Storm Song

Storm Song

By: Lauri Schoenfeld

The tree branches sway and dance to the rhythm and motion of the wind,

whipping them into a “cha-cha” dance.

The leaves bounce to a beat, back and forth, one-two-three, 

moving to the fast-paced gust of vibrant energy they feel.

The music changes and glides gently, oh so softly, 

to a whispering melody.

It’s a light tempo like a ballet or classical song, 

a metronome holding five beats and slowly sliding to the other side.

The tree branches speak for a moment, calm and relaxing.

Then, the rush of drums and a fierce pace lead to the marching of a twisted and battle-like song—each beat preparing for what’s to come.

“A storm is coming.”

Raindrops hit the gravel as the aspen tree covers you in the vibration of the wind and trees song.    

         

Small Victories

 

June 19th, 2021

 Yesterday, I had a voice. To some, that may sound like nothing, but to me, that was everything. It was a little more than my usual low whisper. The sound had more projection and also a higher chord than it has for the past few weeks. It was a moment for me like, “There you are. Welcome back.”

I got antsy and thought I would try to sing. That was absolutely off-limits until my next visit four weeks away. One try wouldn’t hurt. I stretched to sing, and the pain radiated like a thick string begging me to release its pull. Nothing came out like how I remembered my singing voice a few months ago. The strong, vibrato, jazzy soul beat of high alto energy didn’t come through. It was hoarse, and whisper squeaked as if I had never been a singer at all. It reminded me I still have healing and work to do and that this will be a process that can’t be rushed.

Today is a victory that there’s some volume, a bit more than yesterday. It’s a reminder that growth and healing don’t miraculously shift overnight. One step forward doesn’t mean I’ve won the entire marathon, and we’re done, with minimal time and effort. It means we’re moving, but I’m not near the end yet.

In life, we’re all moving one step at a time through a very real struggle in our lives. We see what our desired outcome is. We can taste it, feel it, and yet, it feels so very far away. In those moments, one step at a time feels like we’re never going to get there. Each step teaches us something that we can take on our journey if we decide to keep trying even when we don’t want to.

Some days that means crying. Some days that means pausing to catch our breath. Every day that means being kind to yourself and giving yourself love, patience, and grace to walk through that step in whatever way is needed to move to the next day. That will not look the same for any of us.

I listened to music today and closed my eyes. I listened to the singing and the words and every instrument, tempo, beat, and dramatic pause, and I felt gratitude for my ears that I could hear and feel what was coming through the speaker and into my heart. One day, I will sing again, and when I do, I will no longer worry about what people think of my voice. I won’t worry about messing up.  I will sing in praise that my voice has come back, and what a beautiful gift it is. For now, I’ll listen, feel, and enjoy the same songs I listen to often, but in a new way.

 

Rapids Rage at a Constant Pace

June, 7th 2021

 

I’m crying all the time like rapids raging and flowing at a constant pace as emotions release from the depth of my core. Feelings and experiences rooted at the center of it all, ones I thought I had healed and forgiven. Evil demons I thought were vanquished long ago have taken my soul, and I’m possessed by sorrow. I have no idea who I am anymore, and that’s left me with questions that have angered me and brought me such frustration. I'm crying, but I want to pretend that I’m okay. I want to feel strong and capable, yet I feel weak and uncertain.

My heart wants to share, but then it seems silly to unleash my rapids on someone else. I desperately try to reign them back away from the shore, but they’ve already landed, and I can’t undo the flood that just occurred. I desperately want to connect in a world of “What’s that” and “I can’t hear you” comments that I’ve heard far longer than just the past few months when I slowly lost my voice. These statements years ago were said to mock me for not having words to defend myself. Remarks were made to put me in my place, so their sins didn’t come forward, and they spoke for me as if I were a dumb mute who couldn’t convey my feelings. All of these demons are whispering in, “See, you’re not capable now. You’re weak and the last one standing. What do you have to offer now?” Control is being taken out from under me, and I feel inside like a banshee releasing her call of terror and fire, but no one can hear it. I don’t like this silence. 

