Sotto Voce

After weeks of rehearsal, I woke up and could feel the silence in my throat.  Today, I actually had an expected audience, just for me.  I opened my mouth to try a note and found myself possessed by a young boy going through puberty.  Snap, crackle, and pop, perhaps.   Nada.  My first encounter with laryngitis.    My throat felt normal, no pain, no swelling, but every time i tried to speak, it was a whimpering whisper.   It can't be.  I gargled.  I drank several glasses of orange juice, in vain.  Finally, I had to admit, despite the weeks of rehearsal, the new red blouse, the audience of one for me, it wasn't going to happen.   

Sometimes, we prepare for a moment that never comes.  Sitting in the congregation, listening to the choir sing, would be unbearable, but I had to go.   Dressed in choir black and red, I still arrived early, hoping for a last minute miracle.  I whispered my excuses and instead took over videotaping.   The choir started the service, processing by me down the center aisle as I sat conspicuously in the congregation.   When the anthem started, for the first time in a long time, I had the privilege of leaving my body, the choir, and hearing and seeing its beauty.   There was no sadness or longing.   I knew the music, I could have been part of that joyous voice, lifting up the beauty of humanity and God.  I worked to know each note and feel the sync between the director, the singers, and the organist.  I was still in sync, silently absorbing each note, the layering of bass, tenor, alto, soprano into beautiful harmony marked more so by the occasional slip into dissonance.  Just like every other part of life.  

I probably should have went home after that, but pushed on through a lovely lunch with the choir.   I whispered my part of the conversation, exhausted when I got home.  By the next morning, I had to head to work without being able to make a sound.  The silent teacher, every students' dream.   Luckily, it was finals week so there was little information to impart other than directions.   The reactions of the students amused and surprised me at times.  Silent communication challenged us to find new ways to interact.  Mainly, the familiar and at times dreaded white board became my voice.  Some students laughed at my few attempts to say anything.  However, many students were sympathetic and even helpful, offering to be my voice.   I also have been forced to really hone and perfect The Teacher Look, not having the voice to back it up.  I am sure I looked ridiculous.  Learning the new system more quickly than any other I set up this year, I simply would walk to the board, pick up a marker and someone would call out, "Miss has something to say!"   

More amusing is the reaction of colleagues.   Tired of writing notes, I would whisper simple questions and almost always the reply would come back in a whisper, as if we were sharing some secret.   I would mouth, "I can't speak."   The other person then, rather than returning to normal speech or just ending the conversation, proceeded to ask questions in either a very loud voice or speaking very slowly, as if being mute also made me deaf.   It is interesting how we unconsciously try to compensate for one sense with another, even if only in sympathy with the sufferer.  

It is day three without a voice.  I had three very minimal conversations today and I am now getting bored with the imposed silence.  I wonder what, psychologically, might have brought on this illness.  Or is it punishment for being so talkative (after years of shyness, I am now told, at times, that I am talkative and outgoing and social)?  For my cutting edge witty humor that I try to spread to all I know?    

Thank goodness for writing!   I don't think I have ever appreciated my literacy so much as this week.