Now Strike Your Note

On voice.

Before Terry Tempest William’s mother died, she bequeathed her daughter a shelf full of journals that could only be read after her passing. When Terry opened the first journal, it was blank. The next one was also blank, and every one after that.

Terry inherited her mother’s silence; When Women Were Birds¹ is her response.

The book opens with this story, then there are 12 blank pages. I could not get past these pages for days. Partly I was imagining how Terry must have felt to open those beautiful cloth-bound journals in the hope of discovering her mother, only to find them blank. But blank is not empty, and so her story goes.

It was also the power of the blank page. I took my time to read each one, to pause and consider, What does it mean? They came as a relief, those quiet pages. No-one was telling me how to live or challenging the way I think or writing sentences I wish I had written myself.

Questions flew like quick birds out of the silence: How do I write without adding to the noise? What is worth saying? What does my voice even sound like?

//

On Thursday afternoons, I sing first soprano for a Bach-inspired re-arrangement of rock anthem Lonely Day by System of a Down. This four-part choir includes students, parents and staff members of our school community². We have varying levels of choral experience but we’re giving it a go to support the wonderful student who re-arranged the music.

My voice surprises me every time. It is out of practice, gaunt and more than a little shrill when reaching high E. But it is mine, and I love to sing. The magic comes when harmonies align and no single voice can be heard above the rest. It spreads like butter; I could eat it on everything.

//

‘At the heart of my emerging voice was the belief that nature held the secret to harmony and unity, not just outside us, but inside us, no separation.’ - T.T. Williams

From my desk, I look down into the crown of an ash tree. In March, when it stood bare-boned beside the water, a pair of hooded crows built a nest in its upper branches. Every day, they added to it: twigs, hazel catkins, sheep wool. It held firm in fierce storms and they diligently defended their territory.

I knew when there were eggs in the nest because the male crow was at a loose end. He loitered at the lakeside, pecking the shoreline, biding his time. Then, he perched in the willow, chasing off ravens and dive bombing the resident heron if she strayed too close.

Last month, we found egg shells in the water and placed them in our curiosity cabinet. The male sprung to action and a feeding frenzy began. From here, I used binoculars to see the pink throats of the birds open wide for worms. I grew dizzy watching mother and father forage from dawn to dusk.

Now, there are three fat juveniles taking up all the space in the nest and the ash is in leaf. The crows call to one another in the early morning: krrah, krrah, krraah. It is not musical to my ears, but it sings into my dreams and reminds me that soon, all the birds will fall silent. There is a season for singing.

When Women Were Birds contains 54 variations on voice.

Where do we find our voice? In the silence.

How do we discover it? By listening.

What if only noise comes out? We need to hear our own voice to know which rough edges to smooth.

//

This existential crisis of voice and purpose, is the one side of my writer’s coin. The other side is flow, that rushing river that moves through me onto the paper. Since September, it has been an unstoppable force. I have been underwater, late to collect the children from school, incapable of housework and utterly distracted by the fictional world I am forming. That is the fun part.

This week, I handed all 84,000 words over to an editor.

I cannot explain how this feels. Perhaps the hooded crow, at four weeks old, perched 60 feet above the water can relate? She has been told she will fly, that all she must do is open her wings and let go. But can it really be true? I am terrifyingly high off the ground.

//

I believe our voice is an expression of self-belief. I am here. There’s a reason for that. It is also a channel through which other voices can sing: our ancestors, the spirit that unites every living thing and the natural world to which we bear witness.

What does your voice sound like? What is being said through you?

Part of the quotation that I have on my writing desk is from Station Island by Seamus Heaney³:

‘You are fasted now, light-headed, dangerous.

Take off from here. And don’t be so earnest,

so ready for the sackcloth and the ashes.

Let go, let fly, forget.

You’ve listened long enough. Now strike your note.’

It sounds better when we sing together, will you join in?

1. http://terrytempestwilliams.com/books/when_women_were_birds.html

2. https://sligosudburyschool.com/

3. https://www.seamusheaney.com/station-island