Here in the North Country, the woods and lakeshore are full of voices, if you know how to listen. The chipmunks, crows, frogs, and even the owls and coyotes all have their say. Their voices tell their lives in a preordained way, the product of an inexorable pull toward evolutionary fate.
We're not so lucky that our very essence is foretold in this way since birth. Or are we luckier? That we are allowed to find our voice or maybe to invent it, and when we lose it to find it again and reinvent it, in as many incarnations, as many times and in as many ways as we please.
Perhaps "invention" is the wrong choice, though, at least for me, for it suggests duplicity, and I am guilty of everything under the sun save untruth.
Since I started writing here, two years ago, here and in the corporeal world I and my voice have been a work-in-progress, and it hasn't always been pretty. I've been maudlin and quarrelsome, arch and egotistical. I laugh at my own jokes, too often. But my voice has always held some form of a truth about myself.
My sister can't even look at this journal, for her horror at my utter lack of propriety; a dear friend who does read this says that I conceal more than I reveal; and Sarge said the other day, fondly or so I imagine, "Leah, you really are just a little bit of an exhibitionist, aren't you." I suppose he's not wrong, in a way. Then again, neither is my friend. But somewhere in that vast and comprehensive region between exhibition and concealment may be found all the ever-changing bits and pieces that make up my voice, and there I am.
"Yukon Raven," by Gavatron, courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons