A New Drum

My hands rub the sinew, pulling it, twisting it straight, sewing it through the holes. The horsehide wet but still tough like beef jerky. I weave it in and out, through eleven parts of the drum, diving into the middle every time I’m crossing over to the other side.

I decided to make this drum on my own because it was calling. I have one already – one that was given to me and one that I’ve been trying to release somewhere, surrendering that relationship we were in that went sour and dissolved the heart of any goodness. Every time I would beat that drum I felt I called back his Spirit, getting rewoven in that tale of two anguished hearts.

This drum would be different, the one I made with my own two hands. I sanded down the hoop, smoothing out the rough edges of my past and the routes I took before standing in this spot here. Those tales of dating a Native man when I was 18 years old, his blood and his struggle still echoing in my heart. And the other Native man who showed airs of whiteness, the insensitivity of humiliating jokes and strokes became dominatingly sickening.  And the other Native man, homeless from his tribe yet persisting in standing for just causes – his persistence to right the wrongs of human injustice stood nobly on the forefront of his mind, not able to make room for healthy romances. Always wandering out of collective duty to do what he’s supposed to, drowning in an experience of the traveling life of hotel rooms and red wine, lingering alone at the bar on Friday evenings.   And the other Native man, Potawatomi. The man who didn’t know where he fit and so would go into inner fits of his own makings, claiming they were demons tormenting him and this was the way of shamans. When in truth, he couldn’t see the light of his own being, a lifetime of feeling unloved, bruised and beaten will do that to anyone who wasn’t looking.  His hat was his distinctive feature and the one last thing he had to hold onto.  Then the other man, faraway from home and his grandmother, who did well for feeding him seal before he was sent away to join the Army. He lost his son at too young of an age and was looking for comfort of any passing lady.   He held strong to the sensual order, Great Spirit he felt in the simple textures of wood, cedar smoke and humming respectful noddings. It was easy to feel the comfort of Spirit in his presence, even if only for a night.

This dance into the realm of Native spiritual journeys. Dreamcatchers, bad spirits, people who have been torn apart by life’s remorseful oppressions that send horror stories as shivers in the breasts of mothers who’ve only recently just started menstruating. People recovering from addictions and lost dreams, griefs of loved ones who’ve been torn apart by killing, rape or suicidal misgivings. Where has the Great Spirit gone in these parts? It seems, most times, She’s been missing from the protection of blessings.  Why so much pain in a group of people who have been trained to see Wisdom in every tree, leaf and rock?

This drum is my own making. It sings a new song. A fresh song. A woman’s song. My own song. Not a song of tragedy, fear, loss of power or hopelessness. It is a song of love, self-esteem, tenderness and endless creativity.  My drum shows me that I have a soft heart and one that has let go of the heartache of the past. This drum is fresh, new, willing to bring joy, awareness, a space of loving to be alive, instead of shriveled up and believing it is all pointless.  This drum will beat her own voice, one I’ve yet to acquaint with, a relationship we’re both entrusting with the other to bring sounds of crickets, grass swaying and deer hooves pattering. This drum will speak and heal all that needs uplifting, bellowing out to the world of Spirits to bring us back home to our callings. She does not know of anything called desperation and lostness. She is hope in its whole and simple form, fullness in her deep voice, gentleness in her deer skin.