morning meditation

grace. i am suffused by her, infused by her

she bathes me, permeates me,

swirls like mist into my cracks,

behind closed doors, beneath the sills,

through locked and rusted keyholes.

between my toes,

she softens

every step, like treading upon air…

or walking upon water…

making it impossible

to crush, to trample, to lay

anything to waste.

grace,

never refused, she turns back

the thought that harms, the self

judgment, self critique, self

recrimination.

how can something so utterly soft

turn back hardness such as that?

it is diffused,

perhaps,

into her pillow, my very hardness

is suffused, infused

yes, even that within me

which intended harm

to me, is loved

by her. she softens my whole

being.

moments flow

as if through me,

finding no surface upon which to concuss,

no purchase upon which to snag.

she wraps Herself

about them and they exit

as my breath, as mist

rising from the surface on a cool september

morning, drawn forth by the rising of the light,

grace dawns upon my being,

upon my story,

upon my life,

lifting the heaviness

of yesterday’s grief, of yesterday’s sorrow,

of remorse, of shame

of pain,

moistening my world with dew.

so saturated is my world with her, she leaves

remembrances now upon my skin

as i brush past her gifts, hidden

in full view,

along my way.

Let go

Last evening, I heard from a dear one, who asked me quite gently and lovingly (both to herself and to me) if I would please hold off on texting inspirational quotes and links to helpful articles. She said that right now it just causes her more anxiety and sends her down the rabbit hole that is the internet.

I’d started sending a short tidbit before going to bed each night, thinking that she would see it first thing in the morning and know that someone out there was loving her. She’s been awakening lately in such distress, her mind instantly reminding her of her sorrow, and my hope was that these simple re-minders would point her away from that downward spiral of despair. I thought I was planting seeds of hope.  I was imagining these offerings as something like receiving a ‘thinking of you’ card in the mail in the middle of one’s grief.

But with her request, instantly I understood what it felt like to her. Like too much to an already overwhelmed mind. Like one more thing to absorb, one more way to look at things (as if her way of looking at things was not valid), or as if she needed something outside of herself  – some wisdom or understanding or some new way of thinking (the ‘right’ way) – added to her self in order to be healed or whole.

As if she needed to be fixed.

Or saved.

From herself.

I wondered if it feels invalidating to tell someone she is beloved if that is not at all how she feels, if that is not at all her experience right now. I wondered if it feels like I do not trust her to find her own way.

I woke this morning realizing that it is likely my own fear I seek to assuage when offering such ‘sage’ comforts. That my responses are probably addressing the fear within me — of the intensity of her pain, of the intensity of my own pain in response to hers – more than they are speaking to hers, and are a subtle (or perhaps not so subtle at all) form of control. Even when sharing what I have found to be healing, to one who is trying (needing) to find her own way and to trust her own wisdom my words are not helpful. Indeed they may actually trample the seeds that her own soul is tending.

I thought – Perhaps it is loss that I fear – loss of connection, loss of intimacy, loss of esteem?, or even the ultimate loss, if her despair overcomes her at last. Perhaps I fear my own world crashing down in that devastation. Perhaps my offerings then are thinly veiled anxiety, fear wearing the cloak of Love (or is it the other way around?), masking my pain.

And I knew then, upon awakening, that it is time to let go, to turn my attention inward, again, toward healing myself, not fixing another. Time to gaze upon my own fear with compassion, to hold it in the Love that I try to give to tell to another.

And as yesterday’s message to me was so clear, that it is time to Hold On, this morning’s was just as clear that it is time to Let Go. Let go of control. Let go of striving – to fix, to heal, to save, to safeguard her my heart. Let go into trust. Let myself simply be, powerless as I truly am.

I cannot fix this.

Surrender.

This evening, these words were given to me, as a mantra or a prayer, to nurture (or to seed) this new Grace-full soil within me, to practice this Letting Go.

“I love you.

I bless you.

I release you to your own indwelling Presence.”

Wise words shared with me by a wise friend.

Hmmm.

 But I think they could actually save me.

hold on

Its that time of year when we all need to hit the reset button, when our internal and external systems have become so jumbled and chaotic that something inside of us knows its time to shut down, and start fresh. I don’t think it’s a fluke that we have ascribed such meaning to the turning of the calendar each January 1, just one week after Christmas. In a culture where the month… and more particularly the last week… of December has gotten swept into such a whirlwind of elusive expectation and fraught with the inability to accept our humanity -self and other- as we are, we are all in desperate need of a coming to our senses. All around me, the people I love are screaming, ‘enough’! All around me the people I love are crying, ‘this doesn’t feel like love”

But, you may say, I thought you’d been listening to the earth – both inside and outside your body – found stillness and healing there? Found Love. I thought December had been different for you?

