“The blue jay is fearless, and it is because of this that it can help
people connect with the deepest mysteries of this earth and the greatest of
heaven.” ~ from Animal Speak by Ted Andrews
“Gaia, Gaia, ha, ha,
ha,” the blue jay cackles as the woman dips between dream and awake. Salt water laps at her manicured toes (what
an odd thing to notice at this point in the dream). Beckoning sunlight, soft
and unsquinting, lures her ankle deep, knee deep, waist deep, further and
further out into the ocean until she tastes brine on her lips. “I will surface
only to breathe,” she tells herself,
“like a large seal, or one of those Selkies, from the Shetlands, mysterious
sirens of the sea.” Only in moonlight will I come to shore, shed my sealskin
and dance, beautiful and desirous, limitless, on cool, white sand.
She relaxes her knees just enough for the water to wash over
her ears and spread her fine hair in a whorl around the crown. Lighter than life she floats, bobbing easily
in the slight wake. Her mind quiets to weightless
lines of poetry. She wants to be here,
only here, always in the space between, floating on the horizon, away from the
heat of her days, fearless of what might happen or what already passed. A sea- muffled, “Caw, caw, caw” invades the
loud silence of her underwater get away.
“Caw, caw, caw.” That nasty crow has now joined the annoying blue jay.
“The blue jay is a reminder to follow through on all things –
to not start something and then leave it dangling.”
“Come down here on one
knee,” her mother instructs. The cement blocks lining the pond scratched
at her boney knee, but she really wanted to learn to dive like her mother:
elegant, athletic and competent. Some
moms are nurturing, some smothering, some non-existent; her mother was an
instructional mom, one who teaches you what you need to know and then sends you
at least 500 miles away from the nearest relative to make your own way in the
world, independent, needing no one. She
comes from a long line of instructional mothers.
Her mother could have been an Olympic diver. Three precise steps toward the end of the diving
board and on the third step she bends her right knee up parallel to the sky,
toe pointed. Then both feet join at the
edge, knees bent, the board bows under her downward thrust. Her arms extend to the sides and she springs
needle straight into the air.
“On one knee, lift
your arms to your ears and lock your thumbs together. Elbows straight like an arrow.” Her
mother places her hands on her elbows to lock them tight around her ears --perfunctory,
purposeful touch. Not too tender, for any
touch too tender would have melted her into a pool of longing and she would not
have been able to focus on the learning at hand.
At the height of her jump, her mother folds in half at the hips,
jack-knifed in mid air, fingertips touching toes. Her mother’s hands were small; fingertips
calloused, stained brown from paring apples and sculpting clay. Her fingers were long and slender. Her feet would soon outgrow her mother’s
shoes and she would eventually look down on her mother’s compact frame, half a
foot taller.
“Bend at your waist,
keep your head between your arms, fingertips touch the water first. Ya know, if you go head first, not arms first
off the high dive, your head will slap so hard that you’ll have a headache for
days. Protect your head.” Her
mother’s head was covered in short, black curls. She was blonde until first grade, hair long
and straight. The boys in the family got
the curls; the girls, at best, sported a natural bend. Her mother had silky brown eyes, hers were
hazel. Mother, right-handed, she,
left. Sometimes she wondered if she was
adopted or somehow switched at birth.
Her mother’s body, still in flight, would open again to an
inverted blade moments before slicing into the water. She and her brothers used to count the rings
rippling out from their mother’s point of entry. In the beginning of the summer, there might
be seven or so rings, but by the end of the season, there were only two or
three. “Admirable,” they all thought.
“Head between your
arms. Head between your arms. Now just roll into the water, 3, 2, 1, go.”
Her mother could have been an Olympic diver. She could have been an Olympic swimmer or ice
skater. She could have been a
professional artist, sculpting, sketching and painting her way to fame. She could have been an actress, a naturalist,
a biologist, a costume designer, a seamstress like grandmother, a quilter, or
even a teacher. Her mother could have
been many things, but she chose to be a wife and mother. After her sophomore year at Denison
University, she chose a man, Dad. She
got her MRS degree, had four children, led Girl Scout troops, volunteered at
the Nature Center, and taught swimming for the Red
Cross and the Y. She taught ice skating
to the neighbors, sewing in 4-H, made hand-drawn Christmas cards, one-of-a-kind
quilts, and most of the children’s clothes until they were in Jr. High ~ all
these talents bestowed only to her family.
