It’s October of 2022 and I’ve made my way to Melbourne for 2 days. One of the most important trips I’ve ever taken, one I've waited a long time for - I’m here to birth my shamanic drum in ceremony.
I’m the first to arrive, greeting the drum midwife and her apprentice with open arms and a nervous smile. I’m led to a room filled with plush rugs and a divine alter with wild antlers that steal my breath. The apprentice drums over my body to welcome me in and I feel like I always do when surrounded by drumbeat - transported back to another life dancing around the bonfire with my tribe, moving my body to ancient rhythms of power and connection. The smile on my face is anything but nervous now. I know I’m mean to be here.
I find my place in the circle and watch as the other women start arriving. They fill the room with laughter and bright smiles, hugging and chatting. Some of these women know each other, and others make quick friends. I’m greeted by each, but remain in my chosen spot. I start to feel removed from the group. It's something I always do, try to figure out where I am in the "hierarchy" so I can behave accordingly - and right now, I feel like I’m somewhere near the top. I mean at this point I have 9 years of shadow work under my belt, and I'm about to embark on a 6 month Shamanic Practitioner training. I’m more than ready to birth my drum.
The first 24 hours mirrors my belief of this.
It’s a seamless process of opening the circle, sharing our intentions and allowing the hoops and hides to choose us. I’m chosen by Kangaroo. They symbolise adaptation, protection, stamina, as well as making wise choices. They’re an animal of leadership, known for leaping, toward something new or away from something dangerous. Kangaroo only ever moves forward. They represent times of big transition in life, offering us balance and the ability to remain grounded and connected to the Earth.
Yes, this all resonates, I think to myself.
We cut our hides, and put them out to soak under the full moon. Even though I go to bed feeling aligned and powerful, I can’t sleep. As day 2 of ceremony begins I feel like my eyes are going to fall out of my head, but I don’t mind, because today I get to weave my drum. I choose to weave in private, going into a room where there’s only one other woman, but she keeps to herself, which is perfect for me.
I finish my drum relatively quickly, without any of the hurdles we were told to expect - see, I’m meant for this. I walk out to find the midwife, I want to tell her I’m finished. I feel like a little child proud to show off her artwork. But when I walk into the other room I’m greeted by everyone else still weaving and am instantly crippled. My drum is ugly compared to theirs. I immediately start to panic.
The midwife catches my eye and says “come, tell me.”
“I hate it.” I whisper, as the tears start falling from my exhausted eyes.
In one small second I’ve gone from being proud - of finishing first, of not hitting any hurdles, of creating a shamanic drum - to being shoved into a truth that threatens to consume me whole.
“Why?” The midwife asks me.
My heart feels like it’s about to shrivel up and die in my chest, and my mouth is so dry the words wont come out. I’m really panicking now.
“It doesn’t look how I wanted it to. The lacing is all fat and uneven. I wanted it to be pretty and thin and symmetrical and it doesn’t look like it should.”
This reflection is devastating. The fact that '“not good enough” still lives in me, despite my 9 years of healing it, makes me want to fucking scream. I tell the midwife my story of not good enough and the role my mother played in that. I tell her how I was abandoned in my moments of need. I sob in her arms and she holds me in a way I was never held by my own mother. She strokes my hair and tells me to be with my births - those of my children, my abortions, and my own birth.
I’m crying in earnest now. I’m confused. I’m hurting. I don’t like this.
I walk between the circle, which is now empty, and the room where I was weaving.
I sit in one, and then the other, just continuing to cry.
The apprentice tells me I’m brave for being with my emotion. I can barely muster a smile to acknowledge her.
I pick up one of the birth books and flip to a random page. The heading reads forceps delivered babies - but none of my babies were forceps delivered and neither was I, this is a waste of my time. But I breathe, and choose to read on anyways, because I know the value in being open to receiving messages. The first 3 sentences I read carve a little hole in my heart;
Often feel pressured in life. Find that when they really want to be going for it, they feel stuck or held back by situations and/or people, and need someone or something to pull them out, in order to free themselves of the pressure of it all. May ‘explode’ with anger and aggression because they are so ‘tanked’ by whatever is happening.
It starts to makes sense.
I had shoulder dystocia at birth. My son had shoulder dystocia at birth. My abortions both carried the energy of being pulled out.
I need help, I need someone to pull me out.
I ask the midwife if I can undo my drum and reweave it.
She tells me I have to ask my drum.
I’m starting to feel a glimmer of hope now. I can rewrite this story. I can make it the way I see it in my mind.
My hands hover over the final knot, my eyes closed and I pray, asking my drum if she will let me reweave her. I honestly don’t care what the answer is, I just want to redo it. I want a chance to recreate my story, outside the shadow of replaying my mother’s stories.
I hear her answer; “Yes, but you will lose something in the process if you choose to redo it.”
Great, I don’t fucking care what I lose if it means I can rid myself of this nightmare I continue to repeat. My hands are shaking with excitement now.
The midwife sits with me as I begin to undo the weaves, she has to keep reminding me to be slow, intentional.
I’m trying.
I reweave the lacing. It takes us three goes because the laces won’t align in the centre. I've twisted them to create what looks like arteries holding the hide in place and they end up in a triangle at the top right corner, but I kind of like it. I tie it off, feeling much better, but thoroughly exhausted.
Once everyone is complete, we gather to show our drums and tell our stories. Some of these women’s drums are phenomenally weaved, I can see the beauty - they look exactly like a shamanic drum should.
I look down at my drum, seeing how different it is from everyone else’s and I'm thrown back into my truth - I still hate my drum.
I shove the thought of “What the fuck is wrong with me?” aside, as the midwife drums us into a journey to greet the spirit of our own drums.
In this journey I'm taken to the heart of a dark forest with a great white stag and large white wolf protecting the innermost sanctity of the space. Animals from far and wide come to see my drum, and I know that her drumbeat will sound in time with the heartbeat of the forest. She tells me her name is Destiny.
I want to laugh at the audacity and the stupidity, and am severely doubting my entire experience now. We close the circle and I leave with my drum and an unsettled feeling of dread. I just want to go home and forget about the whole thing - maybe I’ll burn her - but it’s late and I have a migraine. I fall into the hotel bed and stare at my drum sitting in the other room. I drift in and out of focus, letting my sore heart wander.
And then it hits me; “I twisted my drum to try and fit in, but in the process I lost the original image of her.” Which I immediately know translates to; “I twisted myself to try and fit in, but in the process I lost the original image of me.”
Devastated, and in deep reverence to the reflection I’ve received, I cry, my head beating to the haunting rhythm of my yet-to-be-played drum.
I make a note that I really should be more careful with what I wish for. I’d set the intention to birth a drum that pierces the veil of truth, and that’s exactly what I did.
Bình luận