This year I was asked to describe my relationship to my voice. It was not difficult for me to put the words on paper, but my instinctual answer was not something I had ever articulated before: my voice is myself. There is no separation between them. It is not a tool, it is not a mode, it is not a form, not a method. My voice is not a part of me. It is me.
I have unwittingly been putting myself in situations this year, forcing myself to confront my voice. I went to a fabulous vocal retreat. I went to jazz camp. I started going to regular group singing lessons which connect body, mind, and voice. Each of these experiences have left me emotional, upset, even.
I have discovered that I am not at all comfortable with my voice. I had two or three experiences that absolutely shocked me, where I lost my voice. I opened my mouth and could not make a sound. I experienced panic attempting to sing in front of others, which I never had before. In doing so, I realized that my relationship to my voice was not so good. I was not really so good with myself.
The questions that ran through my head bled from being about singing voice to being about self: they asked, "What makes you think you can take up this space?"
But even though it hurt, I allowed the negativity to flow through me and came back to approach it better the next time – the next day, the next class, the next retreat. I like to think I’m improving; it’s probably a very slowly increasing trend line between high highs and low lows. But every time I ask myself if I should never sing again, I wake up the next day and sing.
What I’m realizing is that the depth of work I need to do on my voice is enormous but has very little to do with technique. And actually, it is only through working on my voice that I can work on myself. It occurred to me the other day that singing has always been my meditation.
Having problems with the voice is a curious thing because it points to the need not only to repair my relationship with myself, but also with others. It points to a need to trust people, trust that sharing my voice does not take space from others but gives them space, gives us all collectively space to do something better together. My college a cappella group was such an environment: no matter what else was going on in my life, I found there a family whose voices supported each other. It wasn’t always perfect, but it was very real, and my voice has never been better.
I suppose what I’m trying to say is that everything is connected, but we have to start somewhere, from something, from a way in. Accepting that singing can cause me pain is my way in; dealing with that pain is my way through; continuing to sing is my way forward.
This week...
I'm listening to: Bilo je sada, a gorgeous concept album of traditional songs highlighting the strength of women across time, from Dunije (Croatia).
I'm watching: Leyla, a Turkish dizi about revenge, has been my favorite new show this season.
I'm reading: I just picked up Ana Hofman's The New Life of Partizan Songs (in Serbian).
This is the second post of a short series on writing, position, identity, slow learning, etc.
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