More than once in my life, I’ve lived close enough to a fledgling drummer to have it disturb my sleep. In one apartment, the young drummer was a completely nocturnal creature who didn’t seem to begin practice until approximately midnight. And a great deal of practice would be very, very, very necessary before he was a good drummer. Even as a music lover, finding tranquility with his passionate but primitive efforts was difficult. Fortunately for me, my neighbors agreed. Fortunately for the drummer, lynching is no longer a common practice. There were a flurry of police visits, some words at the volume of snare shots, and eventually an empty but trashed apartment the drummer left behind. Tranquility? Sometimes a semblance will have to do.

Now, deep in the Oregon forests, I have an easier time finding peace and quiet. Still, I have a drummer next door again. This drummer also seems primarily to love the noise, and a steady rhythm is elusive for him. He’s a headbanger to extremes. Literally, because he’s a red-breasted sapsucker. Yep, a bird, a woodpecker who bangs his head against a birdhouse every morning for the sheer delicious volume of it. He’s moved on from the metal roof and gutters that first brought him noisy glee earlier in spring. It’s communication, it’s a declaration of territory, and perhaps a search for a mate. In short, it’s exact behavior to the human drummer I just mentioned.

This gives me pause. Am I a hypocrite because I love the sapsucker but called the police on the human? Is human behavior any less a part of nature than the bird’s? Is the difference in my reaction simply a matter of the quality of the playing?

I ask this last question because I also recently lived near one of the best drummers on Earth: Steve Smith, known by many for his years anchoring the rhythms of rock superstars Journey, and one of the finest jazz/fusion drummers ever. I’d smile when I walked by Steve’s place, hearing his diligent practice, from driving to delicate. I thought of the positive passion his music has inspired worldwide. I felt blessed to be in the presence of such discipline, creativity and skill. I did not call the police.

As I wait now for the sapsucker’s next inevitable solo, I also think of how often our intended creations have unintended results. The apartment builder surely didn’t imagine hosting midnight trap kit thrashing, or causing neighborhood feuds. The birdhouse builder didn’t envision it being ignored as a home, but delighting birds as a noisemaker. The carriage house at Steve’s place wasn’t built to be a music studio. Still, each creation found new function perfectly, a testament to the creativity and resourcefulness of all beings. And if there’s tranquility to be found in this, it’s in finding peace with the unintended consequences of our actions and creations. It’s in appreciating that every object and being around us has many hidden possibilities. It’s in realizing that even the worst drummer on earth, if he practices long enough, may someday be half as good as Steve Smith—if the neighbors don’t kill him first. He may even find a mate, just like the sapsucker outside. Maybe that too will improve his rhythms, and give him tranquility at last. Practice is always the key.

This entry was posted on Saturday, June 19th, 2010 at 12:04 pm and is filed under Grace and Tranquility, Wild Grace. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.