By Sara Crolick.

It was under a full moon that I howled alongside living, breathing celebrations of the feminine spirit — a meeting months in the making.

Women who had connected through the invisible waves of the Internet, but had never shared physical space. Women who had seen my voice grow, ever so slightly, in the yearlong span I had known them.

But on that night, I took the cold air into my lungs and released a belly-sound, deep with meaning and embedded with trust, to the sky. And the sky received my voice and I fell silent, forever changed.

We claim ownership in moments like those; we see life as our own — a gift to be molded and shaped until it represents the goodness and fierceness that resides in our hearts.

We cultivate self-empowerment when we are surrounded by so much love. The respect and adoration of other people — other people just like you, the electric pulse of the moon and the stars, and the rocks slipping under your feet, these things reassure us of our place in the world.

There are other voices out there, whose howls compliment our own. Howls that lift our howls up. Howls that show us the dimensions and complexities of our own. Howls of the creative collective.

And the belly-sounds get inside us, penetrating the surface of our doubt, cracking fear wide open — until these things that make us feel weak and timid are rubble, rolling from our skin with the vibration of each proud footstep.

And then we reflect.

We’re reminded that the spinning, drowning sensations that we’ve known exist as part of our story, but that the story does not end there. From our centers, the story is drawn — slowly, quietly, until it builds, doubling upon itself with exponential growth.

And when it swells to a certain volume, we look around and realize that the sounds we hear are our own — the voice that is carrying so clearly came from this body that you call yours… the howl that was waiting, finally free.

And there is no recovering from such a moment. And there is no reason to ever look back on the remnants of your former, quieted self. Because she is there and you can honor the distance she carried you, but you have outgrown her.

You have outgrown so much.

But this howl, this will change the course of the story — because this howl comes from that place of authenticity.

Howl.

Time has passed since I stood next to that solid lake, since I looked into the eyes of a sister who knew me long before I knew myself, and now the space around me vibrates with a different intensity — a newfound, subtle strength.

As with the wolf’s song, we honor our ancient purpose. We respect the quiet that must exist between howls; for it is in those lulls that we allow the strength of our voices to take hold, until it is time to release. Slowly. Gradually. With intention and dignity.

This is my place in the community, this is how I will engage in the ceremony of life.

I let roots penetrate the frozen earth, and allow breaths and beats to reach up to the endless heavens.

Connection to the source, expansion to all that is possible — this is why we howl.

And when we experience moments like these, when we are gifted glimpses of how remarkable our voices are, we must be true to them until the end of our days.

We must protect them from the naysayers — as they will accuse us of things like impracticality and emotionality. They will doubt us, even reject us, for letting the howl broach so violently from our centers.

They will hear the hoarseness in our voices that arose from our honesty, and they will fear that they’ll be expected to be honest too.

They will be unsettled by the feelings that roil inside.

They will concern themselves with the change that these belly-sounds will bring.

Because once we access our howl, naysayers lose their power. No longer can they drag us beneath the surface — it is the howl that prevents upheaval from entering our hearts.

And so, we challenge each other to howl. We howl across the miles, in unison. We howl when we are alone and when we feel connected. We send our voices out, carrying the the messages of our hearts, like offerings to the creative collective.

This howl is mine, I offer it to you.

Howl.

*****

Sara Crolick is whiskey in a teacup. She loves elephants, vegetables, vintage typewriters, Audrey Hepburn and the written word, but not necessarily in that order. She raises two inspiring boys with her mister, who is a bona fide music-maker; this works out nicely, as she happens to also love music. You can connect with her via her website, her FB author page and Twitter.

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