I must have something to say--
the human condition and all.
I want to talk about your words
so I can tell others what they mean
A natural born critic, literature
analyst, teasing out meaning
and connecting it with lines
from other myth-makers
did i miss my calling when
i went into pastoral ministry?
was i supposed to be writing
book reviews and bad poetry
all along?
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Monday, February 9, 2015
I super love you
When I say I super love you, my heart is constricted and stressed. I say it as a matter of survival. I say this to my disconnected body, my aching body, my beautiful body.
When I say I super love you, I say it to my beautiful husband, my near husband, my far-away husband. I say it as a matter of survival, a matter of fact. I need to say it, I want to say it.
When I say it, I see it.
As true as it was, it becomes more true.
What more could I see if I said it to anyone or anything?
What more could be true if I said it to anyone or anything?
Everyone and everything?
When I say I super love you, I say it to my beautiful husband, my near husband, my far-away husband. I say it as a matter of survival, a matter of fact. I need to say it, I want to say it.
When I say it, I see it.
As true as it was, it becomes more true.
What more could I see if I said it to anyone or anything?
What more could be true if I said it to anyone or anything?
Everyone and everything?
Saturday, February 7, 2015
My voice
I've always had a love-hate relationship with my own voice.
Church and school choirs, starting in grade school.
Honor choirs.
State contests.
Show choirs.
Madrigals.
College choirs.
I tried playing other instruments, but never felt the same connection with a mouthpiece, some strings, a piece of wood, or a set of tubes as I did with my own lungs and vocal chords.
I remember the conductor to our multi-school honor choir: "Now sing a sunset." Still one of the most powerful crescendos I have ever experienced.
The affirmation when I sang a low alto part with vibrato as a freshman in high school.
The smattering of solos I managed to score.
The crying and the joy and the whole-heartedness of it all.
Like I said, sometime during college I stopped.
There was, of course, another way of exercising my voice: writing. The countless letters and emails I wrote to friends far away. The origin myth I wrote in high school about how there came to be so many fish in the sea that had the whole class howling. When an elderly friend of mine, an old professor of foreign language in Hong Kong, told me I had a real gift with words. The college essays that my professors would share as examples of a job well done.
Once, in an economic development theory class, my professor from Haiti asked me to read my essay test answers aloud. I had a cold, so I asked her if she would. She made me read it anyway. Then she asked me to read the next question, and the next. I told her I couldn't. I was so embarrassed, afraid of my own voice. The words on the page were powerful, but when I could no longer hide behind them, I felt exposed. Although I had a dizzying array of facts in my head and I could organize them in neat and persuasive packages, my voice betrayed that I was a fraud. It was all smoke and mirrors. There was no substance in my body to effect any real change-- it was all in my mind.
I took a public speaking class in grad school. We gave several major speeches throughout the semester. I had prepared my words carefully, meticulously. Every syllable was present and correct. If it were a paper, I felt sure I would have aced it. And yet, when it came time, I felt sure that if I stood up in front of my peers, I would be discovered: a complete poser.
All it turned out to be was self-sabotage, from beginning to end. The words I couldn't say out loud-- they were indeed mine, born not only out of my learning and my brain but my raw open aching heart. These words were not me, but they could be spoken as truly my own. These were truthful words, I spoke them with my whole heart.
By some wizardry that I still don't understand, I was named valedictorian of my small high school class. And you know what valedictorians do: they give inspirational or sentimental speeches. Since I do neither of those genres very well, I politely declined the opportunity. What on earth would I say that wasn't completely trite or full of platitudes? There were also several of us at the top of the class, so many thought I refused out of deference for those equally deserving. I'm sure the class president or someone took up the slack; I just didn't feel it was my place. Even though I had the platform, I deferred. I bailed. I copped out.
Now in my thirties, I think about how many times I have chosen to silence my own voice. To not speak up when it was my turn. To sabotage my own goals. To not champion my ideals.
That's not all bad, certainly. Listening, one has the chance to learn, and it has been my primary posture in life.
I stopped singing, mostly, and I stopped writing, for many years. Today, I am practicing using my own voice. Maybe writing is my voice after all. Maybe I am braver today than I was then. Maybe I'm just as brave now as ever. One thing: I know that I would say out loud anything I have written. And I keep stretching my words, like a dare. A dare to live them into being. A dare to live my words aloud. To prove them with my whole life.
Church and school choirs, starting in grade school.
Honor choirs.
State contests.
Show choirs.
Madrigals.
College choirs.
I tried playing other instruments, but never felt the same connection with a mouthpiece, some strings, a piece of wood, or a set of tubes as I did with my own lungs and vocal chords.
I remember the conductor to our multi-school honor choir: "Now sing a sunset." Still one of the most powerful crescendos I have ever experienced.
The affirmation when I sang a low alto part with vibrato as a freshman in high school.
The smattering of solos I managed to score.
The crying and the joy and the whole-heartedness of it all.
Like I said, sometime during college I stopped.
