My daughters battleship grey eyes perforate my gaze and bore into my heart with the ferocity of a velvet jackhammer. The moment ground to a standstill with our unspoken connection. An energetic tether rivaled only by our genetic one. Holding her in my arms, I pull her close to my face to reinforce our spiritual embrace. Two souls only separated by the skin. As I pull in an exquisite breath that was hanging in the air waiting to be used for the words “I love you”… she sneezes in my face at point blank range, snot and all. I know what Dr Venkman felt like now up in that lonely hotel hallway (google if necessary).
Needless to say, I caught what she had and just today in class I experienced the sweet laryngitis that comes along with it. Laborious to speak would be an understatement. In my economy of speech during the class, I noticed the space that was created in my practice. I felt certain things that have been somewhat suppressed revealing themselves in the spaces where words would usually be living. Nothing existentially obvious or profoundly jaw dropping but a space that allowed for more simplicity in the moment. More feely, less talky.
The lack of my words created a wealth of presence, for me at least. Almost a vacuum of consciousness. The voice was turned down and the ears were turned up. In the absence of my expressing any “knowing”, I felt that there was nothing to “know” anyway. An indescribable feeling that this whole thing is a party, not a funeral. For a few short moments I was unionized with the present and, dare I say, doing YOGA! Who knew! This life, this present moment, this “it” only speaks to us when we’re silent. We can’t hear it and ourselves simultaneously.
As the zen Buddhists say it, “When you speak, it’s silent. When you’re silent, it speaks.” My laryngitis just reminded me of that. Try it out and notice how much better you can hear.
