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.