A House Called Serenity

I used to have a lot to say. I am a talker by nature, and I have been known to monologue on occasion. I talk to complete strangers at the drop of a hat, or talk to myself when no one is looking…or within earshot. But I also used to sit and write far more than I have the past few months. I would get an idea, have a powerful feeling or get lost in a dream and then I would write. I would spend long hours staring into the darkness, hovering somewhere between the waking world and the eternal dreamscape, or I would sit and watch the dying embers of a fire, and there I would find my voice. I would find words, thoughts and dreams and I would write. However, lately it has been hard to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.

Have I lost my muse? Have I entered the halls of silence and my words no longer ring aloud or taste of truth? Perhaps I have grown boring at my ripe old age of 29 or maybe my existence in corporate America has robbed me of the fire I once had; the undying need to express and share. Have I transformed into the automaton I long feared becoming? Looking back at each time I have sat and put my thoughts to whatever medium was present, whether it was a journal, notepad, napkin or word file, I was always in some sort of turmoil or pain. There would be strife and conflict, pain and endurance. The clash of steel, the screech of the four winds…scars in the making.

Why have I had a hard time writing? Because despite my great love of communication, I don’t know how to speak in a silent catacomb. I can’t hear my own voice in the corridors of calm and silence and it is unnerving. These past months I have found peace, and peace built me a house of serenity. I don’t know when it happened. Maybe peace found me when I was unaware, or maybe we found each other, but for the first time in my life I am enjoying a feeling of oneness and calm. Peace of mind and body. The heart and soul are another matter, but the language of my heart and soul are some combination of English and Latin, wolf and dove, crackling fire and Nordic wind, and to be perfectly honest I have no idea what heart or soul are saying most of the time. I suppose that is why I feel emotion. Maybe it’s my heart’s way of trying to communicate with me. Perhaps that is why I pray; in hope of a higher power helping me to understand the language of the soul. Regardless, I don’t feel like a hammer crashing against the anvil of the world. I don’t feel like an unshaped piece of iron being pounded between the anvil of yesterday and the hammer of tomorrow.

I wish I could say it was something profound that brought me to this place. That would certainly make for a better story, but in truth I think it was a bunch of little steps. A left turn here, a right turn there…a few crossed streams and a few more mended bridges and suddenly I am standing in an endless corridor of calm. There is color here. There are sconces and tapestries and the persistent fragrance of rose and cinnamon. It’s a wonderful place, it is just very hard for me to speak in this world. I am afraid it would diminish the experience; that it would shatter the image. I just need to have a bit more faith and use my voice once again. For those few that read this, you are hearing my voice as I am…for the first time. It has been a tumultuous past few years, and they have covered the entire rainbow of emotion; of love and hate, pleasure and pain. But I am sitting here on a frigid December night, drifting in my music, enjoying a drink, a stupid smile on my face, wondering what tomorrow brings. Alone, but calm. Tired, but at peace. I still have my inner fire, but it burns in a home called serenity and I hope it remains there unto the ending of my days.