This is the story of the drum that found me, and how it became the beginning of my personal drum journey in Lapland.
A tale of unexpected timing, and trusting the undrotten path.
There’s an old saying that a drum should either be found, gifted, or made. That it’s not something you just go and pick up like a new pair of shoes. Personally, I find this rule refreshingly unmodern. But more importantly—I find it true.
The Drum That Found Me
My first drum didn’t arrive in a box. It arrived through a story.
Some years ago, while mindlessly browsing a Facebook group, I stumbled across a photo of a hand-carved swan made from reindeer antler. I remember commenting: “That would make a beautiful drum handle.” The artist replied: “My partner actually makes drums.”
And just like that, the door opened.
I never met the drum-maker in person, but when I saw the photo of one of her creations, I was already in too deep. The drum was dark, mysterious, almost otherworldly, but in the right light—when the sun caught it—flashes of green shimmered through the hide. It was called Metsänpeitto, named after the Finnish folk belief of a forest veil that can hide both people and paths.
Curiouse to read more about the Metsänpeitto – the cover/blanket of the forest? Wikipedia sums up well;
I didn’t choose this drum. It chose me.
Or maybe we simply remembered each other.
A Drum of My Own Hands
Eventually, though, the urge to create one myself became too strong to ignore. Not because the first one lacked anything—it didn’t. But I wanted a drum that would grow from my own hands, through a process I could feel from start to finish. (Besides, as one might joke in these circles: you’re not really a woman unless you’ve birthed at least one drum.)
So, I joined a small drum-making course in early June, held in the village of Sodankylä. (Sodankylä is a small town and municipality in the north of Finland). The location was already a poem—by the edge of a still lake, wrapped in soft swamp landscape. As we arrived, a group of swans—equal in number to us participants—glided silently onto the water.
Swans are Finland’s national bird. They’re also known to be monogamous, forming lifelong pairs. For me it was a sign: the bond between me and this drum would be one of deep loyalty and mutual recognition. Optimistic? Well, thats me.
Then came the moment that stayed with me the most: dyeing the hide.
I had chosen yellow dye specifically. Since my first drum, Metsänpeitto, had been dark and secretive—only revealing its deep green hue in direct sunlight—I felt I now needed the opposite. Something luminous. Something that held warmth. As I lifted the hide from the colour bath, something in me shifted.
Like I started believing in fairytales again.
Lacing the cords, binding the frame, shaping the tension—each step made me feel more connected. As if, by tying the drum together, I was also anchoring myself to something unseen.
This became one of my personal landmarks with my drum journey in Lapland, shaped not only by hands but by meaning, memory and midsummer light.
right there!
A Midsummer Dedication
I named this second drum Sirius, after the brightest star in the night sky (though here in Lapland, midsummer makes that a slightly ironic gesture). Sirius belongs to the constellation Canis Major—the great dog—which felt oddly fitting. All three of my drums so far carry a distinct feminine energy, each with her own presence, her own tone.
Traditionally, drums are “consecrated” at twilight—during the blue moment, just before darkness falls. But as you might know, Rovaniemi doesn’t really do darkness in June. So instead, I chose to dedicate Sirius on the summer solstice, high up on Vaattunkivaara hill.
No twilight. Just endless light.
I brought with me one element for each cardinal direction—earth, water, air, and fire. I drummed facing north, east, south, and west, and also made offerings to the upper world and the underworld, echoing how ancient Finnish folk belief divides reality.
Now, there are countless guides for how to “properly” awaken a drum. But since this was not a shamanic drum—nor am I a shaman—I trusted my intuition. I asked the drum how it wanted to begin.
Because when a drum is ready to reveal herself,
you don’t argue.
You just show up.
My Personal Drum Journey – it doesen’t stop here!
P.S. If you made it this far, you probably do want to know what happens next. Apparently, when it comes to drums (well, when it comes to anything), I have a lot to say. So yes — part two is just around the corner. In the meantime, you can sneak a peek at how these drums weave their magic into my live sessions from link below.