It’s been nearly two years since I first heard my Beloved crew collective shout “SPEAK” to me. As I watched coverage of the Charleston church shooting at Melynnda Button‘s house, that command rolled through my head and heart and I shouted right back, “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY?1 DON’T KILL EACH OTHER!! THEY FUCKING KNOW THAT!!!”
Then I stomped into the kitchen for coffee, the universe opened up and the Old Ladies rolled in to get my ass to Sundance. But, still, that command rattled the head and heart. Say what, exactly? To whom, exactly?
A month later, at a burger joint with a friend–gorging on burgers and fries and her awakening experience–Black Elk joined the fray and said to her, “Ask her. She knows.” In the ladies room, no less. What.the. FUCK DO I KNOW!!?! said in return, quietly because this time we were in public.
The Old Ones came down from the hills of York, MT (again, while there was burger eating happening) to say, “Speak, child. Speak.”
My big-ass, burly Wankiyan interrupted comings and doings at Standing Rock last autumn to say, “WE TOLD YOU WHAT TO DO ON OCTOBER 4, 2013!!” And, of course, he interrupted someone else to pass this nifty, angry nugget on. At least it wasn’t in the ladies room this time. My response was only to shake my head, wonder about how I could be fucking up something so simple, and head to the only way I could find what they were talking about–to my blog and here on good ol’ FB (because, God forbid, I actually write all this shit down.) And, I found it: https://www.facebook.com/groups/442500839195758/?fref=nf And, I shrugged with something resembling shame but had no outcry b/c ‘what the fuck do I have to say?’
Two weeks ago, another lovely of the invisible persuasion, entered into (blessedly, a willing and unafraid friend) to say, “Grab a pen.” And, she did. And, among other things, said, you guessed it, “Speak.”
And I asked again, much more quietly than two years ago, “What the fuck do they want me to say?” There’s been a progression of anger, incredulity, shame to regret. Regret that I only know what I know when I know it. And what I do know and it’s expression of it hasn’t been enough.
At one point I thought by sharing here interesting and inspiring stories from others was the way to share/show the blessing that surround us. I don’t know if others felt the way I did when I read with fascination, interest or awe those things that the artistry of science, sculpture and movement of bodies–human and non–, gifts four own natural state and the nature around us. But I shared hoping that they’d survive in the heart weather than be lost in the chaos and cacophony.
I’d previously given up on sharing my own explorations and unfolds because there didn’t seem to a healthy response that I felt I needed. But as they keep pleading and demanding i speak, I keep stumbling. I thought that last summer’s public Clarion Call (https://godatthekitchensink.com/2016/06/16/clarion-call/) would be enough or that this past March’s speaking myself into existence (https://godatthekitchensink.com/2017/03/13/before-and-again/) was enough. It’s apparently not.
I no longer wonder who I am or why I am. Those are clear to me. The how of it is not. I thought that others who can see would share that in a way that would help The Voice not feel so lost or alone while the throat burns and chokes. I mean, it must be right here, right? It is electric, it’s begging to be released and I don’t know what to say. Sometimes it feels like it’s merely a case of the glasses on top of the head or keys right there on the dashboard–so close and yet so far away–and other times, like now, it’s nothing but a mass of confusion. How to be that which has been prayed into existence but not believed? How to say what has already been said in a way that will be met without fear but with hope? How to speak softly enough to inspire conversation, not add to the cacophony? These are the things I don’t know.
I do know that if I don’t engage somehow, I’ll wither like those who’ve come before me who, in their fear, refuse to be who they are. Their bodies and brains begin shutting down as their heart-fire begins to dim when it’s their time to shine. The fiery pinprick in the throat will morph into its own version of dimming if it’s not given voice. I just don’t know what to say. Except: I love you. Maybe for now that’s enough.
