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.