I hold some stories hostage, the stories of my own life as well as the ones of my blood folk.  I hold them different places in my body. There is something in my lower back and wrists and not to mention that funky shit going on in my middle finger.  But the real messed up gunk is in my heart. Left side, full of lumpity bumps and twinges of pain, glass slicing on the left hand corner and a tightness of fiber that I can’t explain.  I know the story, it’s slowly unwinding. I’ve been carrying it for my father’s side. it’s at least 2 generations old. In my life it’s been voice unheard, misunderstood, a tale between my husband and I, woven across the globe and through lifetimes.

We hold our stories in our bodies.  It’s why yogis create internal space by squeezing and twisting in asana, full exhalations, sweating out last night’s chicken dinner until it’s a puddle on the mat.   Stories + memories that have been hushed live in our flesh and bones, pull cords on our heart and spasm our backs out.  They contract our wombs, trigger our hips sway and remind us when to cum and when to walk away.  No story being Good or Bad, just stories.  Untold, they expire like anything else waiting for movement, dissipation, alchemization.  Untold, we are left with stagnancy and crafted illusions about our experiences that we tend to believe and pass on.

The Vagus nerve, which literally means, “wandering” does just that, wanders up and down our bodies. It sends and receives information from our centers, wandering our chakra system, collecting wants, needs, emotions at the Cosmic Milliseconds. The nerve is born from the rootlets of our medulla, zipping news along like an inner Internet, our high-speed Information Highway.  It wants to deliver to us, so we can process and communicate, even if we just show up as facial expression, as it did to our tribes before there was even language.  It’s the information we share to keep ourselves heard and safe, this is how it's worked for millions of years. .

Voice wants to connect with this infomation nerve, but it works slow, slower than the nerve, it’s like dial-up or rotary dial, that's why we often feel before we can attempt to express.  Language for emotional experience takes it’s good old hot and sticky island-time to develop, this is why it’s sexy and alluring when it get’s heard, when it sounds itself like a temple bell.  If fully marinated in adventure and expressed with intention, it’s a hot market for healing + self-love.   

Sometimes the slowness of my voice's reception can make it feel lost in the depth of the dark forest; Shadow seems to have swallowed it whole.  My contact with the vagal nerve can get interrupted and the messages wander my body waiting for me to grab on, but accessing seems impossible. My voice isn’t ready to hear or the story isn’t ready to unfold.

 I am learning to breathe through these times.  It's sometimes called writer’s block, or being “stuck” but for me it’s just the Inhale.  Fully Inhaled all the way up from my root to my crown. The eventual exhale is more sensual, filled with wild truth {and the good stuff our mother's never really want us to talk about}. 

I remember to breath and take notes by pen or heart, even finger-writing in the air or imprinting the sea with my gaze and asking the vast water to help hold all this for me until I’m ready.  Eventually, and sometimes it takes a god-awful long time, I get that moment of Spasm, Voice is shaking my flesh, river rushing me, hand and hand with muse naked at my door.

I am on the edge of the release, and it’s time to take the layers off, light the flame and blow the smoke. It’s alchemy time:: time to work it, making Imperfect art, allowing Voice to take over.  I become its submissive possession.  Voice is ripe and ready to pour forth some nectar + flame.

I see the voice as it's own part of the body, a central system long ignored that not only speaks, but has the challenging job to listen. Voice is alive, a living entity of Soul’s walk.

When my voice is given exercise and permission to be the sorceress for the stories of my body, it takes on roll of Expresstrix of Experience, Motherline from Material to Spiritual, it becomes a crystal-lined time machine for generations of past and future to release.  

Written straight up, just like it is, clearly strung together without the illusion of romance or idealism, just all the ragged edged stuff word for word or maybe it becomes a story created around the truth of roots and bones.  Maybe it’s something to share or just save under my pillow on antiqued yellow paper and fine ink to read around the fire with my daughters and granddaughters.  Some day.

When intention is made, our voices can heal our bodies.  Like when my ancestors had to walk across barren deserts only to get slaughtered and decapitated.  Or the time I walked in and saw my lover with another and ran out and tripped, face to the ground, and my head pounded for 3 years. Or the place in my throat that’s a numb knot stuckness, because if I talk about what I need or crave,  I’m at risk of rejection and abandonment, so instead i just stick with the silent shame.  Well, I say fuck off to shame.  I send that message with the nerve right to the center of my throat. That’s where my story starts.

There is no way but your way, no rights or wrongs.  There is no teaching, it’s what we know and have always known.  We were Sound before we were flesh.  We were perfect before we decided to listen when they said we weren't.

Our bodies are worth letting Voice take it’s chance.  If even just for that, forgetting about who hears or reads it, but for the sake of our body freedom, to have no more tight boundaries and swollen lymph nodes, no more hiding in the shadows of cell dividing guilt.

Without thinking much about where all your shit is stored :: physical + astral:: take some time to just let your Voice listen, without expectation, maybe it’s in a place of emotional trigger, a  tripping place in your evolutionary leap.  Instead of responding in defense, judgment,  shutting off, or casting the voice aside, practice listening by writing your way up and down your body.


Using the kid’s watercolors and the light of the moon, i created this the other day {chakra stories}.  The words weren’t crafty or interesting, there was nothing in there to be considered fine writing.  It’s just walking the inner road, accepting the messages we find along the way and writing them back to Ourselves.

I believe we can write ourselves back home.

{today:: grateful for our voices}