I'm looking for my voice. I'm standing still, still as a deer listening for predators, but I am listening for grace. The dark lush path I once navigated has passed its time. I seek a return to light. The color, sound, feel, voice of my light is mostly unknown to me. I write, have written, for ages but the voice I write in was born not in my throat or heart, she was born lower, somewhere more primal.
My ego has many parts. The predominant part of my ego for the last twenty years has been a mothering one, but not a nourishing mother. My ego, which shrinks slowly as it loses control of my mind, was composed first of a desire to please and later of the worries of those who I sought to please. I took everyone on. I did a good job, because my goal was to do so. None for me though. Sneaking moments of rebellion was where I lived. It began with my desire to try alcohol - which burned and at first, didn't get me drunk but made me stupidly pretend to be. It moved to drugs. I lied through later years in high school and early years in college about having done more than I had. I smoked cigarettes because girls growing up, finding their way, being reborn into adulthood romantically in movies did. I never liked cigarettes when I was young. Later the grief I had borne for others seeped in, it was my own now, and cigarettes fit well with those anxieties. I became addicted.
One of my most vivid early adolescent memories is of a thing I said to my mother one morning. I had been getting torn up inside. I was thirteen. I walked into the bathroom where my mother stood, curling her hair while wrapped in a towel, and announced my rebellion to her. "Mom," I said "I don't have to be good, you know. I can be bad too." She had no idea what to say to that. I think she mumbled some confused agreement with me. I began smoking less than a month later.
It's been over a week since I've had a cigarette now. But this post is not about cigarettes, it's about my throat and the voice that doesn't know how to come out of there.
I cry easily. It used to embarrass the hell out of me. I am finding ways to accept it, and even feel good about it. I guess, if there are tears to cry, I should cry them. There is no shame in that. In the last three years, as I have pushed, and pushed, and tried to see the value in not pushing, and so relaxed, and learned about my struggles with attachments and outcomes, I have talked to quite a few people about my path. I always know when I'm about to cry because my throat constricts almost entirely. My throat knows before I do most of the time. It starts hurting, getting tight, before I even broach the subject that will make me cry. Usually, lately, the subject is my throat itself.
I saw an energy worker on Monday for a Healing Touch session. For some reason I made it seem more important to me that she work with me on releasing any lasting trauma to the area around my liver, damaged in last year's bike crash. I guess I thought that was the most important. Again, the mind is the last to know. I had been feeling some blocks in my breathing when doing deep breathing in yoga and meditation. The session did do quite a lot for me, I can see days later, but I need to work on my throat. There are layers there, woven, into bad patterns of behavior. It is really hard for me to listen to my own voice. It is hard for me to let my throat be a conduit of energy between my heart and my head.
I'll keep working on it, and I'll keep writing. There's no pretty summary paragraph for this post.