I invited an Anishinaabe woman to Backcountry Mystic to teach us how to make drums—and for once, nobody rolled their eyes. Not even Maris. Which is good, because I’m weirdly excited. Not Etsy-shopping excited. Not “look what I impulse-bought during a full moon” excited. I mean bone-deep, slightly-nervous, spiritual-awakening excited. Like something old and buried in me just perked up and whispered, Finally. We’re all standing around the café’s long table—me, Isaac, a few brave customers, Nova (who’s already named her future drum “Thunderpants”), and even Nate, who’s mostly here for the snacks. The hide soaking in the tubs smells vaguely like wet barn and possibility. I keep telling myself…