She had no rythym, so she made a drum
For a while, I had felt that something was missing from my breathwork sessions.
Sometimes, as the breath begins to build, I want a simple rhythm beneath it. Something steady and earthy that can support the intensity without taking over. A drum felt like the perfect addition to my practice.
But buying one never felt quite right.
I looked at different drums, but none of them felt like mine. Beneath that hesitation were also some old stories I had carried since school. Stories that I had no rhythm. That “Bek can’t even tap to the beat.” That I couldn’t hear the different instruments in a song, let alone play one.
Those stories were still quietly shaping what I thought I could and couldn’t do.
Over the years, several beautiful friends had shared their experiences of travelling away to craft, or birth, their own medicine drums. They described it as more than making an instrument. It was a rite of passage, an initiation and a deeply personal part of stepping into their healing work.
That felt right to me.
I could create my own drum. It wouldn’t simply be something I used. It would be connected to me, my work and the land I hold space on.
Everything at Nurture Creek feels interconnected. The yurt sits within the land rather than apart from it. Guests come and stay within our home and our lives. The right animals seem to find their way to us. Each part grows from and connects with everything else.
My drum needed to arrive in the same way.
After some research, I found the beautiful Laura from Wilderness Within Offerings and booked a day to craft my own medicine drum at her property near Castlemaine.
Beginning With My Birth Story
Before the workshop, Laura asked me to learn more about my own birth story.
It wasn’t something I had ever really explored before, so I sat down with my mum and asked her to tell me about it.
That conversation was a beautiful experience in itself.
When we hear our birth story, we often listen from the perspective of the baby. We look for what the story says about us. But this time, I tried to listen to Mum as a woman and as a friend.
How had she felt?
Had she been scared?
Had she felt supported?
What had the experience been like for her?
If you still have the opportunity to speak with your mum and have never heard your birth story, I recommend setting aside some time to ask her. Sit with her and let her tell it as her story, without immediately making it about you as the baby.
There can be something very healing in simply listening.
During the drum-making day, Laura held space as I shared stories about my own birth, the births of my children and the birth of Nurture Creek.
We spoke about my own birth as a space holder too. About how we arrive in the world, how we continue to become ourselves and how our stories can either hold us back or propel us forward.
Meeting the Drum
The first part of the process was connecting with the wooden frame.
My frame was made from willow. I noticed its markings, unevenness and imperfections. I noticed the stories I immediately attached to those details, but I also noticed the beauty within them.
The frame didn’t need to be flawless to be right.
Then came the kangaroo hide.
I found this part confronting.
I don’t feel comfortable with animals being consumed or used carelessly, so I carried some conflict around working with the hide. But rather than avoiding that discomfort, I spent time connecting with it.
This hide had once belonged to a living animal.
That life had ended, and now the hide was becoming part of something new. A drum that would support people through breathwork, healing, release and reconnection.
There was something incredibly powerful in acknowledging both the death of the animal and the birth of the drum.
I feel a strong connection to the spirit of the land at Nurture Creek, and bringing a kangaroo-hide drum into the yurt feels deeply aligned. It carries the wildness, strength and wisdom of this place.
A Process That Flowed
The crafting process was detailed and intricate, but it unfolded with surprising ease.
In many ways, it reminded me of my own birth experiences. Everything felt perfectly timed, uncomplicated, quick and flowing.
The weaving, pattern-making and construction came naturally. Adjustments were made without hesitation. I didn’t overthink every step or worry about whether I was doing it correctly.
I simply kept moving.
The birds, the bush, Laura’s gentle support, an amazing tray of very thoughtful and nourishing food and a perfectly sunny winter’s day all held the process.
By the end of the day, the drum was complete.
And somehow, something in me felt complete too.
Knowing When Something Is Wrong
After the workshop, I stopped off to connect with the bush, watched kangaroos and breathed by a waterfall, it was incredible, I was very grounded and totally zen.
Until, I arrived at the Airbnb I had booked for the night.
Almost immediately, I knew it was wrong.
The space was messy, uncomfortable and felt completely unsafe. It was the absolute opposite of the nurturing, grounded experience I had just spent the day immersed in.
I had planned to stay overnight and enjoy some time away, but every part of me was telling me to leave.
So I did.
I packed up and drove the long journey home in the dark, even though I was tired.
That decision became another important part of the experience.
The old version of me would have stayed because that was the plan. I would have told myself I had paid for it, that I wanted the night away and that changing plans would be inconvenient or wasteful.
The newer version of me knows that when something is wrong, you often know it in your bones.
Following that knowing is not dramatic or difficult. It is self-trust.
I no longer want to force myself to stay in places, situations or stories that do not feel right simply because they were part of the plan.
I follow what I feel, trusting that doing so will move me towards everything I am capable of becoming.
Creating the Beater
The following day, I walked through the bush at Nurture Creek looking for the right stick to become the drum’s beater.
It felt like the second stage of the drum’s creation.
I found a long, fairly straight gum branch with bark already beginning to peel away. It had a small fork at one end that looked perfect for holding the padded head of the beater.
As I walked towards the shed, I kept wondering where I should cut it to create the right length.
I tapped it against a fence post to test its strength, and it snapped in what appeared to be exactly the right place.
No measuring or cutting was needed.
It simply became the length it needed to be.
All that remained was to sand it, dry it and soften the edges.
I then collected alpaca fleece from our own animals and, with a little help from Google and a felting needle, began creating the padded head.
That part took almost as long as making the drum itself, but it feels worth it.
The beater is made from a gum branch found on our land and fleece from the alpacas who live here. It feels every bit as connected to Nurture Creek as the drum itself.
The First Beat
The drum is almost dry now.
Tonight, I will play it for the first time.
I don’t yet know exactly how it will sound or how it will become part of my breathwork sessions. I don’t know what rhythms will come through me or what old stories will continue to fall away as I learn to use it.
But perhaps that is the point.
I didn’t create this drum because I already knew how to play it.
I created it because something in me knew it was time.
The woman who once believed she had no rhythm has crafted a drum with her own hands.
Now, I get to listen for what comes next.
Want to connect?
