I bought this drum several years ago after participating in a a ceremony in Wiltshire, England led by a pagan named Peter. I like how the translucent, stretched skin resembles the surface of the moon. I strung a leather cord from the holes bored into the drum's rim so that I could hang it up when not in use.
I made the drumstick soft by covering the head with felt. In an effort to attune to a sense of time set by natural cycles rather than by a calendar, I diligently drummed to celebrate the full and new moon. I lived in Long Beach and sometimes walked to the ocean's edge at dusk and drummed while sitting on the towel I set on sand.
When I moved to the small apartment in Echo Park two years ago, I hung the drum up on a bookshelf and didn't touch it. I was worried that I'd disturb my neighbors if I played, although the walls are pretty thick and it's unlikely they'd hear anything. I thinkly mostly I just didn't feel like playing the drum. To pick it up again would feel like 'a thing'. It takes a mental commitment to start up 'a thing' again after retiring it and I suppose I wasn't prepared.
Earlier this week I took it up again. I've drummed every day while meditating, holding it in my lap while sitting cross-legged on the floor. I bathe in vibration. The sound seems different to me every time - sometimes soft and sonorous, sometimes full and dissonant. Today its voice was deep and forboding, like a warning.
When I finish drumming, my hands, arms and legs tingle for a little while.