Winter is our time to dream, imagine and knit together plans like bright potholders, or very long, stripey scarves; maybe even to come up with something we can't immediately identify, with more sleeves and neck holes than your typical human could use at one time, but nonetheless full of a weird potential.
So it is apropos that last winter Lee and I began talking about singing together with some musician friends in a one-off cover band, through a local rock camp for grown-ups. Lee plays the guitar, and I...well, I sing. For the past year, I've been learning how, anyway. I do not claim any great technical skill; but let's just say I have come a long way.
Saturday, we'll be on stage, at a bar, performing a set of Fleetwood Mac songs.
I am exciterrified.
But back to Fleetwood Mac. When I was a young woman, Stevie Nicks symbolized much that I wanted for myself and my life. Magic. Mystery. Artistry and the freedom to be uniquely myself. Feminine power, Welsh witchiness, and the same sense of wildness I felt within, but had no way to express.
Her Stevie-ness performing Rhiannon in 1976:
Many years have passed since I pored over the liner notes in my Rumours album, and daydreamed a wider, wilder life for myself. Now, in middle age, I'm still dreaming. I feel I'm just beginning to truly come into my power and magic, both as a woman and a whole human. Learning to take up my full share of space, assume my mantle of authority, share my gifts. Let my song be heard, as only I can sing it.
It is not that easy for me to do. It has required frequent pep talks from myself to myself, and daily fear calmings. It is worthwhile but not easy to be vulnerable, or to risk looking a fool, or to stand up there and sing that one note that I almost always screw up, even though I get most of them right.
Because I am not Stevie Nicks. But I am me, and I have to sing it anyway.