I wrote this six years ago on Facebook:
"My word o' the day is logophile. It's a 'lover of words'.
This morning, I'm in love with the words of another and notsoinlove with the notion that I need to cultivate those of my own to fully express new & shifting realities of my world; knowing the words themselves are absolutely necessary--for myownfineself and others.
It's moments like this when those laud my life as a courageous one make me shake my head, certain they've confused me with someone else.
Words.
Word."
I found it entirely fitting as today is the birth of this blog. Although many posts have been transferred from God at the Kitchen Sink, here we'll be expanding past the limitations I felt there. Not long before I started that blog, God really did show up at my kitchen sink. For the second time. He didn't offer to help with the dishes again. However, he did speak: "How will you define yourself?" My response was something along the lines of "I'm just Ingrid, dammit!" with some Carlinesque language included in the mix to make the point. Who was God to show up and ask some shit like that?
Not long after that visitation, another holy energy popped by and informed me that I was "The Messenger". Apparently since I hadn't decided on a definition of my own, someone else decided they'd slap a label on me and be done with it. However, they weren't done with me. They left the label but forgot to leave the actual message or a manual for how all this stuff is supposed to come together.
For years, disembodied voices hollered and whispered telling me to "SPEAK!!" Ancestors wandered down mountains to say, "Speak, child. Speak." On the Plains of South Dakota, "Speak." In sweat lodges, "When you speak your heart, you speak us." Wakinyan turned proverbial tables to get me to speak. To each admonition, plea and direction, I responded, "What do you want me to SAY!!" I screamed it when a God demanded of me (I also happened to mention that Moses already took care of the basics and look at how that worked out). I cried it when mothers brought their daughters in arms outstretched as if to say, "Speak for our children." I responded more than once, "Who will hear me if they can't see me?" For years I've been a messenger with nothing to say.
Then, two days before my birthday this year, The Mother came through in a dream and told me she'd made me to be her speechwriter. In the dream I said I was confused why she'd choose me because I wasn't 'pure'. Her response to me, with the same eyebrow up that some of y'all have seen from me, was, "But you're real." I'd like to think she meant because 'pure' isn't actually real and I actually am in all my humanness that didn't know it was hiding.
Then the conversation was over. I mean, what was I going to do, argue with God? That's like arguing with a toddler except you can't wait until God wears herself out and has a nap. I'm fairly certain she rolled her eyes when I said, "You know I have no idea what I'm doing, right?" Because I don't.
I've long been called a voice for the voiceless--the long-dead and honored, the more recently dead and ignored, and gods. They've told me, "When you speak your heart, you speak us" but that idea has always felt like it must match the expectations that others (and I) have of them be they the dead-Indian entourage or the gods themselves. And here She shows up with a 'write my speech'. Sure thing.
She waited until she was done waiting and the past 8 weeks during the most recent awakening shift, She became me and I her voice; this was the final integration. Creator, creation and muse woven together, embodied. Not separate but joined at the heart, in the heart to be shared with the hearts of others.
This new blog is a reflection of that shift. Welcome. I'm grateful you will walk with me for a while.
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