It is remarkably difficult to puncture an elk skin. I stand before it with a hammer and awl, calculating the blow. The circular swath, still damp from soaking, is tough and wants me to know it.
There are others taking this workshop and I can’t help but notice how the skin cuts like paper in their hands. I swing the hammer. Muster an indent. Try again.
Particles of skin gather and smear. The vegetarian in me coughs and gags. I breathe through my nose and pretend that this is canvas, a particularly stretchy tarp. “Hit the hell out of it,” the man next to me suggests. “I mean really just slam it, you know?”
Yeah, I know. But the hammer lowers and I brace for the crunch of metal on thumb.
This is me on a Saturday afternoon, making a 16-inch round frame drum. In this workshop we build in the Native American tradition — setting intentions, birthing the drum with reverence. These drums have a voice, our teacher says, and their songs will carry on forever.
I think about the metaphorical implications of going out into the world and letting our voices carry. Like a drumbeat calling, we all have stories that resonate. Note by note, our songs make us who we are.
***
A few years back I started a personal, anonymous blog on another platform. At the time, I was two years out of an MFA program and seeking an imperative to write. At the time, I wrote not from my heart but from a sense of self akin to the voice of Bridget Jones. I made lavish use of hyperbole and drew myself in character: a girl who took martini lunches and talked of stapling things to her boss’ head.
This is no way to keep a job, and so the ending of that story is predictable. In the sordid aftermath I packed my desk and returned home to see about doing things differently. I determined to write a new song for my life, one born of something other than fear and discontent.
What I have learned is that through action or inertia, life moves forward. What I have learned is that each day offers opportunity to do things differently. What I have learned is that we have a choice, always, in how to think and who to be.
So I said goodbye to the Martini Girl of times past, the snarky character with her pointy-toed shoes. I stepped away from writing what I thought others would find funny or raw. I settled for the truth of my own experience, and started following the inexplicable tug of my heart. It’s a song I make up every day, and I don’t believe it has one particular end. But in a thousand bumbling ways, it carries me again and again to a thing I’d call joy.
Sit with me awhile and I’ll tell you how it goes.
***
It’s late on a Thursday night. I’ve ventured out to hear Destroyer play a set at the North Star, a show worth the sacrifice of sleep.
Daniel Bejar peers into the crowd from center stage, squinting through his hair. He sways slightly, and I’d guess this has something to do with the cluster of empty bottles behind him. Daniel leans into the mic. The keyboard player grins.
This song’s called…
…um…
He dives into it then, the music rising, and it doesn’t matter what the song is called, or whether the singer knew what to call it in the first place. He plays and the band is right there with him, and we move to the music like we all had the foresight to know what was coming.