grateful for my voice

This summer cold has taken away my voice. I went through the day saying almost nothing, whispering when needed.  There were nods and shakes of my head, shrugs, minimal gestures.  Mostly I listened: to other people, to the sounds of children playing next door, to the cats purring, to my own sticky breathing, to my beloved’s quiet singing in the car.

I am always surprised by the sound of my voice on recordings. We sound much lower inside our own heads, which makes perfect acoustic sense but still startles me.  I sound like a little girl; my laugh is bizarre and whooping.  Not-so-secretly I have always wished for a lower, sexier voice, something that prowls around vowels and shudders spines, chuckles that emanate whisky and chocolate.  Today I would just like my own voice back, because I miss it.

One thing I like about my voice is that I sound a lot like my mom. She is a professional actor and voiceover artist, so I don’t sound like her when she’s performing, but many people have told me that they can’t tell our voices apart in casual conversation.  I admire her voice so much that if mine is like hers, it can’t be all bad.

(This entry is part of one month of gratitude.)

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.