It was always fun being in places with the kids when they were younger listening to us make echoes. We would walk through a tunnel along the river bank in Carlisle and make all sorts of noises to hear them be repeated.
I found on my journey of pain through loosing Mike, I have not only a story but a voice. A voice is not a repeat like an echo. Its not what I have read and echo out. The voice did not come because I sat under some great professor, in fact it came through being in the desert with all the barren and at times being lost. It didn’t come from being in the crowd, in fact I found very few in the desert.
Of course, so much of what I say or write has been gleaned and cultivated by others. I find reading particularly helpful as others articulate what I am feeling or processing much better than I can. The voice comes from tacit knowledge not explicit knowledge. Its hard to write down and transfer to others. It’s my voice, its my story.
I believe more and more that each of us has a voice and a story. We have to find creative ways to find that voice and tell that story.