Sometimes I want to hear the shouting, the banging on the door, the voice in the wilderness screaming: This is it, Thisisit, THIS. IS. IT! But there exists only the whisper. Sometimes I want to feel it again – the burning in my heart. But there is only the memory of the feeling. I am told I used to see things. What things? I want to see again.
But I would probably pretend I did not see, did not hear, did not feel. I would probably explain it away. Like the time I saw my father surreptitiously touch another woman intimately in our home, in my presence. I did not see it, I didnotsee it, IT. DID. NOT. HAPPEN. But it did happen. Heck, we all knew my father was a Ho.
But this is not about my father. It is about me. It is about the first time I remember feeling.
He had been away for a while – traveling. We gathered in the bedroom where he sat on the bed – like a sultan. I ran in to see him, excited. I missed him so. I saw him and immediately felt a feeling – a burning – in the middle of my chest. The feeling intensified the closer I got to him. Puzzled, then afraid, I stopped. He was not looking at me. What is this? Whatisthis? WHAT. IS. THIS? I turned away from him and left the room. I ran. I hid until the feeling left, until the burning stopped. I told no one. Who would I tell? What was there to tell? I had no words for the feeling. No one would understand.
When I sat to write I had not meant to write about this – my earliest memory of weirdness, of feeling my heart burning with love. Maybe it is also my earliest memory of suppressing who I am. Lately I have been yearning to return to that: to fully be me, the real me, the me that exists beyond the entanglement with mass consciousness. The time has come.
I am feeling me more lately – under the stratum of imposed decorum, beyond the “thou shalts” and “thou shalt nots.” Sometimes I say profound shit. Sometimes I say stupid shit. But the shit is all me. Sometimes my thoughts startle the little me – like when I think of things and they happen within a short time. But most of the time I remain open and curious at the becoming.
I seem to be gathering to me the most profound thinkers and doers. Like magic they appear and, with their presence, gift me with the solid possibility of an expanded more – beyond the rational and usual white bread existence, and even beyond New Age anachronisms. Merely knowing they exist lifts me up, raises gentle goose bumps on my skin, and gives me the impetus to explore further and deeper. I feel them more now: a sisterhood, a brotherhood of way-showers meeting at the appointed time – walking between the worlds.
Yes, the time has come.
For Joe – with righteous indignation