On finding and cultivating a voice

Compared to a place like New York, Sydney's pretty small. But compared to a place like Milledgeville, it's big enough to feel like you're being swallowed whole.

I started blogging way before it was cool (think Xanga and LiveJournal), but the thought of sharing my life in this sort of virtual context didn't appeal to me again until 2013. There were journals and poems and essays far and wide, but nothing like this. I started to see how blogging could construct a vibrant community of likeminded people, and I wanted to be part of it.

So I started blogging. In part for my family and friends to feel included in a life that was happening halfway across the world, but also for myself - to find and cultivate a stronger voice. But then, something happened that I wasn't expecting: The dreaded nothing.

Nothing I wrote was widely read or largely popular. Though a few people here and there read my posts, my readers were almost entirely family and friends. People were accepting what I wrote, but they weren't asking for it. They weren't hugely challenged or moved or changed by it. I didn't feel like I was reaching people.

I didn't feel like my voice was being heard.

And then, I realised that it's okay if my voice isn't heard in the way I wanted or envisioned or planned. It isn't indicative of a voice that's too quiet or unimportant; rather, it's indicative of a voice that was created for a different venue. If there's one thing I've learned over the past few years, it's that when things aren't going as you truly, deeply, in-your-bones believe they should be going, the choices are simple. We can either wallow in the un-happening, or we can change our approach. I had this version of myself all mapped out, but that version isn't what's real. I'm not one of those people who naturally gains thousands of followers on social media or whose pictures are bombarded with complimentary comments.

But what I've found contentment in is that the reason I'm not that sort of person is because I'm a different, just as good, just as important, sort of person. My influence is quiet, but deep. My opinions are rare, but profound. My confidence is secure in a way that doesn't call attention.

Once, when my dad came to pick me up from high school, he made a comment as we were leaving that it was wonderful to see how positively so many different people reacted to me. I was confused. It wasn't until years later (read: now) that I understood what he meant. I'd always felt somehow disconnected from people because I didn't belong to one clique, but the beauty of that was it allowed me to connect with far more people than I thought, in a way that was far more kind than I realised.

This is my voice. The welcome home for whomever hears it. And there is a stillness in that voice that took me years to be happy with. In the midst of a social media generation, a world ruled by virtual congeniality, it can feel strange to not have the kind of voice that is conducive to immediate popularity.

In a place like Milledgeville, it's hard to not fit in. But in a place like Sydney, a place that feels big enough to swallow you whole, it's somehow easier to stay afloat.

It's easier to find your voice, because there's more space to sing.

What's your song?

On the weight and lightness of life

In life, we spend a lot of time weighing.

We weigh ourselves on standard scales, and then we weigh our worth by means of that number. But I've noticed that we seem to weigh everything else, too. We weigh our lives by the size of the diamonds in our jewelry, by the amount of belongings in our homes, by our homes themselves. We weigh our lives by our friends, sometimes by their character but far too often, by how their lives and the weights within them stack up against our own. And far too often, we want to be sure that our lives weigh more.

In a world that is constantly pushing us (and by us I mean mostly women) to weigh less, we are strangely obsessed with having lives that are heavy. As if weight, the lightness of us or the heaviness of our stuff, is somehow indicative of identity.

Prospective partners have to have a certain amount of money, a certain set of traits, a certain level of aspiration. Our friends have to be similar enough that it's comfortable but different enough that it's interesting. We're supposed to be both trendy and individual, successful and selfless.

But truth be told, I think our lives would be more full (not necessarily easier, though the two are often confused) if they were lighter. If we unpacked our lives a little bit and allow ourselves to drop some of the weight. Because it was never about the weight.

I don't mean to say, lose weight and do it quickly. I mean to say, it was never supposed to be about the weight. I mean to say we spend our whole lives weighing, comparing, and trying desperately to figure out the best way to build higher and higher when, maybe, we'd be better served simply living. I mean to say all this focus on the weight of life takes away from the lightness of it. I believe, wholeheartedly and unashamedly, that our lives are meant to be elegant. That very few things we carry with us are actually necessary or beneficial, and that weight comes off most easily when we aren't guilted about keeping it.

Our worth is not measured in weight. Our worth is not measured by what a scale says, whether it's for our bodies or our jewelry or a cultural scale of comparison to the person across the table. There is freedom in choosing to cast off weight, or in keeping it, if keeping it can be done with the admittance that it doesn't make one's worth larger.

By what things are you weighing your life? And how great, or small, is the weight of them, really?

Something completely meaningless

Recently, Stephen and I bought a new bed. We had gone to a department store with hopes of starting a wedding registry and ended up buying a king ensemble for the price of a single. We were so excited, and so glad to have found such a bargain, and we couldn't wait to pick it up.

Sunday afternoon, we drove to the aforementioned store, found the woman who had sold us the bed, and asked if we could pick it up. She replied, Oh, we can't get anything from the docks today because of Kim Kardashian.

What?

There had been a Kanye concert the night prior, and Kim Kardashian had accompanied her husband. Which still, for us, was not adding up. But apparently, due to Kim's presence in the neighborhood, extra gates had been placed in front of the store's loading docks and had yet to be removed.

We literally couldn't get our bed, because of Kim Kardashian.

I don't listen to Kanye's music, and I've never been one to keep up with the Kardashians. The power of pop culture, though, is that it can infiltrate our lives regardless of our tastes or lifestyles. What I love about this story, the story of how Kim Kardashian kept us from getting our first bed, is that it's both a complete throwaway and absolutely relevant.

I've taken a grand total of one [read '1'] pop culture class in all my tertiary education; I thought it was fascinating, but I don't pay attention much of it. To be honest, I find the whole idea that someone's life is more important than mine simply because of his or her status or wealth or ability to always look #flawless ridiculous. I think celebrity crushes can be the drive behind an unhealthy idea that famous people matter more than regular people. And I don't understand why our own lives seem so boring that we have to live vicariously through a life that is created to look a certain way.

I understand the need for pop culture. And truth be told, sometimes I get caught up in it (like now, for instance). I think it's a really cool phenomenon to watch, seeing how our world thrives and shapes itself around something as flighty as general interest. The story of how Stephen and I couldn't get our bed because of Kim Kardashian feels silly. It's an after-dinner speech, an anecdote at Christmas time. It's meaningless. At the same time, though, it means so much.

At least we got our bed.