This has been, even by Duluth standards, an exceptionally snowy and challenging winter week. Starting Wednesday, we've had almost nonstop snow. Actually, it started out that day -- near the lake -- as slushy rain, as temperatures remained around 32 degrees. But up the hill, even a quarter of a mile, what fell was almost all snow, and in the end the two-day snowfall was among the top ten on record -- nearly two feet. It has been impossible, heavy, cement-like snow. Radio and TV weather people were advising us older folks not to even attempt to shovel, but I had to do a little bit. Events were canceled, and for several days there was little traffic on the streets. Yesterday, walking to the supermarket, I did something I've hoped never to do, which is use a cane with an ice gripper. It helped, but I hate the visuals of it! Not that anyone noticed -- heck, everyone was struggling to walk over the huge, solid snowbanks at each corner. As we speak, it is still snowing lightly. Four or five more inches fell overnight. And as the next seven days are due to get colder and colder, we will certainly have a white Christmas.
What, exactly, does this have to do with today's title? Well, nothing, really! But this phrase came to me in my personal, hand-written journal, and I just had to use it. What I was referring to was the voice of the Goddess, the voice of the divine feminine, the voice of the land. That all along, for centuries -- underneath the roar of furnaces, the pounding of jackhammers, the loud scrape of plows and snowplows, the sometimes earsplitting noises of "manmade" progress -- there has been a quiet voice under the surface, trying to make itself heard. I've reached the point where, even when snow doesn't muffle other sounds, it is almost all that I hear. The Goddess saying, listen to me, hear what I have to say.
This may relate to another phenomenon, a metaphor that I've been thinking about. And that is the notion of a life being almost like a play on the stage. That we are all heroines/heroes of our own plays, and that over time certain people and situations walk out on stage with us, fellow "cast members" who are crucial to the drama, and yet who may eventually walk off, no longer necessary to the energy of the story. I feel like I am in Act Three, and that suddenly, I am alone on stage. Other people from earlier stages of my life have dropped away. I am listening to that long-forgotten voice, and am about to recite a soliloquy. And the finale of my play may be based on who hears the soliloquy, and how they respond. Will my final scene be solitary or in community? It remains to be seen. It seems to me that quite a few of my 65-plus friends are in a similar place, whether or not they see it that way. Many of us are out on a limb or in a place of reckoning because of deaths of parents, illnesses of self, spouses or other family, retirement, the pandemic, and other life role changes. The stage is ours, and it is a vulnerable place.
I'm grateful that I can hear the long-forgotten voice. In 2023, may I release my tendency to be too tactful or "diplomatic", while retaining beauty of expression. These seven years blogging have been practice; if I have held anything back, Goddess give me the courage to speak ever more powerfully, directly, and lovingly.