There was, of course, another way of exercising my voice: writing. The countless letters and emails I wrote to friends far away. The origin myth I wrote in high school about how there came to be so many fish in the sea that had the whole class howling. When an elderly friend of mine, an old professor of foreign language in Hong Kong, told me I had a real gift with words. The college essays that my professors would share as examples of a job well done.
Once, in an economic development theory class, my professor from Haiti asked me to read my essay test answers aloud. I had a cold, so I asked her if she would. She made me read it anyway. Then she asked me to read the next question, and the next. I told her I couldn't. I was so embarrassed, afraid of my own voice. The words on the page were powerful, but when I could no longer hide behind them, I felt exposed. Although I had a dizzying array of facts in my head and I could organize them in neat and persuasive packages, my voice betrayed that I was a fraud. It was all smoke and mirrors. There was no substance in my body to effect any real change-- it was all in my mind.
I took a public speaking class in grad school. We gave several major speeches throughout the semester. I had prepared my words carefully, meticulously. Every syllable was present and correct. If it were a paper, I felt sure I would have aced it. And yet, when it came time, I felt sure that if I stood up in front of my peers, I would be discovered: a complete poser.
All it turned out to be was self-sabotage, from beginning to end. The words I couldn't say out loud-- they were indeed mine, born not only out of my learning and my brain but my raw open aching heart. These words were not me, but they could be spoken as truly my own. These were truthful words, I spoke them with my whole heart.
By some wizardry that I still don't understand, I was named valedictorian of my small high school class. And you know what valedictorians do: they give inspirational or sentimental speeches. Since I do neither of those genres very well, I politely declined the opportunity. What on earth would I say that wasn't completely trite or full of platitudes? There were also several of us at the top of the class, so many thought I refused out of deference for those equally deserving. I'm sure the class president or someone took up the slack; I just didn't feel it was my place. Even though I had the platform, I deferred. I bailed. I copped out.
Now in my thirties, I think about how many times I have chosen to silence my own voice. To not speak up when it was my turn. To sabotage my own goals. To not champion my ideals.
That's not all bad, certainly. Listening, one has the chance to learn, and it has been my primary posture in life.
I stopped singing, mostly, and I stopped writing, for many years. Today, I am practicing using my own voice. Maybe writing is my voice after all. Maybe I am braver today than I was then. Maybe I'm just as brave now as ever. One thing: I know that I would say out loud anything I have written. And I keep stretching my words, like a dare. A dare to live them into being. A dare to live my words aloud. To prove them with my whole life.
Friday, January 23, 2015
Write your own story
I'm feeling the winter blahs.
I'm remembering that I have not left the country in quite awhile. Note to self: update passport with new name, get husband a passport. Plan a trip to Mexico. Or, you know, Disneyland. Because I've never been. Or maybe just do some wine tasting in California or stay someplace fun this winter/spring. You know, something warm or romantic. Or what the hey-ho, go visit April in Idaho and stay at her house!
My palate feels dull and heavy. All I want is fruit and Mexican food. More lime zest and ridiculously sweet carbonated beverages, but go light on the queso, porfiz! Srsly, eat that fruit.
It's wet out there, and so so gray. I think I would like a bright, sunny craft to do. Seriously, I just said a craft. Maybe get Kate over to teach me to knit husband a scarf??? Yes, tomorrow for second breakfast!
I'm reading people's writing and wishing that I could write. I don't know what I would write, but somehow it has something to do with what I have already read and am currently reading. Action step: Read Undine.
I'm seeing people's kindness and altruism and wishing I could love outside of my small circle. I guess there's a lot of work I could help with in Everett. And I guess I have in-laws, so that's a thing. Funny thing, I feel like Liz's parents could count as family, too.
I need some beauty in my life right now-- I think of Stephanie's singing voice. I left her a note to leave me a singing voice mail.
I'm remembering that I have not left the country in quite awhile. Note to self: update passport with new name, get husband a passport. Plan a trip to Mexico. Or, you know, Disneyland. Because I've never been. Or maybe just do some wine tasting in California or stay someplace fun this winter/spring. You know, something warm or romantic. Or what the hey-ho, go visit April in Idaho and stay at her house!
My palate feels dull and heavy. All I want is fruit and Mexican food. More lime zest and ridiculously sweet carbonated beverages, but go light on the queso, porfiz! Srsly, eat that fruit.
It's wet out there, and so so gray. I think I would like a bright, sunny craft to do. Seriously, I just said a craft. Maybe get Kate over to teach me to knit husband a scarf??? Yes, tomorrow for second breakfast!
I'm reading people's writing and wishing that I could write. I don't know what I would write, but somehow it has something to do with what I have already read and am currently reading. Action step: Read Undine.
I'm seeing people's kindness and altruism and wishing I could love outside of my small circle. I guess there's a lot of work I could help with in Everett. And I guess I have in-laws, so that's a thing. Funny thing, I feel like Liz's parents could count as family, too.
I need some beauty in my life right now-- I think of Stephanie's singing voice. I left her a note to leave me a singing voice mail.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)