TO HAVE NO VOICE
I looked upon my journey in Spain for all those years as a Retreat, built for others to share in all that one could expect from a treat, in the sun.
At no time did I look upon my sojourn in that warm and sunny space as anything approaching Exile staring me in the face.
But now in retrospect and with respect to others on the one hand, I can see that relevance of being in a foreign land.
Admittedly by my own volition and not forced from my home country by some exclusion.
Not being able to get the language into my mind, although with my own loving interpreter, I can now see those years as an Exile of a kind.
I relate so well to kin having no voice and the silence of the Spirit and the Soul within by choice.
Mine was a self imposed Exile, a retreat from language, thinking this was a retreat for others at the right age.
But no. Unlike one I know.
Having decided on the path and life to follow, the Soul at the moment of entering the embryo, capable of sustaining life filling that physical hollow,
Forgoes any connection or say in the running or steering of the ship, to remain for the duration of this voyage as the Silent Witness, handing all control to the Spirit.
The Spirit as we know has the Con in its control, but again cannot speak or even cajole.
However, in view of its command of the body can let the consciousness become aware of any misgiving or unhappiness through uneasiness.
At worst by pain so acute controlled through the nervous system route.
How else do you make yourself understood with voice turned to mute?
In a strange country where you are not heard you do not speak the language, it’s hard to become one of the herd.
You are viewed not with suspicion, but as eccentric with mild contrition?
These are not your people, who you had to leave behind, where signs can often have the opposite meaning in the mind.
The written word means nothing here, they cannot read your words however full of longing, fright or fear.
This was how the letter home was born and once a month I could relate how life was treating me from sleep ’till morn. I could explain in words, sent to them all, to understand how I was happy though underscored or hidden, forlorn.
I succumbed to the human trait to get things done from front door to garden gate.
Which luckily was my passion for the ground in what was for the most part sun scorched dry and brown.
It would have been so much better to relax in what became my own retreat and leave sought after connection to the monthly letter feat.
But that was not our way. We had to be doing in what ever way suited us best to fill our day.
The locals were there to teach us but we were too proud and inured to a different way of being. Strange that we could not learn and become cured.
Of our stolid stubbornness and confessed intransigence.
To follow our own thoughts and beliefs rather than to hang on to others’ instilled briefs.
Any other sometime disaffection was allayed through prayer and intimate connection which continues to this day, a thousand miles away, in conscious meditation or subconscious unconditional affection.
© David Tenneson –2018