How many times must we lose ourselves in order to find ourselves?  To act as miners digging through coal in the dark of night to find the light of diamonds?  In the womb we have no voice, but we speak, for words are not requisite for speech.  As our beings are born unto the earth and we grow as buds on stems, sound sticks like honey and words cannot resist the sweet entrapment.  With voice, we find ourselves, and through finding ourselves, we dialogue as whispering mutters chattering in the theater before the play is to begin.  For today is the rehearsal for tomorrow’s endeavor.  When we lose voice, our primal communication from being to being, road to river, mountain to highway, we lose grasp of an essential component of our existence.  In limbo we float, fruit in Jell-O in the ambrosia salad, until one outstretched finger tip joins with another, and life is renewed.  Cold and cough may come as wayward visitors on the path to enlightenment, shake hands and stay for awhile, burrowing in the softness of tissues held to nose and mouth.  Yet as birds fly north, cough does too, and lips elapse air, breath born to voice.  As mountains we climb, we proclaim from lofty heights the supremacy of voice, and utter, as softly as the language of the womb, I have found myself again.

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