So much depends on the remembering.
An old story tickles for attention until it becomes a network of pulsing nerves throbbing under the skin, even before our brains can fish it out. Our bodies are left with the awesome charge of translating this language of transformation. So much of our life is lived in this underground network that moves between bone and flesh. Quick, key phrases spring up, as if out of no where, that are part persuasion, part subconscious rhetoric that accumulate to impart the hegemony of trauma. Ideas like “I deserved it”, “I should have known better”, “it will always be this way” are phrases of consent that quickly turn to a language of disruption.
As the darkening days fold deeper onto themselves, Autumn offers time to caress the warm fur of my own body. I have resisted the space, the time, the languishing of self-care a new story needs. I am paying closer attention to my body as the hinge upon which the soul and mind pivot in the language of transformation. To hear my body speak, I have to be still. Very still. Still enough to hear the scrapping fingernails of the new story trapped under the old.
The lengthened night provides the space for drawing from the darkest reservoirs of Winter’s well. The darkness hides emotions that are devastating and catapulting in their ability to both give and take life. Anger has been an illusive, dark emotion for me, but one in which I am discovering is a guidepost to my own soul’s retrieval. I have internalized my anger and in duty, swaddled it tightly to my breast rather than casting it righteously in the direction which it belongs. In doing so, I became an exile to my own Soul. Anger has become essential to the invitation of retrieving what was lost and stolen. The sound of my scream is an echo chamber of my sovereignty but the fact that I could not hear it before doesn’t prove that it didn’t exist. In surrendering, the lost becomes found and the Exiled becomes the Initiated.