Sunday, July 03, 2016

On the Edge of Becoming


Sunday morning sunrise
and the world awakens again,
the silence broken only by
the sound of your pen
scratching the surface
of the page.

It's the same each morning.
You don’t know what
your voice sounds like
until you take the risk
of opening your mouth
and letting the words
tumble out, half-formed,
until you let your pen
begin moving across the page,
to see what will flow,
not knowing what
you have to say
until you read the words
that appear beneath
your pen as it moves
across the page.

What can you say
about something so mysterious
as voice? Some people
think you can find it
if you devote the time
to search for it as if
it’s outside you like
hidden treasure or
an unmapped island, and
all you have to do is keep searching
and like an explorer (before satellites
and GPS) you'll stumble
upon it, if you're lucky.

But what if it’s not something
that exists outside you or
that you have to search for,
but, instead, is part of your body,
just like an arm or leg
or like your eyes or ears,
and it’s just a question
of listening intently and
letting it speak and being able
to acknowledge its presence,
like your heart or soul, a part of
your body that you become aware 
of when you pay close attention 
to your pulse, the way you pay 
close attention to your hopes
and dreams?

You find your voice, I think, only
when you stop searching for it,
when you step off the boat and
put down your pack and sit
and wait for it to emerge
on the page in front of you.

Open your ears and listen
to the silence for in the silence 
is your voice, your words
waiting to be spoken,
your stories or poems balanced
on the edge of becoming,
waiting to emerge.