Let The Dog Sing

The new title to the new newsletter

I’m the Dog! Who are you?

Are you—the Dog—too?

I have always loved writing letters. And one of the beautiful things about letter writing, especially putting pen to paper, is not knowing everything you are going to say, not really knowing where the writing itself will take you. With this newsletter, I’m not sure where the writing will go. I’m going to let it take me. Hence the title “let” the dog sing.

For the past few years, I’ve been thinking about what it means to find your voice. Finding your voice means so much: overcoming self-doubt; trusting you have something meaningful to say; and, finally, putting your words out there. For me, it’s not like I’ve gotten to step three and I just write whatever comes to mind with confidence. Rather, the entire neurotic process seems to play out every time I write, every time I create something and share it. But I’ve made some strides:

First, I started The Quickening newsletter in 2021 about abortion rights. Then I started literally putting my voice out into the world by making audio stories for our local NPR affiliate, KCBX, which necessitated overcoming the fear that I sound like a frog. Then I published a historical novel I’d worked on for more than a decade. Putting my voice out into the world was both exhilarating and terrifying. Vulnerability had never been my forte. I don’t know if my writing is improving through with these efforts, but my ability to be vulnerable is.

And the feelings of nervousness and trepidation I get from pivoting the subject of my newsletter from abortion rights to, well, other things, tells me that I’m moving in the right direction. I long to talk about so many other personal things that matter to me.

As some of you know, at a recent crossroads in my life, I took some chances that at the time felt radical. The physical, mental, and emotional changes that have resulted from my mid-life explorations have, in hindsight, made taking those chances worthwhile, though at the time I had no idea how everything would work out. Everything I did felt like a blind leap into the unknown, leaps of faith for the then-faithless.

To find myself I had to lose my footing. There is nothing so unique or profoundly original about that, and it is perhaps even a little cliché that the compulsion to take these risks arrived along with my 50^th birthday.

I left the university where I’d taught as an adjunct lecturer for 16+ years.

Yes, a motorcycle was involved.

A motorcycle, a life coach, art classes, dozens of books, psychedelic therapy. I cast a wide net.

I wrote this while in the thick of it:

Could I break the cycle, I wondered, of self-limiting behaviors?

Could I just choose WELL?  

Maybe you are past middle age. Maybe you’re in your twilight years. Maybe you’re in your twenties or late teens, just getting started on your life. No matter. Recently I found myself lamenting that I had not gotten HERE sooner. But how could I have?Santosha is the yoga concept that where you are right now is exactly where you need to be. The path is the path. Hence, how could I regret anything that happened in the past if it all got me to where I am now?

And where is that? A better place in so many ways. A less stuck place.

For so many years one of the worst things I could imagine was being misunderstood—and not  having the opportunity to fully explain myself or make myself understood. I have cared what people thought. Most of us do. But I have been a serious people-pleaser. I didn’t want anyone to know the things that made me feel shame and embarrassment. If I truly shared who I was and the things I’d gone through or what I wanted, I was worried I’d be judged. Of course, people will judge—we are evaluative by nature. The problem wasn’t people judging; the problem was my caring about it.

I had to let it go, that craving for approval.

I’ve been through a lot, and I’ve gained some knowledge and perspective over the years. I began to think: If I could find my voice, believe in myself, maybe I could be useful to someone. I’ve had to let go of the fear of that sounding presumptuous. After all, I don’t have it all figured out. I’m humbled every day by one thing or another. I’m still learning, still emerging, and will be, I hope, until this body is through with me. But maybe my experiences—my triumphs and travails as I bumble through this existence—could inspire someone else.

Eventually, I’ll share the story of the dog from the title. Because, of course, I am the dog. And maybe you are too. (Pardon my bastardization of the brilliant Emily Dickinson.) 

There’s so much I want to tell you, and a hugely important part of this voice-finding means writing more letters to you. So thank you for being here and being part of this journey. And if you don’t want to be here, that’s OK too. 

All my best,

Mel