The Sound of Remembering

People often ask me about the drums.

Or the rattles.

Or why I hold Moon Gatherings.

Sometimes the question is spoken.

Sometimes it's simply the look on their face.

"Isn't this all a little...different?"

Maybe.

Or maybe it only feels different because we've forgotten.

I don't remember receiving a rattle as a blessing when I came into the world.

I don't remember the heartbeat that surrounded me before I was born.

I don't remember gathering around a fire with my community.

But I wonder if some part of me does.

Because sometimes our bodies remember long before our minds do.

When I began my training in the Q'ero lineage, one of the required items was a rattle.

I was told it could help shift heavy energy.

That made sense.

What no one told me was how much fun it would be.

I couldn't stop shaking it.

Not because I was trying to clear heavy energy.

Simply because it made me smile.

A real smile.

The kind that arrives before you've had time to decide whether you're allowed to feel joyful.

Whenever I visited The Green Store in Belfast, I'd pick up every handmade rattle I could find and give each one a shake.

I'm fairly certain the person working there got a few laughs watching me.

The funny thing was...

I didn't care.

Somewhere between the first shake and the fourth, I'd forgotten to worry about looking ridiculous.

Joy has a way of doing that.

Maybe I wasn't learning something new.

Maybe I was remembering what joy felt like before I became so concerned with being quiet.

That realization changed more than my relationship with a rattle.

It changed how I began to think about ceremony.

About creativity.

About gathering.

About being human.

I've written before about Hummingbird, one of the archetypes I met through the Chakana—the Andean cross used in the Q'ero tradition. Hummingbird reminds us to live with joy, presence, and playfulness.

When I later encountered the Celtic traditions, I smiled.

Different land.

Different language.

Different stories.

The same invitation.

Remember joy.

Remember wonder.

Remember that life isn't only meant to be endured.

It's also meant to be lived.

Looking back, I think that's what family dinners once offered.

I remember laughter around the table.

Stories repeated until everyone already knew how they would end.

Someone insisting you hadn't eaten enough.

At the time, they just felt like Sunday.

Now I think they were ceremony.

Not because anyone called them that.

Because they gathered us together.

Today, gatherings like that have become surprisingly rare.

Maybe that's one reason a drum can feel unfamiliar.

Or a Moon Gathering can seem unusual.

Not because they're strange.

Because we've become unaccustomed to gathering with intention.

Drums came into my life more slowly.

I deeply respect traditions that use animal hides, but I found myself wondering if there was another way.

Eventually, I discovered beautifully crafted drums with high-quality synthetic heads that carried the rich, resonant sound I loved.

Then I looked at that blank drumhead...

and, well...

you probably know where this is going.

It was a canvas.

I couldn't help myself.

Now every drum becomes its own story.

Trees.

Animals.

Moons.

The Green Man.

Ancient symbols.

Each one completely unique.

Painting them brings me the same quiet joy I found while shaking that first little rattle.

The rattles became canvases too.

Every dried gourd carries a different shape.

Different paint.

Different beads.

Different crystals.

Different feathers.

Different story.

No two are ever alike.

Perhaps that's exactly the point.

Neither are we.

So when people ask me about the drums...

Or the rattles...

Or why we gather beneath the moon...

I don't really think they're asking about instruments or ceremonies.

I think they're asking something much deeper.

"Why do this at all?"

Because somewhere inside each of us is a rhythm we haven't completely forgotten.

A part of ourselves that still smiles when we make noise.

Still softens when we hear a drum.

Still longs to gather.

Still wants permission to play.

Perhaps curiosity is the first sound of remembering.

If you'd like to paint your own drum, I'd love to guide you.

If one of my handmade rattles finds its way into your hands, I hope it reminds you that joy doesn't need permission.

And if you find yourself sitting around the fire with us beneath the moon...

Don't worry if you don't remember exactly what to do.

I have a feeling your heart already does.

Because perhaps joy is how we know we've found our way home.