Stepping into the past to face the future

I click off the television with a disgusted growl. Why do I let the worst of the world, the wars, the disease, the suffering, and the stress parade around my living room?! I need a break from the news, a break from the images, a break from the voices droning on about the worst of the world's headlines. I need to find a moment in which to breathe, to just be still, to find my balance..

I reach into the tub of cool water, testing the floating rawhide with my fingers. I feel the softened circle wrap around my hand as I lift it out, laying it on the soft, dry towel. Perfect! Soft enough to bend with ease, yet not so soft that it has become thick and heavy with water. As I blot the drops of moisture off it's surface, I feel the slight roughening on one side, my fingers reading the story of the moose as if the slight nicks and bumps, the tiny divots and scars are a unique type of braille.

The pure white of the wooden Ash ring that will become the frame of my drum is broken only by the golden strokes of the grain of the wood, stretching like rays of sunshine across a neverending sky. I gather the damp, softened lacings of rawhide, already beginning to run them through my fingers, and shutting out everything around me, I begin to speak to the objects' spirits with my hands.

As I smooth the circle of rawhide over the wooden ring that will give it strength and hold it taut, my fingers quickly seek the smoother side and tuck the rougher side underneath, the story of the animal who gifted me with it's spirit will be hidden in the heart of the drum, a secret only I will know. Making sure it is centered, my fingers begin to coax the lacings through the holes that I have made in the edges of the rawhide, evenly positioned around the centre. It must be balanced, if the holes and the lacings are too far apart or too close together, if the balance is off, so to will it's voice be off. Too high, too low, too muffled or sharp, any of these sounds will not carry the pure voice of it's spirit. And I tease the lacings, begging them, coaxing them to give enough of themselves to have balance in the give and pull of the ties that bind this drum. It must give just enough, not too much as to make it thin and threatening to break, yet not too little as to make it thick, muting the tone of the drum.

I spin the drum from side to side, balancing the sides, guiding the give and pull, watching it come together, the spirit of wood and animal and water, come alive, melding into the spirit of the drum. The smooth top of the drum is fresh and clean, a new page to fill with the stories it will tell, the songs it will sing, the prayers it will whisper. But along with the new, the original stories will be held in it's heart, tucked safely deep inside.

As I watch the spirit of the drum begin it's life, I can almost smell the smoke from the fire of long ago. I swear I hear the muted words and soft laughter around me that came from a time when we gathered together, sharing our days and discoveries and truths with our family and friends as we created our spirit voices. The voices that we brought together through times of sorrow and times of joy, through times of prayer and gratitude, created by combining our spirits with those of the animals, of the wood and of the water.

When I have finished winding the ends of the lacings into the hand grip at the bottom and have tucked the edges underneath the wooden ring so they will dry smooth and not sharp and brittle, I carefully place it on the table to dry. Once it is dry I will decorate it, give it more strength by marking my medicines on it's cover. I take a step back and hear the noise of the world begin to break in once again. With a final whispered thank you to the moose, the wood and the water for coming together to create this voice that will reach for the heavens, I reach for the doorknob....

And I walk back into the real world, renewed, at peace and balanced, ready to face tomorrow.