The trumpet in your throat
This morning, I was roaring like an elephant. I could hear the sound of the elephant in my mind, but my son, Gracen, stated that I sounded nothing like an elephant. We were practicing his spelling words: writer, author, editor, prepared. I looked up the sound an elephant makes on my phone and YouTube delivered elephants trumpeting in the wild. I attempted to mimic the sound and Gracen continued to look at me quizzically, “you sound nothing like an elephant, Mom.”
The nightingale. I’m still looking for birds and butterflies. I have to coach myself to do so. The re-wiring of neural pathways has taken patience and practice. My throat is the area where things have felt prickly.
In high school, I sang a solo my junior year at one of our choir concerts. I stood on the stage, alone at the microphone and terrified. My music teacher had encouraged me to take on this challenge, and we had practiced a lot. The octave that my solo was in seemed so low, it was an alto part, and I preferred to sing second soprano. My boyfriend at the time, Tim, told me, while laughing, that it sounded like I was going to cry. I can’t remember now if that was an accurate reflection of what I was experiencing in my body? I do know that I somehow pushed sound through my throat, even though I was afraid.
Another memory lives in my body that I haven’t been able to fully grasp. In this experience, I wasn’t able to create sound. I lost my voice. I felt hands tight around my throat, constricted, I physically couldn’t make myself talk. Frozen. I pushed and pushed from deep inside and nothing would come out. When did this happen? Where was I? What needed to be said? My mind doesn’t remember. My body remembers.
I have had these dreams, as well, the dream that something wants or needs to be said and it is stuck inside my throat, blocked. This feels like the energy of fear.
Today, I have a lot of practice using my voice. When I use my voice now, I speak into an open space. Teaching yoga, I use my voice without receiving a verbal response. I feel the energy. I watch the bodies. I look at facial expressions. I speak and speak some more. My critic sometimes steps in as I attempt to bridge my mind and heart and propel the words from my throat to create sound. Words that will meet the listener where they are in this moment. Words without attachment, that form story. Words that form experience.
The service of teaching is one of non-attachment and a practice I attempt to bring to the rest of my life. What wants to be shared? Can I release its receipt? The song of birds just is. We receive it with our presence.
To form a bridge from my heart to my throat, to create sound. To bring words together to form a story. I maintain my fascination with the body and heart connection. I watch how fickle my mind is, changing story to suit the moment, attaching to fear, and resisting faith. My heart knows something different though. Will I be honest enough with myself to listen?
I practice feeling the difference between being connected to faith and being disconnected from faith. Marrying my heart with my mind, I look for the birds. I listen for their voices. I practice choosing love over fear. When I’m connected to love, I feel spacious and at ease in my throat. When I’m connected to fear, I feel prickly and constricted in my throat.
Do you allow yourself to speak your truth? Are you motivated by fear or faith? Is there something you need to say? What does it feel like to let your heart form the bridge? May you sound your trumpet and choose the voice of love over the voice of fear.