A little cold just now. Scratchy throat, the rest. Knocked out for major segments of the day while my leukocytes fight the microbes. Guiltless slumber, anyway, all for a good cause. In the empty quiet time, remembering the urge to sing…
It’s been happening for months. No words, no special song, just the strangest urge. Like some inexplicable good feeling. An energy trapped inside that wants come out. No, I haven’t actually tried to sing. (Why not?) Once in a while if I’m alone, I vocalize like pow-wow singers, but God knows that ain’t it—tall, pink, and handsome here, for better or worse.
The other day while hiking, I thought this feeling related to a certain steady pitch. That may be something I can try. Then I experienced a mental image of a face or head emerging from my solar plexus! It was me, of course. My own self, giving birth to me? Something is afoot, for sure.
I wish you many miracles. I wish me death of fear.
John Hamilton Farr lives in Taos, New Mexico, U.S.A. As New York Times best-selling author James C. Moore tells it, John is “a man attuned to the world who sees it differently than you and I and writes about it with a language and a vision of life that is impossible to ignore.” See .png)
The right time of year, isn’t it? As the trees, shrubs, birds and bees awaken there is an organic need to emerge above the dark and get above ground. It’s the opposite of death but just as unfamiliar. Colds, flues, etc. have a cathartic effect. I usually get sick before a change in status even a subtle change.