I need support, yet I’m usually the support. I see how people look at me at times, the same way I look at myself in the mirror when I feel weak, and I can’t lean there because then I’ll drown. I want to say that I’ve got it together and that I’m singing the song of a confident and free eagle, yet I’m held here. I know I need to see it and feel it, to experience it all. I want to be okay and carry the wave protecting those around me, including myself, but it’s not my time to move the current or pretend that I’ve got it all together.

“Lean in.” The waves tell me.

It’s my time to mourn and be one with the waves. Floating, listening, and being, so my heart can bathe and communicate alongside the rapids. I’m crying, and tides rage at a constant pace.                                              

 

Presence is a Gift

May 31st, 2021

I've been feeling so frustrated for a few weeks because people can't understand me. Often, they get tired of trying to communicate or don't have time, so they leave or wave goodbye. That's left me feeling so many ups and downs, mostly downs because I literally can't speak. Not being understood and heard has been a real struggle for me, but I've had the opportunity to know how to communicate differently. I've had moments of not wanting to go out and attempt sign language because then, at least, I'm not an inconvenience to people. This has been weird. With my voice, I felt confident, sure of myself; I knew who I was and what I wanted to say. Without my voice, I've felt like I've lost myself, I've crept inside a cage peeking to see when it was okay to come out, and other times I lean in and ask for help. I've been unsure of myself and not entirely positive about how to be me without a voice. That's put a lot of perspective on many things. The biggest one has been finding and loving Lauri without my voice and realizing that I'm more than just a voice. And, where I thought I truly loved myself and had a pretty healthy space there, I recognize that there's some work to be done.

Dammit.

We're all continually learning and grow, and it never ends, nor should it, but I didn't realize how much having a voice has been my identity and self-worth. I didn't love seeing that. I want to feel that I'm more than enough right where I am. It's all the same with or without a voice. In truth, I've got some work to do to believe and see that from a completely different side. This has been a lifestyle change for my family and me. We're learning how to communicate in a way that takes more time and patience, which leaves us all feeling frustrated.

We went to a birthday party for a friend. It was a surprise party. I whisper talked, and to me, that's something, but to others, it's still a whisper and one they can't hear. Our friend had mentioned that I seemed subdued for being Lauri, and he was right. I think that was the first time in a few weeks that I realized that it's not only me who feels and sees this change in me. My voice and talking come with energy and a full-body explosion of joy, and without it, it's not just my voice I've lost; other pieces of myself have left, too. I miss me, and I long for those parts to come back. I'm also grateful for the new experiences that I'm seeing and feeling that I wouldn't truly understand without this experience. Little by little, I'm learning to express myself to people by my facial expressions and hand gestures. This is a new way of communicating, but one I'm leaning into. I took the kids to the library yesterday, and I did expressions with the few words in sign language that I consistently remember. The lady could understand me specifically by paying attention to my facial expressions and the way I signed. That felt great to realize that people can understand me if I place energy into my hands and face in the way I do with my voice.

The other day, I had to call and log in for my credit card because it wasn't working. I had my speaker on, and my mouth placed right at the speaker so that my whisper could carry further. The friendly guy that answered my customer service call had a rich Indian accent. There were moments I couldn't understand what he was saying and felt frustrated. As I whispered to ask what he said, he mentioned he couldn't hear me. I had the opportunity to process that he also probably felt some agitation not hearing me but wanted to help. I took a moment to process my perspective and also how this man might be feeling too. 

A customer service call that might've previously taken me five minutes took us twenty-five minutes as we continued to work together to try and communicate with one another. We wished each other a great day after the call, and I thanked him for his patience, and he thanked me for mine.

Patience is a gift that we give ourselves and others that opens doors to connection, expansion, and understanding. It provides space for people to feel seen, heard, and understood right where they are. Speaking and language is not the barrier. Lack of patience and presence is. I'm grateful that we both paused and regrouped to listen to each other. What I've seen and experienced on both sides is we often want to do things fast. The more we do, the more productive we feel. But, by rushing all the time, we miss the moments to connect with people on where they are. It's easier and faster to have conversations with people that speak our language because we don't have to take the extra time to stop and be present. To slow down and listen to the words, pause everything else to see body expressions and the expressive cues that people share even without words. In a world where we have phones and so much we're trying to do, we've lost touch with the importance of not only listening but seeing.

Presence is a gift.

Sitting with someone and giving them your undivided attention builds relationships and connections.