Song lyrics visit my consciousness in the shower.
I’m not even aware of my soul’s stance until my vibrato carries its message out while I’m saturated in suds. A melody cradles the words without any instruments. Sometimes my sleepy eyelids spring open when my consciousness meets my core. It shocks me.
I dry the droplets off of my body and squeegee the shower door. Slathering shea butter lotion on my flaking autumn skin, I wrap a grey, cotton towel around my crown. My wet fingers slip on my phone’s home button while my thumb writhes in frustration. Why don’t you recognize me? I’m the same thumb—just with a little lavender soap on it.
I finally slip my way into my home screen and find the Voice Memo app. Over 50 recordings live rent-free on my phone. I’m adding another. When I open my mouth, I’m not even sure what will present itself. A beautiful mystery. It flows out of me and introduces itself like a kind acquaintance from years ago paying me a visit.
Sometimes I’m brave enough to share these. I’ll sing them to my husband, or to my mom, or to my friends. Most of the time I keep them hidden. They’re still growing, developing, and no one puts a bud on display in their home.
I do this when I write. My Notes App is riddled with the inner workings of my mind at 2 a.m. when I’m sure no one is listening. My phone houses poems, overtures, ruminations, and conclusions weaving a tapestry of my 29 years in this lifetime.
I’m slowly, gradually, realizing that I can’t keep these locked behind a screen for the rest of my life. Nothing is promised. I might not make it to the next recording. I may get distracted by societal expectations until I turn 60 and forget what I ever wrote, or felt, or sang in this moment.
I want to share. I want the universe to know me as much as I yearn to understand it. It terrifies me. What if no one listens? What if no one cares?
Then, I remember. They’re not listening, yet. They don’t care, yet.
They can’t do either when they can’t feel either. I have to unlock my phone. I have to unlock myself.
Sometimes it’ll be slippery and messy and I might not recognize me. I might writhe in frustration while I wait for the validation of the display screen with all the icons in working order. Still, I need to press on.
If I share, they can care. If I speak, they can hear. If I’m brave, I won’t fear.
My humble voice accounting for life’s moments may not shift the paradigm or transcend time.
Neither will I.
But I can try.