I stand in the center of the room. Actually, I note, mentally counting the desks in the first row, I'm slightly left of center. I adjust myself and smile, patiently waiting for the judge to finish writing his critique of the last competitor. I unconsciously smooth my suit jacket, irritably aware of the heat, and of my nylons sticking to my skin. I try to run through the first sentence of my speech, reminding myself that "to" is not "tuh," that the emphasis should go here rather than there, and that I've switched the first two clauses since the competition last weekend. While frantically running through the beginning of my script, another part of me is commanding myself to simply calm down: I know what I'm doing; I've done this many times before, if I do happen to mess up, it's likely that no one will notice, and the list of reassurances goes on. I love what I do, I enjoy what I do, and I am confident. Or so I tell myself. Nevertheless, a part of me acknowledges the small, tight knot just below my ribcage.
I visualize my words filling cavities in the room, becoming almost-tangible ideas that fill the empty spaces as the air circulates. There is something about the picture that I find lacking--inadequate--but I notice the judge has stopped writing. I raise my eyebrows inquisitively. He nods that he is ready, and I lower my head to take the customary deep breath before beginning my performance. Eyes closed and inhaling deeply, the image becomes clearer. Words, when spoken with the intent of being heard, do not merely fill empty space. Bound and compacted inside the body, they blossom and expand when they hit the air, creating their own space. These words do not just fill the vacant corners of the room. These words have substance. They have weight and form. They bud and swell and thrive with life. These words ARE substance. They punch the air, puncture the silence and blanket the room. They are not only heard, but felt.
Standing here and now, I can feel the potential energy compressed like a spring. There is so much that this energy can do--so many things it can become--with just a little prodding to propel the transformation. Potential is my greatest fear. It is the difference between what is and what can be, will be, and sometimes ought to be. Competing with a room of people staring at me, I envision myself at the edge of a cliff, toes teasing the rim. There is but one thing to do: take the step over the edge. Trusting myself, believing my legs will catch me, I take that step. I raise my head and hear my voice alone, engulfing the room in the power of prose, and let my wings unfold.
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