This has not been a winter to speak aloud.
My words have frozen in my throat or in the pages of my private books and rarely been able to cross the ice to the outer world. I know that sound carries best over open water. It seems that those waters have to be flowing freely, not suspended in a bitter February’s thoughtfulness.
Wait, I misspeak. It is not I that is bitter, but the weather. And even then, I am spinning frigid tales and manipulating them for my own rhetoric. The view from my front window offers grass like straw and sad heaps of forgotten leaves with only the occasional sad mountain of snow. We expect flurries throughout the weekend – it’s still winter after all – but she has let her white cloak slip low enough to prove that not even the ice can last forever.
I spoke of returning the other day. Returning is a long and careful process. It can mean the traveler is still a great distance from home.
When my healer experiences great spiritual shifts she talks about all the internal furniture being rearranged. I still live in a new house that is short on chairs and couches, so I’ll stick to the images of the landscape – the view is always free even if we can’t yet afford new bookshelves.
My inner landscape has been reformed during a 10 days of sickness and soul searching. I’ve watched new river valleys form and have shored up my retaining walls. I have repaved a concrete wasteland with a rainbow of precious stones.
I only weep a little at the changes being wrought, the unfamiliar, though beautiful, territory being forged within. A new home is a great milestone, but one that is surely accompanied by mourning for all that was. New houses also mean a great many stubbed toes when one needs a glass of water in the middle of the night.
So I am rejoicing in my new caverns of joy and testing the echoes against my new interior walls. But I am still receiving snippets of news reports about the maelstrom out there that seems to have nothing to do with this inner transformation or the February sunshine beyond the shadows of my front porch.
I am still a creature of this world for all that I have spent the better part of two weeks diving in my own ocean. I realize that I am caught in this web of shift and discomfort and even chaos that has caught hold of our societies.
In the midst of all this tumult, there was the voice of a man from Canada who spoke with the disjointed music of Scotland and the mid-west and the southern Maritimes that I know so well. Give yourself a couple of minutes to listen to the story of five men in Seal Cove, Newfoundland who saved a pod of dolphins trapped in the thickening ice of their harbor. Listen to his harmonies and his tale and think about what you might do that would lead you to reply “Oh, on scale of one to ten, thirty” when someone asked you how you feel.
There are parts of me feel like I am at a thirty, and there are bits of me that feel too lost in the flux of the soul to take stock and realize this journey is all about elation. But, as I continue this process of returning I think I have found one more guidepost of inspiration that will help me redefine my internal measurement of all that is good.