Tell Me Something Good
"Isn’t it funny how something can begin in a way that feels bad, yet, over time, has the capacity to become something good? Like, really good.
18 years ago I woke up, the morning after Thanksgiving, at the childhood home of my now ex-husband, with the inability to speak. Well, I could speak, but there was no sound. Nothing. I thought I'd contracted a bad case of laryngitis, and brushed it off until I could return home and see my doctor.
She too thought it was laryngitis, and treated me accordingly.
At the time of this mysterious occurrence, I had just, 4 months prior, given birth to my son Arley. I had my dream job as Design Director at Patagonia, lived in a beautiful home in Ventura, California, and had my partner by my side. Or at least that’s the story I told myself, so it would appear to most as though I had nothing to complain about. Yet, when this experience occurred, it gave me great pause and reflection.
What was I not saying?
Did I not feel like I had a voice?
Who am I without my voice?
What had I suppressed, bypassed, or dismissed in favour of keeping everyone happy? I always kept the peace, even at my own expense.
For months, I embarked on an intense journey of seeking out healers, and looking for answers to my silence. Acupuncture, EMDR, Naturopathic medicine, Chiropractic, Journaling, Antibiotics…You name it, I tried it.
And still, nothing.
4 months into my silence, in my final attempt for answers, I sought out an ENT (Ear, Nose & Throat) doctor. In a matter of minutes, he diagnosed me with Left Vocal Cord Paralysis, and no known cure. In shock, and yet relieved to finally
have an answer, I began to release my tight grip around my need to understand it all. I let go and moved on with my life.
It was at that time, a miracle occurred. I was at work, and out of the blue, I received a message from a woman who wanted to discuss a design idea. She felt called to come to the Patagonia campus to meet with me. I reluctantly agreed.
The day of our meeting arrived. We sat at the outdoor picnic benches, sandwiched between the reception area and the childcare playground. The woman was much older than I expected. Wispy and frail, she wore a calico print dress patterned by a swarm of monarch butterflies. Her head was sheltered from the coastal sun by a wide-brimmed hat, adorned with matching butterflies attached by thin wire. It moved and swayed, lifelike, with each bob of her head.
I introduced myself, apologising for my annoyingly restricted voice. “How interesting is that. I’ve just returned from a 2 week training on Voice Therapy. Would you mind if I try a healing on you when we finish discussing my design idea?” She said.
I took it in and processed the coincidence of her recent shamanic travels, and her feeling called to come to my office and sprinkle some of her magic pixie dust on me. She seemed confident in her ability to heal me when seemingly no-one else could. I, of course, responded with a resounding, “Yes!”
As we talked about her concept, I was surprised to learn she knew nothing about Patagonia. I wondered to myself, how she knew to contact me for her idea in the first place. So I provided her with more background information on the company, and offered to get her a catalog from the front desk. I excused myself.
As I walked across the threshold to enter the main lobby, I came upon a dead, but perfectly intact monarch butterfly specimen. It must have flown into the glass door and died on impact. But what an odd coincidence, especially under the circumstances I now found myself in with this woman shrouded in butterflies.
When I returned to the picnic table, I presented this mystical woman with both the catalog and the butterfly. She thanked me for both, then quite matter of factly said she would like to begin my healing.
I remained in my seat, comfortably positioned between the main lobby and a playground filled with screaming children. She stood behind me, working her hands in a rotating motion around my neck, assessing “the damage”. She concluded I had a substantial amount of stuck energy in my throat chakra, and said she'd like to proceed with a clearing to remove it. I nodded with approval.
In only a few short moments, she was done, assuring me she'd gotten most of “it” out, and that I should be back to normal in a few days. With that, we said our goodbyes, offering our mutual gratitude to one another. She and her travel
companion were off.
Two days later, I woke up, same as I had for the last four silent months. But this time, I called out to my son and heard volume and depth in my voice. I heard me. It had returned, just as she said. I was transformed from the dark silence of the chrysalis into the beautiful expression of the butterfly.
Even now as I sit here writing this, I'm filled with tears of gratitude and the firm belief that miracles are available to us at any time.
Out of something bad - the loss of my own voice, I found something really, really good. A deep connection and understanding of my real voice. That resonant sound in my head providing me with a sense of my own identity.
It is the voice I project out into the world, yet sometimes forget to use with purpose and intention for fear of being wrong, disruptive, unloved, not accepted, too bold, too brave, or simply shamed for expressing who I am or what I believe.
What I also learned is that sometimes, when our voice is taken away, when we are silenced, whether through a mysterious illness, authority figures, our place in society, or by our own doing, we become cut-off from our own true essence.
And yet, when we are muted, there can also be a healing space, allowing for meditation, contemplation and deep introspection. It is an opportunity to listen, while also tuning into our inner knowing, so that when our voice returns, we have the clarity to reclaim our innate power. We can honour and use our voice for the greater good.
Wanda Weller
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