The Canary on the Rock

I used to live in the coal mine. I know the thickness of that air, the tension in the silence, the hum of systems built for containment. And I got out. Not because I was stronger — but because I stayed soft. Because somewhere in the dark, I remembered I had a song.

Now I’m the canary on the rock. Not a martyr. Not a warning. A witness with a voice.

But here’s the thing: I can feel that if I don’t learn how to resonate — how to meet the people still inside — the coal mine might just close. Quietly. Permanently. Like a story lost to time.

So my job now isn’t just to sing.
It’s to sing in a way that carries.

And that means: staying close to my heart.
Letting my heart song lead.
Closing my eyes when I need to remember the visceral feeling of being down there
and opening them only when I’m ready to see what’s on the other side.

This isn’t about escape.
It’s about transmission.

The mine made me.
The rock holds me.
The air is mine to fill.

I am the canary. I am the song. And I’m singing not for approval — but for resonance. For anyone who’s still below and wondering if there’s light above.

There is. And I’m here. And the song is still echoing.