As I made my way down the steps this morning to hang out my washing, I felt called to cross the road and sing afront the ocean and it frightened me. Reminded of a freedom I once had to make noise and do as I please, discomforted by the vastness of the world’s open-armed invitation I longed for a quieter space.
Stepping back across the threshold into my lounge room, darker for the sunlight rebuked, the question came, “What will you do if you are afraid to answer the call? What work will you do if you do not do this?” and with it the suggestion – you wait for someone to make it okay for you (to do such things as walk to the water’s edge and sing) when you know no-one will.
Feeling a little saddened but mostly pensive, I carried on with my day, as I do, allowing and including everything that occurs to me. Until another thought arose. It said, “You feel the call and are made reluctant so that you might talk about it here, on the page where others can find themselves written and read back to them.”
A comfort, perhaps, but most immediately the perfect example of what it is for me to be whatever it is I am. A thing for which there are many labels, none of them wholly convincing. A thing to be and not be. For in the naming of it, it is lost.