Whose Shoes?

Our whole lives we are becoming ourselves. Whose shoes will we walk in? Will they be ours? Or society’s? Or our family expectations? Or survival shoes?  We go through through the fiery crucibles and storms of experience: edited and carved into new shapes. Hopefully, we still have a feeling of being ‘our self’.

I am an artist according to this definition: An artist expresses from a dimension just beyond the senses and inspires others to see life symbolically. However, most of my life I feel I have spent chasing after, trying to own, the identities of singer, guitar player, songwriter, writer, musician while actually believing that I was only a “helper, listener, worker”.  Those latter identities were and are important (and creative in their own way) but there was a problem: the artist in me always seemed to get a back seat and certainly not a seat at the table. She did not get the effort and attention she deserved. This was connected to the implicit beliefs of society and myself that someone who did not look ‘normal’ (eg facial disability) could not own the identity of performing artist that for many years I wanted more than anything. I did achieve this dream for a brief period but could not rest in it and vaguely felt I was on borrowed time. This was true in part because I had an undiagnosed condition of spasmodic vocal dystonia making my singing voice randomly disappear.

​I did keep pivoting to guitar playing but was stopped by the fear of failure generated by the leftover heartbreak of failing at singing my own songs. I did believe in my songs but I abandoned many of them. I often would hire other people to record them and then for sure I would leave them in the dust. Eventually the songs stopped coming even after I developed a way of writing them in my head (not being able to sing them).

The pandemic seemed to stir up my ability to create again. Because I couldn’t default to my favored defense system of overwork, I had time to write. I wrote two songs and resuscitated two old ones. I wrote and collaborated on some tango instrumentals. I began to develop a way of speak-singing. (my speaking voice was less affected by the dystonia). Still I had lingering complex ptsd feelings of giving up.

Then I had the following dream. “I am running barefoot through an airport to catch a plane. I am carrying a large disintegrating box with my mother’s ashes. I trip and fall spilling the ashes. I lay there collapsed in a sense of failure until I hear voices around me saying, “What is the matter here?” And a man with kindly eyes says “Don’t give up---ever” I listen to him and receive the help they give me—new ticket, shoes, a small secure box of the ashes.”

This dream and watching ‘Colin in Black and White’ the inspiring story of Colin Kaepernick’s struggle to become what he wanted to be (a quarterback) against all odds, pulled me out of my creative slump. I try to remember everyday what he said in the last episode, “To all the overlooked…..trust in your power”  

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