Where the Words Come From.

An Exploration of Knowing, Purpose, and Transcendence.

I’m going to try and explain what it feels like, what it means, to be good at something and yet have only a faint idea of how you are good at it or where it comes from.

Until recently, I did not consider myself a writer. I did not consider myself much of a speaker, because I tend to ramble or not know what direction I wish to take my words. I did have a fantastic writing course that I did in high school, the checklist for which is now a natural part of my process. Maybe it’s that? But checklists do not equal knowing.

Last week I was told, “you know what you’re doing when you’re behind the mic.” The thing is, I don’t. I have no idea what I am doing aside from doing what needs must be done. But I don’t “know” that skill or talent or whatever it is, not in an intimate sense and even less in a technical one. I don’t know the logical side of it, what words will move people and which will not. I don’t know devices. I don’t know sentence structure or grammar rules. I do not know what I am doing when I write, and even less so when I’m behind a mic. But I think it comes down to my definition of knowing. I associate knowing with a technical understanding for the subject and its intricacies. Knowing is understanding structure and theory, and using those strategically to reach a certain goal. By that definition, I do not know what I am doing. But these words seem to come from somewhere, I cannot deny that.

When I start to write it is rarely of my own volition. That’s the point of these articles, to help me write consistently and with purpose. But the pieces I am most proud of are written with spontaneity. My graduation speech was written in 90 minutes the night it was due. My philosophy of theatre came to me while in a Zoom interview for a leadership role. My light upon light series, most often featured in instagram captions, came most often when I was sitting on the upper quad in the sunlight and just…appeared.

Growing up my family read the stories of Catholic saints every morning. You see, each saint has a feast day and with there being thousands of saints there end up being multiple feasts, every day, for 365 days a year. We began our mornings with these stories, to the point where I had several memorized. They didn’t know what they were doing, either. Not really. They just did the next right thing. They did what they were called to do. The saints were ordinary people called to the extraordinary. And they weren’t being called to something beyond themselves. It was already within them. Joan of Arc was 16 years old when she led the French army. It was not something she was incapable of, although she was not born with supernatural skills that would help her in war. She was called the lead the army. So she did. In a bizarre way, it is that simple.

When I used to perform, I was hyper-vigilant. I overthought every word, how it’d land, what tactics I’d use to get there. I rarely fell into flow state. Except once, when I was 16, and I performed in my first Shakespearean play. It was Romeo and Juliet, of course. I was Juliet and frightfully intimidated at the prospect. I remember pitching up my voice, trying to be that dreamy, lofty, feminine girl that I thought Juliet was “supposed” to be. But one day during rehearsal I sat on the balcony and my director stopped me right in the middle of my “Romeo, O Romeo.” “You’re trying to put it on. You have four hundred years of Juliet in your head. Every 14 year old girl who has ever been in love is Juliet. Do not put on something you are not. ” She didn’t need to say much else. Up until then I thought it was my job to fulfill the text, fulfill the words and the audience’s ideas of who I should be. But on that balcony I dropped the mask and let my voice settle into its strength, because I, like so many others, had been a 14 year-old in love. I already was Juliet.

It’s that settling that feels different. It happens when I write. The words come from my throat and lungs, not the mind. It’s like they’ve been living between my ribs this whole time. And when I speak? Something else settles over me. My hands shake, desperately. My heart pounds. But I have no choice. I am here and it is time. Time to do the next right thing. I pick up the page with a sense of purpose that is not foreign but is not familiar and I begin to read. My voice sinks into that spot at the top of my ribcage, my diaphragm steels itself for the words it is about to amplify, and the words come forth. I fall into flow state, I’m not thinking as I read. I’m not even reading, I don’t think. It’s like the words come from somewhere deep inside, from a piece of me that has known them my whole life even though they were not written two days ago.

When something echos in your heart with a sense of complete trust and assurance, I think that is called purpose. And I say assurance instead of knowing for a reason. I think assurance is what they mean by knowing when they talk about me behind a mic. Because I do not stand there knowing what I am doing. But I am assured, by something far beyond myself, that it is necessary and needed. So maybe I don’t know what I am doing when I write or make speeches. At least by my definition of knowing, that is. But when I am standing up there, my voice is comes from a courage that seems the run through my bones. And when I write, when I speak, despite my doubts beforehand I know it is necessary. This is both purpose and transcendence, I think. To feel so connected to a call that you are, for a moment, one with it. To walk in those words that could intimidate you, except you’re choosing to cast aside the 400 years of Juliet or saints or speakers in your head, not because they don’t matter but because they have inspired you to get here and the next steps are yours to take alone. Courage is to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart. Even if I have nothing, I will always have that.

I don’t chalk it up to being smart, or having a certain class that taught me some skills. Everyone has something like this, that is yet to be found, found and used, or has been found and is now ignored. We each have something that pulls us beyond ourselves. But we must listen and look for it with intention and an open mind.

To me, words are like the water cycle. They flow, fall, rise, tumble, again and again. They come back to earth, back to us, again and again. These words do not come from me, but from that endless cycle of water and words. For a brief moment, I am able to hold them in my palm, speak them into our present world, and then I let them go again. Back to the water, which will always come back to me and I to it.

To whoever controls the water, whoever controls the words: thank you the gift of holding these. I hope I use it well.

With love, sincerity, and all that I have to offer,

Laurel

P.S. If you’re wondering, yes I was delighted when Frozen II came out with a song literally called The Next Right Thing. But I prefer music a touch more hippy than that. Here’s a playlist I made to help me listen to where the words come from:

P.P.S.