Dare I say I am due for a special miracle, one I can state and define — and request? I want to be able to write my part of the book about my childhood — with my daughter. I am completely stuck, so it seems. I ran out of words for experiences that had no words in the first place — and so it seems, have no words now. It is really tough to write stories and a book without words.
I fear I lack the writing talent I need to tell my own story. I am disappointed. Perhaps I am too impatient. Perhaps this is as an organic process just like growing up was inside of my body during all those 18 years of hellish abuse.
My goal was to have my rough draft part of this writing about my childhood done by October. It is October. I am half way through it. That’s all. I ran out of steam. My writing motor broke. I am stalled. I am resistant. Stubbornly so. How well do I really want to know myself? I fear not well enough to accomplish this task.
Yet in this ‘stopping’ I wrote about in my last post (+MYSTERY OF THE SELF-OBLIVIOUS-SELF) there would be a natural slowing down state. I don’t have air bags on my heart. Perhaps I am moving ahead this slow because there are great dangers in even going near my own self — my own memory — my own experiences — to look for my own story. I felt this the other night, lying in bed that night. “I remember this body when it was small. I remember living in this body when I was young. This body remembers.”
I fear I have left that young body abandoned with what it knows, what I know, alone. Perhaps I parked it in some foreign airport lot, lost the ticket, never having gone back to find out what my story was and is all about. “Who the hell cares?”
That’s the same voice I hear as I continue to battle my way to a new freedom with my fingers on my keyboard. Continually I hear that voice, and that voice has all kinds of words — none of them helpful. None of them nice. All of them scathing and condemning, shaming, humiliating. Now, THOSE words are life-stopping words! I push past them in my learning to read music and to play keyboard.
Mostly I can do that because the gift of the perfect piano teacher showed up in my life. On a piece of paper, on a bulletin board at our local food co-op, there was his name and number. $12 per hour. Comes to my house. One of the sweetest souls I have ever met — full of music, full of kindness, full of hope, full of a perfect willingness to allow me to follow my own pathway at 60 years old into this new fountain of play.
Fingers dripping with the magic from that fountain of learning, invisible nectar, my fingers are getting faster. On both hands. Important with keyboard!
I am waiting for the magic moment that will come along with my magic fingers — the moment when my physical ears and the ears of who I truly am — the ears of my soul self can BOTH hear the sounds coming out of this instrument. Verbal abuse, terrible verbal abuse from the moment I was born washed away from me my ability to hear with both of my sets of ears.
My brain did not form itself with kindnesses attached to sound.
That is also a very long story, and I am not going to worry about finding any words to tell it. THIS story is in the music. This music, note upon note — coming into the light of making sense to me on the page and making sound for me on the keyboard. I am thrilled.
Perhaps there is some special kind of healing going on with the music that is unlocking a door inside of me. Maybe this music will show me where that door even is, for I do not know that I have ever seen it — that door, to my own Secret Garden. Maybe I am getting ready to let myself find that door, to stand in front of it — at a full stop — before I begin to open it.
There are secrets in the music. There are secrets inside of me. What happened to me might not YET have words for the telling — but it would be MY way to tell it first in sound. A writer without words is a butterfly without wings. I will let you know how I grow some.