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June 15, 2002
Conversation
Now, in this quickly passing moment; while it’s still Spring, let me tell you about a conversation that I have. Walking across the Meadow swath; cresting the slope of the Ravine; following the course of the Loch, I am not alone in thought.The source of thought I do not know, for things come to my mind that I cannot account for; but if it would be understood, thought must be distilled as Word.
Every word is an answer, and begs another presence; no utterance but assumes an ear attuned to hear it.
The inner ear, the inner voice, converse.
Conversation goes both ways; the ear shall speak, the voice must listen.
Who speaks when we talk to ourselves?
Who speaks for me against resistance?
Who speaks to me through my resistance?
I have heard many voices, and honed my own against them.
I heard the voice of the Friend, loved and admired. Looked for the words that win approval; what would they say to what I think? Can I cause myself to think in such a way as I imagine they would wish?
Influence is a form of reply.
Peer review can be cruel, and our friends often prove as callow as we; yet some few achieve the estate of teacher.
And I have heard the voice of the Teacher, and measured all my learning by it. Tried to imagine the reply of one more knowledgeable than I.
Imagining what we do not know is a way of learning, but hard in the proving. Teachers don’t know everything, though the right words might make it seem so, leaving us to speak as a child to a parent.
And I have heard the voice of the Parent; that first voice echoes far.
More than we know, we are respondent to the words we heard in youth. We hear them still, across the years, the more so when they echo in the mouths of friends or teachers, or even those dear liars that we know, who lie by saying something true, but meaning something else.
All of these have spoken to me, and I reply as best I can.
But impetus precedes response, so who would I address, if I could choose the ear to receive my inner voice?
I must speak to my Love.
Who She is, I know no more than I know where my thoughts come from.
I know Her nonetheless.
It’s Her that I address, to plead my cause; advance my suit; at best, explain myself.
She answers in the dampness of a cold morning in May; a June that stumbles on towards Summer, leaving me wondering...
And I say, “well, yes, but wouldn’t you like to hear some more about me?”
But She knows me by my deeds, and knows the distance between my deeds and my well intentioned thoughts.
Somewhere between thoughts and deeds are words.
Or, words are a kind of deed, which may or may not be of an easy sort, compared to other actions one may take in the World. For my part, I account them beyond value. If I spend mine on Her, it’s in the faith that our conversation will teach me to please Her. That, I think, will make me a better man.
And I know she will love a better man.
A better man may recognize Her in the words of women of this world, and even some men. Knowing that they share Her voice, and learning to hear it, serves reply to my meditations, and corrects me with the force of Life as it is truly lived. And that’s really the better part of what I mean when I talk about worshipping the Goddess; a conversation of the heart, or head, or with a friend.
So if I talk to myself, or if you hear voices, it’s not to be thought strange.
Because we must have something to talk about.
And someone to talk to.
Beyond the conversation is silence: Mystery awaits your voice.