Voices in the Voiceless

I’m still observing silence. A few slips and shifts, but I find myself naturally sinking into a beautiful rhythm of not speaking.

As I write this, I’m sitting in a rocking chair and it feels so comforting to rock back and forth, hear the chair creak and feel the vibrations rising from the wood meets wood momentum.

Silence is peaceful. Silence is uncomfortable. Silence reveals all the ways I fill the silence.

I discovered that I talk to myself a lot! Using my voice when absentmindedly. I feel compelled.

Intention… intention with words is so very important.

I discovered that I feel awkward about being silent. I judge myself, as if I’m an invalid. Quasimodo. Whispers and uncomfortable reflections that are merely such, reflections of my own discomfort. I then realize that no one gives a shit except me, as the woman I took the trouble to write a note to looks sideways at me and gives me a “Okay weirdo” thumbs up.

I made it weird.

Then I sink into a soft comfort and notice that my silence is inviting more silence. Those around me become quieter and there is peace. My silence is powerful. My voicelessness is still a voice!

I listen to songs in my head, playing over and over… The words messages in bottles floating in my mind’s ocean… Melodies suspended in perfect reverberation and I hear:

A rose blooms when she is ready…

We dance the dance of the wild, wild maiden, we dance so wild and free.

We dance in the light of the sun and the moon and the earth and the sky and the sea.

Dance so wild. Dance so free. Dance so wild and free.

I would while away the hours, consulting with the flowers.

Consoling with the rain. … If I only had a brain.

Oh I could tell you why the ocean’s near the shore.

I could think of things I never did before, and then I’d sit and think some more.

I would not be just a nothing, my head all full of stuffing. My heart all full of pain.

…do do do doo… if I only had a brain.

Country road take me home to the place I come from…

And every now and then I get a feeling that I should have been home yesterday, yesterday.

Country road take me home to the place I belong.

Start spreading the news. She’s leaving today…

Come sing your prayers over me.

Lineage of the grandmothers.

Linage of the scarlet rose.

Lineage of the visions they brought her, back to the lineage of the rose…

blooms when she is ready.

The gallery of melodies, voices, and lyrics never mere coincidence, but reflections of my heart and mind. A canvas filled with what I’m drawn to and soon to be filled with what comes seemingly from nowhere, as I enter a new phase of creativity, not unlike that of Beethoven. The melodies and lyrics emerging from my mind rather than my throat.

Still observing silence.