Wandering One: February 2012

“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.

Sun Catchers,

You who have braved loss
                of lovers
                of motherhood
                of houses
                and Sweetpeas

you who have trudged through amazons
                of anxiety
                strangling vines of insecurity
                and adrenalin surges that snake up your spine

you who have traversed darkness
while the unwanted
press their urgent, metallic bodies into you,

you have sought relief
                in shiny bottles
                and long-stemmed glasses --
                a night-life held delicately between fingertips
                until cracked into chartreuse shards of morning light.

You have bloodied your feet
                on that broken glass
                limped along through sallow days
                wallowed in self pity
                until finally you pulled yourself from the depths

with mud-sucking honesty, you
                gathered the shattered pieces
                to fuse them bit by broken bit --
                to make useful and pretty again--

you have made sun-catchers from shadows.

Wandering One

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

More letting go

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Selky's Dive

5 years ago

Coming Out

Choice at Transfiguration

Transfiguration

Keep Away Girl

Thursday, February 16, 2012

In Words Matter

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Another Epiphipoem

Recovery