's me, calling you. Even from far away.