Susurrus - A whispering, murmuring, or rustling.
Since I was a child, there has been a tether wrapped around my sternum. It pinches the bones together in such a way that I nearly always feel it there. It bumps against me in my sleep, tangles in my hands. It shows beneath my clothes.
The end of the tether hovers in the air just above me, held by an invisible guide. There are days when it tugs so harshly that I would not call it a tether at all, but a leash.
And there are other days when it hangs so loose that I worry i've finally lost it.
Many of us have a tether of our own. The person whom I love has a tether, though his is tied around his hands, bound around his wrists. It leads him to serve, to care more deeply than I ever could. It guides him to wash and build and caress. Sometimes, it binds him too tightly, so that he can not use his hands at all. And he cannot think of anything except for the way that the tether aches.
Sometimes, I think that my tether has been leashed to a doorway. Because when I pull firmly enough against it, I allow in sounds from somewhere else. A signal, a call. If I dig in my heels firmly, grasp the tether with my hands, and lean, that is when I can truly hear what is behind the door.
The door has always been there. Just like the tether. Just like the signal in the so often silence.
I do not write this from the other side of the door. Though I am learning to peek beyond, strengthening my muscles to hold it open further.
I write this from the perspective of a scientist, an explorer, a test subject. To document what I am learning, what I seek to learn, and what I learn from others. To share what works for me, what works for you. I seek rituals. I seek knowledge. I seek systems that support the shift I am working towards. I seek harmony with this life, and the one that shouts to me through the silence.
The pressure to unseal the door is disquieting. The pull in my belly to move through, to change the scenes. To write the next chapter in the way that only my hands can. To write it in lettering that only I can read.
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Original work. Authorship lives off the record. Trace the signal, not the source.