52

on the power of voice

In many parts of the world the new year is marked by the spring equinox in March. Spring is seen as a time of vitality, blooming and waking up after the frosty hibernation that our bodies require throughout winter. Safe to say, restarting my energy to meet the demands of January is a slow and trying process. After my morning production meeting, I shuffle down Nostrand Avenue to my favorite Indian herb & spice store. I re-up on ginger root, black seed oil, and an elderberry tea blend. There’s a knot behind my right knee, a kink in my throat and a vague fatigue climbing my limbs. I take a deep breath and ask my body to be patient with me. 

The weeks leading up to the end of the year I decide to take on a new project. Well, new and old in a way. After a year of maktoūb (mashallah!) I am itching to re-orient the artistic container I have created for myself. What shape does my storytelling practice want to take next? I sit with this question and in the silence I hear my own voice echo. I am reminded of those long afternoons in late summer when I would edit each essay by reading it out loud to Mikelina. I was surprised at the impact of speaking the words aloud, the way each word fit in my mouth, its rhythm and cadence, the pace of the story, the energy emitted in the space through my voice. Powerful stuff. I am also brought back to the intention I set in May for my 28th year, to speak power to truth. I renew my promise to myself to clear my throat. 

I am called to record each maktoūb essay for the past year. 52 weeks, 52 original essays. As I begin reading each essay I am forced to contend with all that has unfolded in my inner and outer worlds. What a year to relive, huh? I am struck by the way my voice cannot lie. At the most basic level, voice betrays feeling. The octave, tone & tenor, pauses and frequency add another level of vulnerability. There are intimate moments that I can write about with a certain distance, a dissonance between the words and the memory itself. The art form of writing offers an opportunity to recount, to record and to remember. 

A year of consistent writing has opened a level of agency in my life that I could not have predicted, the power to be my own narrator. I have been brave enough to let myself be heard and the ripple effect continues to unfurl. And now, I give myself the gift of speaking what is true rather than what is convenient. With each essay I record, I put something to rest, I use my breath to externalize the story so it no longer lives inside my body. 

My throat is dry and I have to stretch my vocal cords between each recording. I realize I can only withstand three essays in one day and the deeper I get into the year, the harder the narration becomes. I lean into my resolution for the new year: un-attachment to outcome. Like water I let the words fall from my mouth in a flow, textures rippling. I trip over a sentence and keep going. I mumble sometimes and I let out a sigh. I spell out each syllable, allowing the viscerality of my language to create its own music.

I imagine not the outcome but the impact of what will be born a year from now. What will I have room to say? How will I better be able to listen to myself? This time last year I was meditating on the work I most desire. I write that, “I relish in imagining a world where each of our work is found in this sacred space of tending to and being tended by”.

Over the course of 2023, maktoūb has been the “work” that I have seeded, tended, toiled, and watched grow before my eyes. And you, dear reader, have been witness, have held this container alongside me. Each new subscriber, each comment, each DM, each share, each like, expands what is blooming here. In this way, I feel complete. I feel like celebrating! 52 weeks, 52 stories, 52 pieces of myself shifting and changing and growing up in real time. Here’s to 52 more with you!