Speak Power to Truth
on the melancholy of birthdays
Why are birthdays so hard? Is it just me? Every year I think the whole affair will be easier to bear. I mean it must, right? This milestone is meant to be celebratory. Instead, around this time is a melancholic mix of self criticism brought on by deep introspection. This nagging feeling that I’m late. For what? Is the essential question.
A facade of comparison, coming face to face with my notion of what is enough. There is a balance somewhere in between creating an unattainable standard, with an ever-moving goal, and creating your reality, realizing that the best (only) way to predict the future is to invent it.
27 taught me:
Ambition will only take me so far, faith is the fuel
I have a deep desire to clear my throat, and unlock that chakra, I am committing to this process. I pray for clarity of voice. I grow my voice through singing, writing, and not breaking my personal boundaries. I promise to speak power to my truth.
My No and my Yes live in my body
My body is my ground. Grounding is always available to me through my body.
Monet reminds us that, “to see we must forget the name of the thing we are looking at.” This sentiment is augmented coming from a visual artist. I interpret this as an invitation to use intuition to guide our sense of direction. When the onslaught of emotional agitation reached its peak the day before my birthday (amid some wild ! planetary transits and the start of my bleeding) I struggled to find my breath.
Hot tears stained my cheeks and I coughed out a heavy mucus. I sat under the peaking sun and let the water and salts of my body mix and release. I grieved the ending of one version of myself. I let it pass, the turbulent storm of my interior landscape rose and fell in time. My panic subsided a little more with each choice to come back to meditation, come back to water, come back to prayer, come back to touch, come back to moan and stretch out and heave and sing. I allowed this opening.
The next day, on my actual birthday, the skies opened wide and the crashing sound of thunder interrupted any ideas of self doubt. Globs of water fell from above with a resounding cascade, bubbling in small pools in the backyard. I collect roses, daisies, peonies, and lilies and throw them into the bayou as the rain soaks through my hair dripping from my sopping clothes. I read al fatiha verses from the quran and watch the symphony of pink flowers float and flutter. I thank the rain for her glorious performance, and I pray that the Goddess’ waters nourish my throat, my heart and my dreams.