We tell our kids when they have leg cramps that they’re probably just experiencing “growing pains” and not to fear. It seems we innately hold more tolerance for pain that is physical, as physicality seems so cut and dry. An arm is an arm, or so it appears. The pain is located inside of something tangible and that we understand. We trust it will pass; we have our arm to gauge whether or not it has. It’s like doing simple math.
Yet the majority of the pain we and our kids experience throughout life is not physical. It hangs around in the intangibles that cloak our physical. Every time it is denied voice, the more repressed of a singer it becomes. Until finally she starts steeping a bitter tea right into the physical we thought we could keep freed up. And so, it is for the repressed singer that I take the stand I do for pain’s expression. All the singer wants is to be given license to grieve her way through the song born of the sad story that is her. The story that doesn’t define her, that doesn’t even contain her, and yet, the story that consciousness is breathing into her.
So I stand up inside the pain for the sake of every repressed singer, so that her story may be felt all the way through, until evaporating into the mists of our mysterious incarnate world outside of our control. Because as mist, she will no longer have a sad tune; she will rise.