Voice

A little more than a year ago

Last week, sitting on a friend’s couch, someone asked me to bring the blog back.

I said I couldn’t. I explained that the writing has become too honest and I’m not sure I can share any of it anymore. I have spent the last several months losing myself in other people’s words and avoiding my own. I have heard that the best way to become a good writer is to be a good reader. I read voraciously. I have books stacked on the coffee table. I have the max number of holds on my library account. I have audio and digital books on my phone. I get up each day, make coffee and read a hundred pages or more before going to work. If it isn’t books, I listen to podcasts in the car while I drive from school to school or practice to practice. I listen on long walks, even skipping my favorite playlists for someone else's words. My family hates it because I always play them at 1.5X normal speed. I tell myself I can listen to more this way. That it keeps me focused, but what I mean is that it keeps me occupied. It keeps me from my own thoughts. I am lost so quickly into the story. I let their words and voice replace my own.

My daughter asked to go to the neighborhood pool. I consented, and instead of grabbing a book, I put on a swimsuit. Something I have not done all summer. The water is cold and I am faced with gratitude. Swimming used to be cumbersome. The goggles used to trigger me. The water against my face was a risk. Holding my breath hurt. The bubbles bursting could shock me. But today I feel nothing but quiet. At the gym I used to focus on the lines at the bottom of the pool, but my neighborhood one is just white with the occasional crack. It is smaller than the gym but long enough for me to get in a workout. For me to struggle for air and my arms to ache with the next stroke. I quietly count my laps. Turn my head to breathe. It has been so long since I have paid attention to my breathing. There is no podcast playing in my ears. There is nothing for me to focus on except my breath. All I hear is my air escaping to the surface and my arms breaking the water. I grow tired faster than I would like, but also calm.

Just after pushing myself about a lap too far.

I hear it. A voice I had forgotten and am slow to recognize.

“There you are”, it says.

There. You. Are.

It is my own voice. That I had covered with other people’s words. With constant books and headphones. But there is only me in the water.

And it comes back to me with each stroke.

I go back to the pool the next day.

Hoping to find it again.

—-

Recently

In addition to my blog I’ve been sharing work regularly at The Grit and Grace Project. A few months ago an editor reached out and invited me to their regular writers’ meetings. They’ve given me opportunities to share my words. I’ve mostly shared updated and edited versions of old essays. Today I got an email from one of the staff members asking f I’d be willing to record some of my essays for audio, a podcast compilation of articles they want to release later this summer. They’d asked collectively before. I do love a microphone (as long as I don’t have to sing), but the idea of editing and recording seemed a little overwhelming. Until today when the ask was more specific, when she reached out individually and said they really wanted my voice.

Not just my written words but my out loud ones too. I borrowed a fancy microphone and decided to record a few pieces. I read the first essay which I wrote several years ago. I knock it out quickly and confidently. Then I proceed to read the second one they requested, one they haven’t even printed yet. This one is new, the story still unfolding.

I’ve written all the words. I’ve edited them. I’ve shared them.

But when I start to read them out loud I struggle to finish. This story is one I’m still telling is hard to read. My voice breaks. I’ve silently read these words at least a half dozen times, but there is something different about saying them outloud. I’m confronted with the heaviness of a load I keep pretending is lighter.

I often write to untangle my thoughts so I can be done with them and move on. Writing them is about getting them out.

Saying them outloud is the opposite. Speaking them is taking them in.

A gentle reminder, like in the pool. There. You. Are.

My written words are often kinder and more generous than my internal voice. My writing is the best of me. I often feel like my struggles and stories are things to get past. To push through, to learn from, to be done with. Recording my own words has forced me to listen to this version of myself that I hope to be. It is less about pushing past and more about sitting in. I’ve always wanted my words to connect. I’ve wanted them to have impact.

I just never realized that who I was impacting and connecting with could also be me.

Words have power. Mine and Yours. Written down or spoken out loud.

I really want poeple to read my words, but maybe what I really want is for people to find their own voice. Find a quiet place. Find a microphone. What do you have to say??