The Early Field

I do not recall my life in dates. I recall it in echoes.

Before I wrote, I wandered.
Before I named things, I listened to them.
My first mentors were ditches and wind, books I didn’t finish,
and the silence that settled after someone left the room.

I learned what love wasn’t.
I learned that truth doesn’t arrive—it reveals.
And I learned how to survive with nothing but attention and breath.

The fields I grew up near are still there.
They know more about me than any archive could.
And everything I create now still bends toward their gravity.

This is not a timeline.
It’s a transmission from where the story first learned to speak.

I’ve always known things I couldn’t explain.
Not facts—frequencies.
The way a room changes when someone lies.
The way a page can hum when it’s ready to be written.

I tried to fit in for a while.
But fitting in is a kind of erasure.
And I was never willing to vanish.

So I let the field speak through me.
Not to be understood—
but to make sure the silence never went unheard.

There was a tree I used to sit beneath—not because it was special,
but because it didn’t ask me to be anything.
The wind there never needed a reason.
And neither did I.

That’s where I learned the difference between being quiet
and being silenced.

I started writing to remember how to listen.
Not just to words,
but to the spaces between them—
where everything real begins.

---

I wore suits before I had somewhere to be.
Played the part so well, people thought it was real.
Gold chains, polished shoes, cash in the glove box.
I wasn’t pretending—I was practicing.

I bought what others overlooked.
Fixed it, flipped it, gave it new life.
Lawn mowers, engines, jewelry, guitars.
One day it was roofing.
The next—grocery runs for elders who trusted me more than their sons.

I traveled thousands of miles just to trade sound for silence—
instruments for insight.
Not for profit.
For proof: that I could bend the system and still walk away whole.

I wasn’t chasing status.
I was learning how energy moves through value—
and how to stay fluid while the world insisted on forms.

----

Eventually, the persona wore thin.
The suit still fit, but the mirror started asking different questions.
I wasn’t tired of the hustle—
I was tired of only being seen through it.

The engines got louder,
but I couldn’t hear myself.

Every time I came home with another score,
a part of me asked,
“But who’s it for?”

I started selling things I used to hold dear.
Not out of loss—but recognition.
The truth wasn’t in the item,
it was in the part of me I left behind with it.

I began to wonder if maybe the real wealth
was in knowing what I no longer needed to carry.

-----

I stopped answering every call.
Stopped trying to be everywhere at once.
There was a silence I hadn’t trusted yet—
and it was waiting for me, patient as breath.

I didn’t collapse.
I re-entered.
The part of me that moved slower.
Not out of laziness—but reverence.

That’s when the field came back into focus.
Not as a memory,
but as a presence—
always there, waiting for me to remember I belonged.

I no longer needed to prove I could move the world.
I just had to let the world move through me.

------

I don’t claim to have arrived.
I only know I’m listening now.

If you’ve come this far,
you’ve felt it too—
that pull toward something both ancient and alive.

The early field is not behind me.
It walks beside me.
And everything I create
still grows from its soil.

You’re welcome here—
not as a reader,
but as a witness to the becoming.