Tagged: story

Rolling Om: Drum Song.

Let me see now…just how to tell this story.?

I have been waiting to have the time to craft this post. It is an important one for me and a pivot.

I have taken a rotation. The round wheel has turned again. Rolling Om….

Northern ‘wynds’ are blowing into my dreams and moments of stillness….a shamanic twisting of my rhythm, an ancestral echo in my veins.

Here is bit of my personal songline, of course it’s all just another story……
A condensing of mysterious divine timing and alchemy. So here goes….

Drum Song.

The sky was black.
Love was not the ruler in this tower.
She sang and danced with the trees,
He glowered, possessive, and built walls.
She picked up all the 'empty bottles' before he had a chance to 'smash them' over her.
Their very skin had become stretched so tight that it would surely tear.

She flew away for a few days and found that others heard her song
and, on return, she sang it back to him.

He bellowed his song so loud it cancelled out her melody, so she sang louder too,
and like this,
stone by heavy stone,
they tore the tower down,
until they stood, exposed,

Tiny against this vast landscape.

She had paid, in silver,
a wise woman to teach her
to make a drum to accompany her singing.
He rumbled like thunder and denied her his blessing.
She waged wars in defence of their children
He defended only himself.
He ran and hid behind men, in his metal shelter, calling her insane,
accepting the food and the duty, but never her love.

And then, unbidden by her, a great fire came from nowhere
and burned his only cover to the ground.

He was left standing exactly where she had always stood,
but she was bathed in light and wonder,
while all he found was bitter wind and lack of comfort.

While his loss pained her, she could see now a gaping door, flung wide,
for her to stride through,
back into the garden, under the endless comfort of an enormous sky.

It is, though, she who grieves this ending,
while he just shuts his eyes and throws sharp arrows of blame,
always missing his target, as he does not see her, at all, anymore.

Somewhere a bell chimed.
And they both knew it was over.

All that she had lost was only her gain.
He is drowning in his own losses,
but sees loosing her as no loss at all.

And in the middle of all this a drum was born.

Then she was tested and the forest grew darker.
All, that once held 'home' together, was, systematically, severed.
Unprecedented, random, disasters,
One after the other.
And she had thought that bad luck only came in threes!
All security and feelings of safety lost.
So much, to process, over only 30  days,
that disbelieving laughter began to replace all the tears ....

And in between it all, she returns to and learns her drum.
Literally hanging onto it, for dear life itself.
Singing for the Earth becomes her greatest pleasure and only sanity.

And as she sings the visions come.
The resonance of past lives and ancestral calling.
Her long dead mother speaks with her of Northern lands, that bubble in her blood, 
Showing her paths that she had once known, but had forgotten.
What once seemed to be a dragon, turned out to be a whale.
And, guided by them, she goes deeper, under the ocean, for there no-one can touch her.
Once she was swallowed, whole, by a whale, that literally took her in and gave her protection.
Safe inside Whale.

And they are teaching her a song.

The budding leaves have never looked so fresh to her.
Her sap also rises with the spring and the ringing of her drum.
The land itself seems to rise in celebration of her release.
And the water, sweet water, carries her along.
She's fixing things, mending things, putting things back as they should have always been.
Everything she turns her hand to flows seamlessly,
An instinctive knowing in her palms guiding each action to fruition, 
Bird song returns to the once songless garden,
The heartbeat returns to her blossoming chest,
A lightness surrounds.... 
And as she breathes out, a black mist rises and dissolves into that enormous sky.
Accompanied by the unison of a thousand sisters, raising their voices for the trees,
She plays her drum and weaves it's circular om into
each new breath.....

And while all remains unknown,
She learns to trust in herself, again
guided by a new rhythm and creatures of the deep,
she surfaces and gasps, gratefully,

for air.


Kat Robertson. 23/03/19








After I lost my precious yurt the first thing I did, almost without thinking, was purchase a new Nordic tepee. I needed to bring myself and my work outside and I had already researched Sami birch flooring for the yurt, this was the beginning of the calling to the North. The Sami theme grew organically from there.
I had a very difficult relationship with my Finnish mother, due mainly to her mental illness, one I have spent much of my life doing inner work to resolve, but after looking after her, until her death in 2012, I found forgiveness and peace with all of that difficult time.
I inherited a lot of things from her…many of which I have barely looked at…until now…..

Also I have long enjoyed the sound of a good old Sami joik! It touches me deep inside somehow.
One of my Swedish friends klunes, which is a similar type of Scandinavian singing. I find the sound haunting and very beautiful. I have often toyed with the idea of giving it a go. Seems to me there is no prescribed way of doing it..the important thing to maintain is the intent, the ‘picture’ in your mind, or the vision in your eyes as you perform. It is a common solo practise among reindeer herders in the wild open landscape.
This one is to the trees. It was a funny thing, but I set the camera on a rock to film myself doing this, but it fell off, and then fell further as I was singing and drumming (this was the very first drumming experiment)….so it really became to the trees!

New drum. First time. Joik to the trees.

(Can’t quite believe this either!
I stopped working on this to go and feed my boy-men and fell into a bit of a debate about just how many books my younger son was using to press some flowers! A huge tower and all my precious books. As I took the tower down one book fell out. It was a beautiful book called ‘Akseli Gallen-Kallela’ all about a very famous Finnish artist. I had never really looked at it before. It also seems to belong to the Scottish-Finnish Society in Edinburgh (that was Mum for you!)…….
And look at the first image I saw when I opened it….this picture speaks very powerfully to me. I find it beautiful. His work looks amazing, looking forward to curling up with it tonight!)