Thursday, September 20, 2012

Let Her Speak

Sweet Jesus Christ, either genuinely or in vain, my sanity.

My expression of thought has grown hopelessly lackluster. Vocally, I mean. It is a blessing and a curse that I can sit in front of this keyboard and type, with substantial eloquence, the things about which I am passionate, or the things for which I feel, or live, or would die. There is often structure, there is often depth, there is often a voice.

But it's not my voice. Well, it is...but it has no volume. Not in any real sense, anyway.

That is what frustrates me.

Because here I sit, fingertips to keys, several semesters of classes taught, numerous research talks given, countless songs sung to several thousands of people...and I still need practice.

I realized this yesterday, sitting in class with so much to say but so much of the substance leaking out of my pores before escaping from my lips. (See that sentence? This is exactly my point. It is so much more difficult for me to verbalize something like that.)

And then I realized something else. Ever since the nightmare that still haunts me eight years later, the one where I lost my voice and couldn't find it, the one that explained so much of my own subconscious existence; I've been woefully aware of my damaged vocal spirit. 

It's not that I cannot talk in front of people. Anyone who knows me, even for a second, can deduce that much. It's the much deeper ax wound; the one that comes from my difficulty being fearlessly forward, insightful up to my capabilities, or even truthful at all.

At the risk of discouraging the reader, fear not. I am getting so much better. Improvement starts with awareness, does it not, and accelerates with practice. I fully understand that I have a brilliant voice, and I am learning to use it in its most fine form. Life is much, much too brief to be afraid of using a voice that I have been so blessed with. It comes down to confidence, of which I have no shortage, and the challenge of understanding of good stewardship.

Challenge accepted.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Breaking Hiatus

I really need to stop forgetting to write here. Soon enough, when I'm writing my autobiography, how the hell am I going to remember what was running through my catastrophic brain if I keep forgetting to write in here?

It is safe to assume that everything has changed. Probably for the better, but possibly not obviously so. I am too tired to re-hash everything that has happened since I last wrote, because everything under the sun has happened; i.e. an almost bear attack, one very large and very smashed armadillo, probably going native, sheer unpredictability, getting my ass kicked and my mind blown by nature and God's grace and beautiful people and...all of that jazz and then some.

But I'm in the beginning of my last year of undergrad and I could only preoccupy myself with home decorating so long before I realized that I am absolutely exhausted, unmistakably behind, repulsively entitled, and even a little apathetic. What the actual hell? This is not me. This is not the driven Becca Robinson that made such a smashing entrance into this university five years ago. Ah, that's the problem. It was five years ago, and I am a mover and a shaker, and I can't believe that I've stuck myself here for five years. I'm at the point in my career when I teach more than I attend class at the university. I no longer get butterflies when it is mentioned, off-handedly, that my thesis might result in a publication. I honestly have given up on being timely, being studious, and being a hermit crab. Sorry, professors, I didn't finish my reading because I keep falling asleep and I'm not going to kill myself over it. 

It is not the time for burning out. It is time to get excited. My whole future is right around the corner, but the things just in front of that corner are getting to me. Perhaps I'm a little frightened, or, perhaps I've reached some sort of limit where the only thing saving me is the remote possibility that I might move to a National Park for a couple of months and just give star talks to little families on big road trips. That's what I really want. No, what I really want is my PhD, and funding for all of the ridiculous driving I do. So there are steps to be taken and things to be changed. Nothing that I can't handle. Not at all.

I'm probably going to keep my laptop on Colorado time. It makes me think that it isn't quite as late as it is. Strategies. Survival. All that rot.

Until next time, then.