She had no voice, this girl. She swallowed it in fear one day and like a flood, it was washed through her body and became lost in the quagmire of her fright. And so now she writes of her love. For this is her voice, her expression, her self. She wishes that she could give voice to her words and let them float like sweet music to fill the souls of whoever may hear them with the harmony of her love. Until that day, she writes; for you, for her, for the world. And she waits, her throat in chains, for the day that she may break free and sing to the stars of her desires and dreams and longings. So here she sits, this girl who swallowed a river, which became a torrent and drowned her voice deep in the earth. And so it floats back up, and here she writes, of love and longing and desire and all things precious and true and yearned for in this earth. And here it flows.
In her heart’s true longing is a love so deep, so true and so divine that all who hear of it fall under its spell and are instantly healed. When they hear of this love, their hearts, which have been afraid and tied down in the darkness of fear’s deep cave, erupt with passion and desire. These hearts grow in size so big, so big, that they burst forth from their caves and into the light. I saw this one day not so long ago. I saw this.
This girl who sits and writes because she has no voice sat out in the wind one day with her quill and ink and she wrote and wrote and wrote. She wrote of love and passion and desire and longing. And as she wrote her heart flowed with love for all of the people in the world and all of the animals and the plants and the angels and the planets and the moons and the sun and the stars. The words fairly flew from her heart and onto the paper. And as they flew, the wind picked them up one by one and lifted them off the rock on which she sat and carried them high into the air. They floated on the wind for a time, these words, enjoying the dance and the joy of it. And then, gentle as a kiss, the wind set them down in the opening of a dark and lonely cave. The wind did not want to stay near this cave and so flew on her way. And so sat these words of love and desire and longing in the opening of the darkest cave in the deepest corner of the forest.
Time passed and passed until a hand crept slowly forward and touched these pages as if they were made of the sharpest glass. It withdrew in fear of what they may contain. And so this continued for a time, this edging closer and then drawing away. Like a dance. The dance of fear. For really, in our minds, aren’t we all a little afraid of allowing ourselves to desire our true heart’s longing? I mean truly desire. That heart-filling, belly-twisting, life-affirming desire that sets your soul alight and leaves it burning for eternities of eternities. And so the dance continued for hours, for days, for years, for decades, until the hand grew weary and tired of repeating the same steps over and over and over, as if it had been doing the same dance with the same music for so long that it had worn a groove into the same piece of stone and now that stone was heavy in its heart.
Bruised and bleeding and forgotten, the hand one day could not see any other way but to give in to the fear of its own desire. It was either give in to it or die. And so soon the hand crept forward as it had always done and touched those yellowed pages as it had always done and slowly, slowly curled its fingers around the edges and dragged them back into the darkness.
Time passed and passed as the hand that clutched the paper told the arm, rigid in fear, to tell the shoulder, frozen in panic, to tell the neck, stuck in terror, to tell the head, held back stiff in the past, to tell the eyes, roaming in despair to read the words. And so, and so, word by word, sentence by pure sentence, this body reconnected with itself and came to read with joy these words of passion and love and desire.
Soon this body was so filled with love and longing that it burst from the darkness of the cave and into the light, like a wave unable to stop the force of itself crashing into the shore. And the light flooded in and so it was that a body and a mind and a spirit became renewed once more.
And what did she write, this girl who lost her voice and swallowed a river, which became a torrent and froze in her belly? What did she write that day?
Well what would you write if you really asked yourself, what is my true heart’s longing? What would you write?