The study of sound occurred to me as a baby, first entering the womb with breath and air and being torn from it tied to umbilical cords.

Instrumental monumental moments like the first breath in running, resonates in my veins, reverberates a memory rooted deep in my skin cells, tethered to the finest hairs on my body, the most miniscule blood cell is a mammoth of survival.

Last week, a man said thank you when he asked the origins of my name. Yitazba, a world of words that can only be captured in the English language as “a warrior woman raider who brings back gifts.” It is beyond raiding. He said thank you for being here, for its a gift and a miracle you’re gere after all the shit my ancestors did to yours.

So it is in this moment of sound study that I turn back to singing. When I am devastated, I turn inward and hibernate. Sound, music, drums, vibration awakens me, awakens my heart to stories of plants and people. I am moved by mountains to listen to their visions, their history, their stories. Music is a language all can feel and understand. Feeling is an energy and poetry opens up to it. I can access my heart in a world that only wants wants wants wants wants wantswantswantswantswantswantswantswantswantswatnswatnswantswatnswatnstwanstwanswanstswanstswanswanstsa wants what once was and always wants more.

Breathe.

Listen to the little silver pot boiling water and salt on the stove. Listen to the birds singing in the early morning blue corn sunrise. Listen to the footsteps of birds hopping in the yard. Take a moment and study sound.