“3, 2, 1, roll. You can do it.” Easy for her to say as
the eldest daughter summoned up the nerve to complete her first semi-dive. The daughter couldn’t see the murky bottom of
the Pennsylvania
farm pond. She had no idea where she was
heading or what she would find when she got there, but the instruction time was
over and she could feel her mother getting distracted. “Lift your bottom, fingers first, 3, 2, 1, roll. You count this time.” The daughter’s anxiety bored the mother who
wanted to get back to the diving board for a smooth swan dive or the ever
perilously impressive back dive. Skinny
and shivering, the daughter’s blue lips whispered, “3, 2, 1 roll.”
Warm, algae-green water slid easily up her arms, her hair
smoothed along the back of her neck and shoulders, sleek like after a Sunday
night bath. She eased into the water
until only her toes remained exposed to the afternoon sun. Finally, fully submerged and successful, she
slowly released her breath, sending bubbles to the surface and letting her
mother know she was okay and had remembered the swimming lessons from the
previous summer. She sunk in the weighty
weightlessness until her lungs pinched and then she sprung to the surface like
a frog between lily pads. Her first
dive. She’d done it right.
“Okay, good, let’s try
again from standing this time.” No time to bask in success. There was still much to learn in the nine
years before college. Learning to dive
was only the beginning. There was
learning how to: cook, sew, iron, garden, write newsy letters, save money,
spend money wisely, get a job, keep a job.
She needed to learn about: the Vietnam war, Watergate, Legionnaire’s
Disease, the birds & the bees, the Amish, the Bible (although not from her
mother on this one), and about how to survive the cruelty of junior high school
girls. She needed to learn how to:
handle disappointment without sour grapes, success with humility, and problem
solving with her own creativity and initiative, independent, needing no one.
Protect your head, lock your thumbs, take a deep breath,
bend at the waist, 3, 2, 1, roll, she told herself. Dive, surface, dive again. She will surface only to breathe like the
large seals, only covering her ears with her elbows.
“Seals have no external ears…Ears are the center for hearing and
balance. If a seal shows up as a
totem…it is time to do some questions.
Are you getting out of balance? Has the imaginative faculty open so much
that you are not staying grounded? Are
you listening to things and people you shouldn’t? Are you not listening to that which you
should? Are you listening to the inner
voice? Are you following the words of
others rather than your own?”
“Gaia, Gaia, ha, ha, ha.” “Okay, okay,” she gurgles, a pool
of sleepy drool on her pillow, “Another five minutes and I’ll get up.”
The woman listened to her mother and became a teacher.
In her dream, the woman teaches a friend how to body
surf. “You want to catch the wave before
it crests. See how it is still rounded
and rolling? Start your ride on the
front side of the curve.” They bob
through a few innocent waves that barely break on the shoreline. Warm sun increases her friend’s
confidence. She cannot teach confidence,
but she wishes to instill trust. Her
friend might not be comfortable in the water, but she wants more than anything
for the friend to feel safe with her. “Water
is the creative element. It’s a symbol
of the feminine, the emotional, the imaginative, and dreamtime.”
Her friend rolls her eyes.
“Why does everything have to mean something to you? Can’t water just be water?”
“The archetypal force of the seal helps those with them as totems to
learn to balance the inner imagination with the outer realities – making both
aspects more colorful and beneficial.”
“I want you to feel safe in the water like I do.” Secretly,
she wants to vow, “I will keep you safe,” but it is a promise she cannot
keep. She knows the ocean’s power is no
contest for her desire to care and protect. And, safety, security is an
illusion…warranties, car insurance, marriage contracts, nobody can keep the
promise of complete safety and anyone who says s/he can is a charlatan, not to
be trusted. Trust must come from the
willingness to stand by, no matter what.
She can make that promise ~ to stand by, fearless, protective without
being possessive.
Her friend attempts a few waves then trudges back to the
comfort of dry land.
She wants to surface only to breathe. She wants to live in the legend of the
Selkies, seals by day, sleek, black, graceful and inviting with their large
brown eyes. Appearances can be
deceiving, however. Seals can be quite
dangerous if you get too close. The
ocean can be deadly if you go too deep.
“Are you getting out of balance? Has the imaginative faculty opened so
much that you are not staying grounded?”
The appearance of her friend in her dream, the practical friend who
holds on to her ankles so she will not drift too far away from reality, her
friend reminds her to stay balanced.
She follows her friend to shore, wakes, lifts herself out of
bed, separates the blinds to look out at the world, sunlight, soft and
unsquinting, she remembers, water is the creative element and
“There are no limits to the creative energies stimulated by the seal
totem. They enliven dreams and awaken
the imagination so they can be applied to the outer world.” ~ Animal Speaks.
