How to Find Your Voice, Literally
This photo was taken just before I changed into my costume for the opening night of Sharr White’s incredible play, The Other Place. The photographer, Martyn Kyle, also played my husband. He really caught something in me that day: the balance of terror and safety, otherwise known as the thrill of stepping onto the stage. I knew that we had prepared, we had played, we had failed, fallen, gotten up, we had laughed and cried, experimented, warmed up, and knew we were entering the familiar unknown, or as as the director, Betsy Tucker, said that last rehearsal, “It’s your show now. See you closing night.”
Two weeks before this photo was taken, I was unable to speak. I had completely lost my voice—it was not just soft or gruff, but painful even to whisper. My throat had seized up. I went immediately to the ENT, who was a bit baffled, but settled on “strained vocal cords.” I was sent home with a doctor’s note saying that “you are forbidden from speaking unless you are getting paid.” That meant that unless I was on stage, I was silent. I avoided all sugars and alcohol, even honey (inflammatory), brought enormous thermoses full of Throat Coat tea to rehearsal, carried a pad and pencil to communicate, and only spoke when in rehearsal.
The pain would lessen and then come roaring back. The exact cause was a mystery.
I started keeping a journal, charting the onset of the pain. One day it became clear to me. And from then on, I knew what to do and I had a voice.
What had changed in our rehearsal process two weeks before opening? We had moved from running full scenes, to stopping and starting each scene as we set the blocking (finalized the stage movement). When we were running full scenes, the emotions moved through me, freely. When we stopped mid-way into an emotional moment, the emotion stuck in my throat, creating physical tension and pain. The pain built upon itself each time we stopped until I could no longer speak.
How did I heal my voice? During rehearsal I would either “mark” the scene (i.e. run it with no emotion just to work the blocking) or if we ran it fully, I asked the director to let me finish the scene before going back to tweak the blocking.
It was that simple. And yet, the lesson I learned was quite profound: my voice is more than my vocal cords and breath. My voice is more than my means of expression and my emotions. My physical voice and my emotional voice are completely intertwined so that healing one, heals the other.
This week, we pay attention to our precious throats, noticing when they are free and when we might be holding something back, cutting something off, silencing ourselves.