I’ve come over here to this Simply Here blog twice this morning and sat, fingers poised on the keyboard, ready. Waited for a story to rise. Stories float up in the heavens, you know, waiting for people to write them. The stories dash like lost souls toward writers willing to frame their essences in words. The stories are like children not yet born, scanning earth for parents to carry their weight to maturity.
My husband and I, a long long time ago, endured a small disagreement concerning the number of children to lure into our enchanted forest. One? Two? We debated over glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon. Two? One?
One scurried into the womb as we escaped from Texas back in the 1980’s (oh, wouldn’t you like to hear that story? But it refuses to sedately descend into the womb of this computer. It’s sulking. Or perhaps stalking clouds in the blue sky, out of view of the typing fingers.)
I lay wet and steaming in the bathtub one fine day with a three-year old playing with blocks on the wooden floor when suddenly the Spirit of the Unborn Child whispered, “I am waiting; I am waiting; it’s time for me to come!”
How can one deny the whisper of a child waiting for birth? How can one deny the whisper of a story waiting for words to flesh it into the world?
Who among us dares abort a story tap-tap-tapping on our crown chakra, singing “let me in, let me in, let me in!”
Who among us crafts the patience and space of not-knowing what the heck the story wants to say and sits ready, eager to record the joy or sadness? Or must we know in advance what the story intends to spill in blood and sorrow and giddy joy upon the page or computer screen? Can we sit empty? Can we wait with the wind roaring through our ears? Can we wait even as trees crash around us? Can we wait for the seeds to loam upward through composted garden dirt? Can we wait for the harvest, not sure if the rain will come?
Once, the Anishinabe elder passed a pipe around the circle. As we puffed the burning sacred tobacco from the red bowl, he said, “See the smoke of your prayers drifting up to the heavens?”
We nodded, watching the white-smoke prayers rise in the sky.
“Let yourself be smoked by the Great Spirit,” he said. “Be a hollow pipe. Let the Great Spirit smoke you.”
When the stories or children or paintings or songs or photos or drawings arrive tugging the heartstrings of our willingness, let us remember to open ourselves hollow to the Universe. Be smoke, ascending. Be hollow. Be empty.
Let the children come in their fullness, wide-eyed with laughter and stories…