I have nothing to say. Now, I know that is not true. But it's so difficult to let him speak when you won't even acknowledge he exists. It's easier that way. Only 'easy' is not the way, 'easy' goes nowhere.
Did I ever tell you the one about the boy who grew up pretending to be a boy?
Having a voice requires compassion for self, it demands that the breath of who you really are dwell within the substance of who you are. It's, uh.. indelicate to scream, and keeping your soul and substance seperate maintains the quiet, the decorum. It's not safe to scream.
He lived by remote control. He stayed here, but he pretended to live over there. Like the men testing the first nuclear bomb, he peered through a narrow slit, watching himself live, and hiding at the same time.
Life is not safe. The best we can hope for is a voice that speaks from all of who we are, from every tender part, from every wound and every strength combined, from every experience since we were born.
And he never made a sound.
But first, we have to scream.
|
|
|
|