Voices

The air is full of the sound of bird life today. The swifts are squealing and wheeling, the sparrows are squabbling and scrapping. And if I tune my ear in there is a wren, its voice so big for such a tiny thing, that I only hear my favourite blackbirds in between its repetitive refrain. Each have something to say: feed me, I live here, look at me, this is mine, danger!

My voice too, carries my message. Sometimes loud and sure of itself (even when I’m wrong), sometimes no more than a squeak (even if I’m right). Usually I want it to carry the feeling behind it with emotion and sincerity. But there are times I don’t want my voice to reveal my vulnerability, or when I wish for others to keep their faith in me even when I can’t do that for myself.

Years ago I once got stuck in a funicular railway with my young boys with the Austrian August sun beating down on our glass carriage above Innsbruck. I calmly narrated all the sights we could see whilst simultaneously fretting about how I could secretly share my bottle of water just between us, not the ten or so other people sharing that confined space. As it turned out it wasn’t long before one guy collapsed, pale as a ghost, and I whipped out the water and gave it straight to him without a second thought. Now the quivery fear of thirst was dialled up a few notches but I continued to use the calm strength of my voice explain to the boys that the train people knew we were stuck and would be working to get us off soon – the next stop wasn’t far and they always have a plan. Next, a lady started having a panic attack, screaming and wrenching at the door, and yet another was yelling down the intercom that someone was dying so they had better get us out quick. This was turning into a precarious situation in a hot and tight space and I was starting to get a menopausal sweat-on. My boys moved in closer with their faces upturned and expectant. At this point I’m also reassuring myself.

Fast forward to this year when my boys are legally, if not always practically, men and I have a partner that thoroughly knows my weaknesses. On a walk on a hillside in Spain with him this year I got stung by a bee. There was no-one I needed to show how brave I am so I screamed and cried like a four year old demanding that he get it off me, get it off me! I then whimpered for the next mile repeating frequently that it “really hurts”. The child inside of me felt safe enough to reveal how she really felt about being stung and was very vocal about it.

Our voices are instruments but what tune will we play? And who is listening? More to the point, who do we really want to hear it? Anyone? Someone in particular? Or is it just that we want to tell a part of ourselves because it doesn’t feel like anyone else has got the message yet.