The Broken DrumMiguel Dean
I am a broken drum that was neglected for a while.
You might not know that I was broken but I am.
One day I fell and now my wood is cracked.
I thought that I was not worthy of being played because I was damaged and imperfect and my shame kept me silent.
But I discovered by chance that if my skin is warmed and I am given a little love my beat still travels and enters the places where it is needed.
My song is launched into the eternity of space and bounces like a cosmic pinball off distant stars and planets.
And sometimes the human wound is the place where I enter as my low, gentle sound permeates and weaves its way deeply in.
My imperfect vibration hums home and sets the particles of being to dance and realign and clear.
For there is always clearing to be done in this earth realm, there is always space for one more sacred song to be sung by a broken drum.
Always a deeper layer as round and round life’s spiral dance whirls.
I am a broken drum who sometimes feels shame for his brokenness.
I feel it fully and surrender knowing that it was not my fault that I fell from the wall where I was hung.
The present is my home now and though I may fall again, I shall rise again too, like the wooden beater as it strikes the skin, stretched tight over my broken wooden frame.
I am a broken drum and I fell and my wood is cracked.
And yet still my heart song plays on.