A Quiet Voice

It has been a long time since I have sat down, pen in hand with this notebook.  This is how I always used to write my blogs.  I am trying to remember when and why that changed.  I probably had the notion that it would save time to type my thoughts directly on to my blog.  As time to spend writing became less corners were cut.  No more pen and paper.  A mistake.  Would a painter stop using a brush and paint?

The pen and paper are the tools that take my thoughts -  the ones that spin around and around in my brain - and put them in to some sensible (sort of) order.  Whether it is a list of things to do, a letter, or a blog the best thing for me is to write it down. 

And so, here I sit, cozy in my bed with tea, pen and pad in the early quiet hours of Sunday morning to let the thoughts and words flow.  Will everything I write in this notebook make it to my blog?  No.  But it is the process that matters most; for this is the way I use my voice. 

I have been told a few times lately, and by more than one person, that I need to find my voice.  That I need to find a way to speak the words I need to say. That my voice matters.

The spoken word has always been difficult for me.  I can recall being quite shy as a child.  Perhaps due to being naturally more introverted, a people pleaser, or being the middle child of three girls?  In my early years at school I had a lisp that evoked teasing from my peers.  I went to speech therapy, practiced hard, and there is not trace left yet there is still the memory of hurtful teasing lingering and a little fear of S’s.  As an adult my voice has been quietened by different things.  People who are louder, more knowledgeable, more forceful, and those whom are downright scary.  

Being encouraged to use my voice has been met with some reluctance from me.  What is wrong with being quiet?  Perhaps my voice (thoughts) can be shared in different ways. There are many others out there like me.  Preferring the carefully chosen time, place, and words over a constant narration of everything that goes on in their heads.  How exhausting would that be.  I think that most of my thoughts belong where they started.  Don't get me wrong.  I can talk. There are times I can chatter on which would belie my statement that I am introverted.  Those times happen with close friends and family; where I feel safe to share my thoughts and feelings.

My father was a quiet man.  When he he spoke it was usually about something that had intent and meaning.  Even though he spoke with (quiet) passion about many subjects that he had deep beliefs about he still did not come close to using up his quota of words in his lifetime.  Perhaps I will not use mine up either. I will use my voice intently and with meaning as much as possible, but it will still be a quiet voice. And when my thoughts need help finding their way out; when they need to be voiced - I will use a pen and paper.