I have been working on my brain. Years of therapy, meditation, lucid dreaming, vision work; I’ve been an explorer for most of my life… but recently, I’ve taken a deep dive into a different kind of therapy that I’m going to call non-plant-based-medicine, because the organisms aren’t plants, and the folks who know, will know, and if you don’t know but you’re really curious, please talk to me privately after class. It’s an adventure in non-ordinary consciousness, and the results have been PHENOMENAL. The changes are seismic, and they have radically altered the way I’m interacting with the world. If you see me, and you think, “What got into HIM?” feel free to ask. Later on, I’ll probably be a little more frank about it, but for the moment, I’ve got to be just a bit circumspect.
This morning, I had a surprising realization. These little satoris, these moments of sudden awareness, have been rising to the surface and bursting like bubbles in fizzy water; they keep catching me by surprise, and I am living in a constant state of wonder and delight.
I have had a slight psychological stammer for the past couple of decades. It hasn’t been terribly noticeable; it shows up when I’m nervous mostly, but it’s been a constant companion. Things like strings of complicated words are difficult for me to get out, and particularly difficult to get out QUICKLY. My mouth would fight with my brain, and I would often end up either making some nonsense sound, or just shutting up. I made myself smaller, I backed away, I hushed myself. I know where it came from, and I’ve talked with my therapists about it, and I’ve worked on it… but it’s been a Thing. It has diminished my shine.
This morning, driving to work, I was singing along with Paul Simon’s “The Boy in the Bubble.” I love the rhythms, but the fast parts I’ve always just kind of skimmed over, making a tatta-ta-tatta, tapping the steering wheel along with the beat, or kind of murmured, hitting the highlights. Boy… bubb… baby… This time, I was singing, full-voice, and when I found myself rollicking right over “Think of the boy in the bubble and the baby with the babbling heart” – I realized that it was GONE. Just GONE. Totally not there. It had dissolved. My tongue and teeth spat out every single consonant, clear and crisp and clean. I literally burst out with peals of surprised laughter, and then I cried. Emotional lability has been a part of this process, and I’ll be kind of glad when it settles down JUST a little bit, but I’ll miss it, too – it’s wonderful to be so taken by surprise by joy that you well up in sudden happy tears.
I have realized, over the past month or so, that my speech patterns have shifted. More so even in the past two weeks. Friends and colleagues have remarked on it. I’ve always had a good, polished, careful speaking voice; now, it has a swiftness and a power that is very different, and I find myself having to rein it in, to watch how loudly I’m speaking, because otherwise I’m projecting to the balconies despite being in a little room. It’s a beautiful thing. My tongue has been speaking a constant river of wonderment, trying to explain the marvel of the natural world that confronts me on a moment-to-moment basis. My husband will tell you that it’s more than a little exhausting; one afternoon recently, he literally dialed my phone and put it in my hand so that I could talk to someone else, because his ears were TIRED. I’ve always been a handful; now, you’ll need to bring a basket. Bring a cart.