I thought I was leaving the difficulty of the third world behind by choosing to spend Christmas on the beach in Zanzibar.
Little did I know that Zanzibar would also be the place I revisit breath-work for the first time since Thailand 2013, and would unleash whatever emotional damage I must have been repressing for over a decade.
The unexpected unveiling of a new path in my journey was not a pursuit of my own making. However, as fate would have it, a serendipitous encounter led a newfound friend to refer me toward her healing guy in Zanzibar. Apparently the power of breath can take you on a hallucinating individual journey to your deeper issues. Firmly attuned to the subtle whispers of the universe, I heeded the recommendation and embarked on the enchanting voyage. Swiftly, I discerned its profound resonance within me. Though it was fleeting, during the abbreviated session, I transcended the confines of my physical form, drifting inwardly. Amidst my sixtieth breath, a revelation materialized before me: I was engulfed in a pool of liquid, stuck in the sticky goo of whatever it was holding me back. I cried out for help, but nobody was around to hear me. I was utterly and completely alone.
Then hours later my voice became raspy and while I didn’t feel under the weather, I noticed a difference in my sound. My voice was gone.
That was two months ago and now I’m just going through the motions. Unable to sing, unable to talk for long periods with people, and unable to trust that my body is okay. That I’m okay.
Looking back Tanzania was irrevocably the most difficult part of my trip. I don’t know what exactly cracked in me in those last weeks, however the trip to Capetown, South Africa didn’t help my healing progress.
I was tired, worn down, solitary, and definitely feeling more lost than before. I was content with going along with the flow, however something was bubbling deep down.Realistically, I really should not have pushed myself as hard as I did in the end. I even went to a vineyard where I drank for the third and final time in Africa. The wild sulfates of South Africa bruised my chords, and whatever was blocked from the breath work, got inflamed and just lingered around for weeks after.
I don’t quite know what to make of these symptoms, and I’m certainly past the point of wanting to google it…but I guess this post is a long-winded way of saying, I give in, and I still have faith it will work out.
My voice will return in its own time, even if it takes a while to heal. I understand that this may be a quieter season for me. Although it’s difficult knowing that I won’t experience music in the same way as before, I believe there’s a purpose behind all this uncertainty. Dear Africa, I trust that you had a reason for taking my voice, but I kindly ask for its return now.
