Aug 15 | God’s Heartbeat (Letters from the Coast)

August 5^th found me once again decked out in red with my bodhrán on the bus, Skytrain, and a second bus, headed to Westridge Marine Terminal. The last time was almost exactly a year ago. I wore the same Tshirt (“Defend the Sacred,” from NTVS), the same “Janie” clergy shirt underneath, the same white stole gifted to me by a friend that I now think of as my “protest stole” (it’s covered in buttons and ribbons, souvenirs from other actions and important events like the TRC), and the same red kerchief on my head to keep the sun off.

The event was “Drums, Not Drills,” and I was ready.

My bodhrán and I had been specifically invited by my friend L, who is a warrior, having been arrested for blocking the gates of the tank farm and the terminal, and for chaining herself to a tree with her priest, my other friend the Rev. Laurel Dykstra. I feel strangely comforted bringing the drum with me. I had brought it to a gathering for the first time in April of 2018, and I can’t quite remember why. I don’t know that anyone told me to. Perhaps there was a call to bring instruments and it was the one that was easiest to transport. The day had been rainy, and I had brought a plastic bag just big enough for it. It had been given to me by my father, and I had only taken three or four lessons with it. For the most part I had only ever used it on the little albums I record for Lent and Advent. But it seemed appropriate especially as a white settler, as it is an instrument of my own people, and for the fact that I rather think my father would not approve of me participating in such actions, having been in the resource industry for most of his life (he was a lumber salesman). I like to think I am turning the river of history by using it for this purpose.

There is always an inevitable moment where one recognizes the kindred spirits nearby, and I saw some of these as I wove my way through the crowds at each new station. Some of them remembered me from other events, and asked me if I knew where the stop was. We didn’t sit together, but everyone knew we were together.

We arrived at the stop to find a helpfully placed banner (“Respect UNDRIP” #protectheinlet #stopkindermorgan) three drumming folks at the brow of the hill leading down to the oil tanks looking over the inlet. I drummed with them for a bit before heading down to the grassy patch near the road, which had tents and tables piled with food. Elders, middle-aged people, young people, little kids, dogs – everyone was represented. Folks I remembered from other days of action were there. Politicians, including Svend Robinson, were there. Taiko drummers grinned from under a tent. Later they would play for us, stances wide and powerful.

L stood with her Salal and Cedar banner. Her smile is like the first sun of the morning – gentle, filling you up. We stood together for a time and met some new people. One of them, a young teacher, stared at my clerical collar.

“Can you tell me what that’s about?” she said.

L and I laughed. “Well, I’m not sure what – it’s real, if that’s what you mean!” I said.

She laughed too. “Oh yeah! I didn’t know if it was like…a political statement, or – ”

“Yes,” L said, and I laughed some more.

There was a moment just before we began where I stood in the shadow of the Taiko tent, and I didn’t figure out who began it, but someone started to drum, just a simple stroke. There was no call, no invitation. Only the rhythm. Slowly, it grew louder and louder as more and more of us joined in. No one spoke. One woman tried to add extra beats, to get fancy, but it didn’t go anywhere and I saw her calmly return to that heartbeat.

The energy of the gathering shifted perceptively for me. The force of combined intent, of human hearts in sync, was breathtaking. When it ended, it ended, and the schedule continued. But I never forgot those long moments when it seemed our flesh, our brains, our hearts became permeable, and our blood rolled out invisibly to coat the skins of our drums, and it gave me hope for the future.

One Indigenous woman who I had seen at many of the actions spoke with such conviction and power, her voice almost a growl, weaving poetry into the air from the depth of her heart.

“I stood before that Kinder-Morgan gate and I knocked once for the children of the North,” she intoned, and several of the people around her cheered and beat their drums.

“I knocked twice for the children of the East!” she continued, and more of us cheered.

“I knocked three times for the children of the South! I knocked four times for the children of the West!” she roared. “I knocked to tell them, ‘We are coming for you!’”

There were songs. At times my arm got tired, so I stood behind one of the large stones littering the grassy patch and hoisted my foot up to rest on the one in front of me. I imagined it looked powerful, and giggled that it was really so I could rest my elbow on my thigh.

We drummed in the four directions, turning and touching the earth. Another Indigenous elder spoke fondly of the two large orca balloons three men held up with sticks. “Last time I saw those you made them dance when I sang the whale song,” she said, smiling. “I wanna see that again.” She got her wish; the men walked back and forth, bouncing their sticks, making the whales bob and weave. I wept and didn’t really know why. It was probably the delight in her voice.

Finally, we went on a sort of pilgrimage down a footpath through the woods around the outer boundary of the tank farm, drumming and singing. Hikers paused to stare. There was some hollering back and forth between elders and workers. All of it seemed fairly good-natured, at least on our side. We were told a story of a 70-year-old man who scaled a tree to remove the metal plate which kept eagles from nesting there.

I was bushed when we came back, but so glad I went.

I couldn’t say why I feel compelled to attend some of these actions. To many folks, this one in particular, in which we participated in no direct action, may have looked frivolous. Folks told stories, and we sang some songs and ate, and made signs. But no-one got arrested.

I ask myself sometimes, What good will this do? The government has made it abundantly clear that it doesn’t care about our actions, our stories, our demands, or our pleading. It will go on being addicted to oil. The earth is burning and no-one who can really do anything about it will.

And yet can I really say that nothing will occur when God’s people of all colours, creeds, languages, and nations come together to drum as one?

Could that have been God’s heartbeat I heard in the shadow of those tents?