Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Found Out On

Found out on my own
That everything I thought I knew
Twas a lie twined and twisted true

- Valerie June, "Twined & Twisted"

* * *

Things take the time they take. Things take the time they take. Thinks take the time they take. Tattoo it on your forehead and let the rest go. Really, let it go.

* * *

We enter the world: light, sound, vibration, touch and coo. We enter the world helpless and glad of it for everything is new and help (if we are well-loved) comes on a breeze and soothes what frightens and disorients us. We enter the world a knot of unknowing and time unspools us to our knowledge, our knowing of the time and place we are from, born into and out of. We are blessed whether we know it or not, whether there is one there to do the blessing for we are of Life. We are ripe with it. It drips from us like a snotty nose: profuse, unawares, shimmering. What we don't know, what we don't have the experience to know yet is so amorphous, unshaped as to be invisible. We know light and sound and vibration, touch and coo. Time betrays us, draws us away from the cloud of our unknowing. We are taught, formed in the floods and waterspouts of the circumstances of our birth. Stories come to ears and we can't help but measure ourselves to those stories. Even the most benign and loving story is a scar. But we do not notice for all is of a piece and is ordered to the life we are experiencing: want, hunger, plenty, security, violence, adoration - no matter.

Then come the others, the cohort and their stories and the stories of the community: religion, politics, the preferred, the acceptable, the rewarded. And we can't help but measure ourselves against these stories and every story leaves a scar. Perhaps, lightly, perhaps thicker, but we are shaped nonetheless. Following the path of these stories we feel them to be powerful, irrefutable, or if refutable, at great cost and most stay silent to all bu their darkened rooms at night. Our ceiling hears the story we want to tell, but the incentive to silence is great.

So many lives are lived in quiet desperation, right?

Until such time, until such time that the silenced voice can be quiet no longer. Then what?

It is a long way from the world we entered as light and sound and vibration and touch and coo. Heavy now, heavy with experience we are now called to let grief be a falling leaf. How can this be? How can this be? Where has the time gone?

Things take the time they take, ease up on yourself. You are still and always have been new to the world. New to light. New to sound. The stories that guided you, that formed you at the start are, without hesitation, lies twined and twisted. That is true. But only because they were handed to you and not experienced in your bones. They sought to save you the difficulty of finding out on your own, but that would rob you, did rob you of the life you are to live. And here you are with your heels blistered from running in the dark. Now what?

Well, now that you're here in this place of uncertainty, of the impulse to regret and recrimination, of abandonment and teetering fear this you must do: use your voice. Test it out. See what it sounds like now that you're on your own. Listen to it. Keep at it. A new story will emerge. It will use bits and pieces of other stories. Like a magpie you'll steal from experience and you'll cobble together a story that is familiar in parts, thoroughly inscrutable in others. This is your story. It has never been told before. If you remain silent, it never will be told, or it will be told by others who couldn't possibly know what you know.

* * *

Things take the time they take. You learn what you have to learn in the time it takes you to learn it. There's no hurrying, there's no shortcut. Don't indulge the bitter fantasy that you could have done it sooner. If it was possible, it would have happened. Re-litigating the past only corrodes the time you have to get all your living done. 

We arrive here with the plates in our skull unsutured, a pulsing, soft hole covered by downy hair and skin yet to be closed. We are born incomplete. Into that hole is poured all light and sound. The knot of our unknowing unspools in lies twined and twisted that we took for truth. Experience scars us all. And if you can bear it, if you can keep your feet moving, there comes another unspooling, the one where the lies are forgiven and your story ready, twined and twisted from the roads you've traveled, emerges from your throat: ripe with life, filled with light, sound, vibration, touch and the cooing of one filled with joy and sorrow for what the rest are yet to go through.

Things take the time they take. 

* * *

May your well run deep.


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