To Be True of Voice

This year, on this platform, I want my impact to be whatever my Spirit leads me to speak to humanity, to be the type of change agent in a world where I am not afraid to be Vocal. I am my own Divine, the Oracle, the medium between my mind and my hand. I am the script keeper of the mystery school of the inner soul. I stand in proxy before the Higher Self, governing the passing of thought and the full expression of it. She knows my petitions because she plants them into the soil of my will.

I’ve spent long nights mulling over the high degree of technology and metaphysics involved in scribbling characters onto a piece of paper, or speedily capturing thoughts, via keystroke. The process of writing is a deeply spiritual experience, and while I intuitively know to engage, I often don’t. I believe it is the awe of the artform that I find so overwhelming, and why I am often afraid to approach it. I am too cautious and don’t want to misrepresent it or for it to be ridiculed, reviled, or rejected. Becoming captivated with the transduction of that powerful voice has been polarizing.

The birth of thought begins with a spark, always agitating in the highest order of creativity, and whenever I feel this urge to write, my hands embody my mind, and my mind embodies the sacred light and vibration of consciousness. However, I shut my eyes and clinch my fists to prohibit full transmission. Her light diminishes because I often doubt it, question it, criticize, and imprison it. Her Voice is eternally present, whispering, teaching, encouraging—attempting to guide my faculties to obey her commands to let her voice be heard. Everywhere is a safe space for her, as there is nowhere she is not. So then, why do I imprison her, hold hostage her children? Imagination is enduring, it is eternal, but I limit her movements and stifle her with boundaries. Fear grips her at the feet; rejection gnaws at her belly; uncertainty binds her hands; and procrastination suffocates her spirit.

She hears and bears all but I hardly permit her to speak. She has chosen me and gifted me with the art of the scribe, and whenever my pen moves, its voice sings a melody and inscribes a new song upon the parchment. This year, I will resolve to do better and not squander my gift. Hence, the strum of every phoneme will soon create a greater and more constant stream of expressions with proto-linguistic acuity. Her message to me for every other writer is this. She has spoken it to the four winds of Creation, birthing in all Her children, the necessity of vocality, to manifest the unseen in the form of symbols and characters, from the stylus to the petroglyph, from the inkwell to the parchment, to let their voices be heard. The written word is magicka.

To wit, from vibrations and frequencies of sound and light, thoughts transform from one form of energy into another. Neither are static. The silent pitch to the scribble of the pen on the pad, the voice speaks in multiplicity, affirming and reaffirming itself through show & tell, writing it and making it plain. Her chords are aligned, vocalic and true of voice. So, in 2024, I desire to be a vision of this Oracle, to transmit a message, a prophetic word, an encouraging sentiment, a provocation, a mystery, a thrill; to write for other souls to laugh, shed a tear, to share a warm and fuzzy narrative with a friend, or weave together a colorful tapestry of narratives that reflect the full gamut of this potpourri of an experience we call life.