The Sound We Were Before We Were Born

Long before the first word shaped our tongue, we were sound.

Not just the heartbeat in the womb, but the resonance of the world itself—the wind in the grass, the thunder in the sky, the songlines traced by ancestors walking the earth in the dark, humming creation into being.

Music is not a gift given to humans. It is the memory of where we come from.

It is the thread that ties us to all life—birdsong, whale song, the silence between pulses.

We come into the world vibrating with possibility, each of us a unique note in the great chord of existence.

Somewhere along the way, most of us forget. We trade lullabies for news feeds, chanting for chatter, the sacred for the convenient. But somewhere in us, the song waits. Patient. Unchanged. Unbroken.

The Soundtrack of Becoming (and Unbecoming)

There are songs that have broken me open in the middle of a crowded room—some invisible ache I never knew I was carrying rising up and spilling over. There are songs that have knit me back together when I thought I would never be whole again.

Some memories do not return as images but as sound—a voice in a kitchen, a melody humming through old speakers, the echo of drums in the night air, barefoot and wild. There is a place in me, and perhaps in you, that is only accessible through these doorways.

Music is a time machine, but it is also a portal. It allows us to feel the fullness of life in a single moment—grief, longing, ecstasy, belonging. It does not bypass pain. It does not sanitize joy. It lets us feel it all.

Ceremony, Healing, and the Medicine of Frequency

There is a reason that every ancient people knew to sing to the land, to the water, to the spirits, to each other.

A reason that prayer is often a song, that mourning is often a wail, that the threshold between worlds is guarded by music.

When we sing together, when we drum together, when we let ourselves be moved by sound, we return to the body. We return to the earth.

Science will tell you about dopamine, about entrainment, about neural pathways. But deeper than science, there is knowing:

Frequency is medicine.

The right sound can uncoil sorrow from the spine. The right rhythm can call the soul back into the body. The right harmony can remind us that healing is not a solo act.

So much of our disconnection comes from forgetting this truth—forgetting that we are meant to sing together, to listen together, to be tuned not only to each other but to the land itself.

Music as Rebellion, as Memory That Won’t Die

There are powers in the world that fear what cannot be controlled.

It’s why empires ban the drum, why conquerors silence the flute, why tyrants outlaw the chant.

But you cannot kill a song once it’s been sung.

You cannot silence a frequency that has already entered the bones of a people.

The music that survives is the music of resistance—not just to oppression but to amnesia.

It is a refusal to forget.

It is memory made audible, love made stubborn, hope made contagious.

It is why the songs of the enslaved still ring out, why the rebel music of one generation becomes the lullaby of the next, why protest chants echo across borders and centuries.

The In-Between Spaces: Connection Beyond Words

There are moments—around a fire, in a church, at a protest, even just alone with headphones—where music does what nothing else can do. It unites us in our humanity. It makes room for sorrow we can’t speak, and for a joy too wild to name.

It reminds us that even in our solitude, we are never truly alone.

You know this feeling.

The moment the first note hits and your body remembers something your mind cannot.

The goosebumps, the tears that come for no reason, the urge to move, to dance, to weep, to surrender.

This is not nostalgia.

This is ancestral memory.

This is the spirit calling you back to wholeness.

Arousing the Memory: Invitation to Remember

So let me ask you—

What is the song you return to when you have lost your way?

What is the drum that calls you back when you have wandered too far from yourself?What is the frequency that unlocks your tears, your laughter, your wildness?

Do you remember the song your mother (or father, or ancestor, or friend) sang to you before you could speak?

Have you ever let your own voice carry you through the dark, unashamed?

Let this be an invitation—not just to listen, but to remember.

Not just to consume, but to participate.

Sing. Drum. Hum. Move.

Let yourself be moved.

Tune yourself to what is ancient, what is true, what cannot be destroyed.

Blessing for the Frequency of Becoming

May you find the song that remembers you when you have forgotten yourself.

May you be unashamed of your trembling voice, your beating heart, your dancing feet.

May you know yourself as frequency, as medicine, as unbroken line of memory.

May you heal, may you resist, may you awaken, may you come home.

And may your song join with ours, a chorus that no one and nothing can silence.

Let’s remember together.

Let’s become the song.

Let’s awaken what has long slept in the bones.

The music is waiting.

The remembering is now.