In my bright yellow dress, I pass the cards through my hands. As the clients ponder their questions, I offer a prayer — always the same prayer, even if there are different words. Brighid, thank you for giving your wisdom to the last client. Please share your wisdom with the one before you, so she may have the answers she seeks. Let me be a vessel for your wisdom; let it pass through me to her.
I have only one talent: getting myself out of the way.
To run, I must push aside the one who seeks to guide, to control, to throw myself into the sheer physicality of my body. To do yoga, the same.
To sing, I must simply let the aria do its work. To play music, let the patterns guide my hand over the strings. To write, set my finger-pads on the dirty keys and let the feeling flow through, the words and ideas organizing themselves.
There is no me in any of this. The “comptroller,” so to speak, only bungles things as she wields her shoulds and insecurities. When I find myself, that’s when the trouble starts.
Because it isn’t really me, I can’t and don’t take credit for any of it, or at least I try not to; it doesn’t feel right. And so I often feel lesser than those who do, who proclaim their value from the rooftops, who keep mental trophies of obstacles overcome. The victors look at me with pitying eyes: See? She never talks. She’s invisible.
But it strikes me that when I am a vessel, vas, vast, I might access a power that few others can see, let alone touch. And perhaps that’s why the Gods speak to me: there’s an empty cup ready for the tea.
Sometimes, I sit and wonder what me, what self is. Empty space is my only experiential answer — empty space filled by sensory input, dreams and unnamed feelings.