A few weeks ago I was part of a workshop on Proprioceptive Writing. During the freewrite portion, I allowed my thoughts to flow, not knowing quite what would surface or where they’d go. To be honest, the experience has haunted me a little. Not in that scary way one associates “haunting”, but in an almost relentless way in which the words that came simply won’t leave.
They’ve hung around, whispering in the background , in nearly everything I’ve done since.
After a lot of thought, I’ve decided to give them a bit of life, within this space. Perhaps they can, in turn, dance and play here while I move forward with some peace…
The voice that criticizes me for constantly being in over my head, incapable of reaching the goal or outcome I aim for, is the rhythm timed to my mind. I see the air trails of this voice, as I flip back in memory of the moments of my life.
It is always present.
Every gym glass.
Every art project.
Each new friendship, relationship or job.
Every attempt at anything.
Always.
Predetermining my failure, and then ridiculing (relentlessly) my fall.
What do I mean by this voice? Whose is it? As I flip through the faces of my childhood, seeking one to match its sound, the scrolling land on the face of my mother. This comes as no surprise. The unexpected twist is that the voice is also infused with the sound of my father, a man I did not know.
Woven, deep inside of the voice there are also traces of me.
Of my own voice- my own sound.
There is five year old me, but also sixteen year old me too.
And now, who I am no lives there within that vocal range.
Rainy Day in May... 