Whalesong.  I bellow from the depths of my soul, a call inaudible to most. A low polyrhythmatic bass that travels far and wide.  My faithsong, for I do not know who will receive its message.  This blog is my whalesong.
Narrative.  This is my narrative about how I experience life on earth; and the periphery.  The expressed information comes from a woman’s intuition and experience expressed artistically, and sometimes directly.  My pulse is honesty and I am courageously obedient to a calling. I do not fear standing naked in the room. The voice of this narrative is raw, organic, humble, intelligent and deeply spiritual. Sometimes, dark.
Story. Today, I am many things and this is my story. 
I come from a long line of artists.  My grandfather created what would be classified, now, as visionary art.  He came from a time when racially, socially and culturally, there was no space for him to follow his passion.  His daughter, my mother, was a fiber artist, printmaker and dollmaker.  She fought and struggled to live her truth by practicing entrepreneurship as a single parent of two children.  She was powerful emotionally and hormonally, which I attribute to her spiritual gifts.  She, like I, was often described as an enigma born before her time.  She now lies in an unmarked grave.  My father, whom I met at 13, is a trained classical musician and painter.  I perceive his process as mathematical and rhythmic,  the mechanics of music overflowing in his visual art.  For years, I described myself as “raised to be an artist”.  I denied myself.  I conceded that I didn’t have a choice.  Survival in any other space wouldn’t work for me, my conditioning and upbringing best prepared me for the periphery.  I have come to accept that this thing called “artist” is part of the core of me.  I am my mother’s daughter, and I love creativity as much as she. I accept being an artist fully.  However, I do find the term artist inadequate to encompass all I do within my fields of creativity.  The term emphasizes a practice governed by outcome, or artwork.  I am governed by process, an internal process that must be expressed by any means necessary. I am similar to “artist” because I produce art.  But I am much more than that, I am something that hasn’t found its name, yet. I express.  I birth expression.
I love to exist, without form, in my imagination.  I spend most of my time there.  I can remain physically completely still, living through my imagination, for hours.  Sleep, or half sleep, is joyous state for me.  I swing and dance with thought forms, parallels, metaphors, archetypes, allegories, concepts and ideas. My mind is beautiful and abstract, always has been, even as a child.  I love and serve higher ideas and this is frankly, ostracizing and isolating.
I am an introvert yes, and I feel a lot of things.  My teenage years fucked me up, emotionally.  I endured truama, yes, but what wounded me was my silence.   I never told anyone how I felt, or what happened.  Instead, I became the master communicator of my high ideas, while at the same time, subduing and repressing my emotions. I split. As a result, my intense feelings and thoughts do not align completely.  Today, I am on a journey of integration.
In the middle, I got some diagnosis. Defensively, I find them eerily interesting adding to my half crazy repertoire of artist madness.  I am an addict and I have strong tendencies to seek my own destruction.  I dream of beautiful deaths, and rebirths.  My diagnosis of emotional P.T.S.D., severe depression, anxiety disorder and attachment addiction disorder is currently in remission as I participate in a 12 step recovery program, weekly sessions with my psychologist, a membership driven voluntary psyche rehab program, and most importantly, spiritual practice.  I am learning to manage my fantasies (horror stories are fantasy) by accepting fully and practicing spirituality.  Spirituality is a shortcut to change my patterns.  Spiritual principles and virtues are instigating, with quiet force, new thoughts and new perspectives that flow with some fully realized emotional states.

I am not my mind.  By practicing spiritual principles, virtues, connecting with my ancestors and navigating dreamtime (visions and meditations), I experience how my mind is meant to serve my spirit.  Spirit is tearing down an infrastructure built on the cornerstone of pain.  Outdated survival skills; natural responses to unnatural conditions. I got whole new pathways and systems opening and channeling.  “I” still exist, without form, in my mind but I can travel to other thoughtless places.
Acceptance is a powerful thing (spiritual principle).  I have accepted that I must express who I am, creatively.  I have accepted that I am an addict (I can not “use” any destructive behavior, substance, person or thing to alter my mood or I can not stop).  I accepted that I can not exist solely in the boxes of intellectualism, western thinking, patriarchy, mysogyny and analytics, and I must move beyond.  I have accepted that I have been hurt, deeply, but it is not irrevocable and I am no longer functioning as a victim.  Why?  Because I don’t have to carry loads in silence.
This narrative gives voice.  The voice is completely a part of aspects within the continuum, but not the total of the continuum.  This is a forum where I invite you to share in my process, the journey along. Hear the call of the whalesong continuum.