I'm still alive!
In my head, I'm singing those words in a raspy soul voice that sounds as if it's been scraped off an exhausted dance floor circa 1969 Harlem, a vocal love child of James Brown and Vicki Anderson. Ah Vicki Anderson, how glad I am that I've just discovered you, thanks to my favourite book of the moment 'Funk & Soul Covers'. The husk in your voice shoots in to my right ventricle whilst the lyrical longing feeds my left ventricle and then my heart bursts with the pure oxygenation of the message from a soul sister.
Soul talk. Soul speak. Soul vocabulary. That's where I'm at right now. Allowing the language of the soul to dominate rather than what falls out of my brain and mouth. That makes me a quiet, reclusive soul sister with not much to say because the conversation takes place in silence. And there's a lot of that going on. Pyjamas are my best friend. I'm pleased to report since my last post (errrrr a while ago...) that I'm starting to find a vocabulary and container for my loss, mostly through poetry.
Poetry is a language that fills so many hidden gaps, manages to squeeze in to those deeply dark places inside me and thrusts light beams on to them. Some lines make me jump in wonder and awe, that feeling delights enormously. I'm still bingeing on David Whyte's audios, his Yorkshirey rough velvet poetic utterances are my night time lullabies and lessons in raw-edge living.
It's all a bit too much for my inner control freak who likes to KNOW, PLAN, PREPARE. I've applied key social work skills unwittingly into my own life - risk management plans, contingency plans, crisis plans. But that's not what life's about anymore and I'm not my job. It's too limiting and I miss that reckless freedom I had in my teens and twenties. Dad's disappearance has upturned everything and life is now demanding a riskier, bolder and daring need to BE and UNFOLD. I'm on some kind of journey, through liminal mist, cloud hidden, destination unknown.
And I can hardly believe it's July. It seemed that one day I looked up at the sky and thought 'hmmm July already?' What happened to all the months in between Dad moving on and NOW? It all feels like a blur. Then I remember working relentless nightshifts, six days in mystical Iceland with bubbling mud pools (more on this soon) and finally landing in a space where my days off work were truly...days off work.
And in those days off I've not been doing any of the things that need to be done. Not a sausage. Yippee! Instead extreme loafing, idling, creating and flumping (wearing pyjamas, sighing a lot and throwing self on sofa) has taken over and I flipping love it. Ifs, buts, shoulds are being flung aside in to the pants pile to allow myself these deconstructed moments. Unencumbered. Unfurled. I still have to tell the tiny monkey sitting on my shoulder who whispers 'Dal, you really should wash the pots, make that appointment, fill in the ......' to shut the eff up please (with love) whilst instead I ponder the history of funk soul album covers and have Cloud Hidden by Our David on repeat.
So there you have it, from Vicki Anderson to David Whyte in one blog post and an honorary mention of pants too. What would make this post just perfect is eating a bag of chips whilst reading it. Namaste good folks xo
Listen to Vicki Anderson singing 'Call Me' in 1969
This chapter is closed now, not one word more until we meet some day and the voices rising to the window take wing and fly.
Open the old casement to the lands we have forgotten, look to the mountains and ridgeways and the steep valleys, quilted by green, here, as the last words fall away, the great and silent rivers of life are flowing into the oceans and on a day like any other they will carry you again, abandoned, on the currents you have fought, to the place you did not know you belonged.
- David Whyte