Yes. And none of that has been taken away from me. It is still there, below the noise, this vast opening in me created by the dissolution of that heavy boulder of shame I carried for so many years for being motherless/feeling unloveable. But, Christmas brought with it the realization that there are other ghosts abiding in (or is it wanting to settle into the emptiness of?) that space.

What’s interesting to me, as I write this, is the awareness that, as I was envisioning that feeling of spaciousness in those days prior to Christmas, what came to me was the image of a great tree whose roots had reached, resiliently, around that great boulder of stone upon which it had been seeded. Suddenly freed of that stone, I wondered if the tree would be able to stand without that anchor, how it would hold onto empty space.

I am holding on, though the hurricane that swept through here on Christmas day was devastating — not just to me but to ones I hold dear to my heart. The storm temporarily abated, we are left surveying the wreckage, and I can only hope that something fresh and green will grow in the places now left exposed and scarred.

I know that this sounds dramatic, but it was that painful to witness, and to feel, that terrible breaking, to be in the midst of that storm when someone I love deeply was breaking, and lashing out from that pain to break others whom I also love deeply. I am left feeling bereft — empty in a different sort of way, a way that feels much more like loss.

Of course, it has made me wake up to the truth in some way, too. The ways I have not wanted to accept. The ways I have wanted to believe that all would be well if just given enough Love. The ways that I have denied illness that causes such pain, desiring/feigning perfection, I suppose, in my own way.

And of course, I wonder what I could have done differently in order to nurture deeper roots in these ones that I love. I wonder about my own fatal flaws, the ways that I was too blinded – by love or by my own pain – the times that I was too broken to respond. I feel such remorse over the ways that I failed – to Love in the ‘right’ (the healing) kind of way, over the things I did not hear or realize, the wisdom I did not have, the maturity I was lacking, the pain inside of myself that I was not able to keep from seeping into the soil of our lives. I am filled with regret, and I have been spending these days reliving, revisiting, reexamining, searching for clues that I missed…. or denied. Days journaling my confessions, stripping away my self-defenses, seeking self-forgiveness. Blaming myself.

But then, in a morning meditation* I hear these words of Grace.

I am recalled to remember that displays of fear are places begging for Love. I am invited to become soft in the face of what feels hard. I am invited to feel my distress and my dread, to see it as love rising up in opposition to the fraught frequency around me.

I am invited to walk toward the fear and despair within my own self and invite the healing power of my own compassionate heart, to hold it in love. I am invited to let the walls of self-protection and defense fall away, (erected around my shame, my fear of judgment and self-recrimination), to be vulnerable to Love. I am invited to step into the unguarded, soft aspect of my own suffering, to push gently at the tender spots, to challenge what is hard with loving awareness, to bless what is uncomfortable.

I am invited ‘to let grace find me, to let it sprout up from the cracks in my feet, to let it pour into me” I hear the words imploring me to not recycle the grief, but to root myself in my own goodness, to stand strong in Hope.

*What I heard inside of Sarah Blondin’s meditation, “Access your inner source of Hope”, on Insight Timer


And I know that this was no accidental plugging in of the headphones for the first time in months. I know that this is exactly what I needed to hear- what I must pour into that empty space inside of me where once that huge, impenetrable boulder, which was my relationship with my mother, resided. I need to flood that space with grace, fill it with the decomposed compost of all that has been hard in my life, now softened by Love, press the nourishment of tenderness, compassion, and grace gently but firmly around these roots. Validate my own being.

So that I can hold on.

Not clinging to pain. Not stuck in suffering. Not holding on to the hardness of grief and regret, guilt and shame, remorse and recrimination.

But holding on to Grace.

Hold on to Peace. Hold on to Comfort. Hold on to Freedom. Hold on to Joy. Hold on to Light. Hold on to Beauty. Hold on to Life. Hold on to Song and Dance and Deep silence.

Only by giving to myself what I did not receive can I heal. And only by healing myself can I make it safe for others, whom I love, to do the same. It is all the same fear, this fear of being unloveable, of being unworthy, of being not good enough.

Hold on, my loves. Hold on to Love. Then Stand tall, and reach once again for the light.

.

.

becoming virgin

Photo by Markus B from Pexels


The sky is just beginning to lighten into shades of grey as I settle this morning to write. A few brief moments ago the last of the stars, peeking through skeletal trees outside my window as I padded the hall to the bathroom, greeted my wakening.

The fire is now lit, breaking the chill of the dawning house, as are the candles, the tree, the mantle lights. Softly, quietly, morning unfolds. I cherish these gradual daybreaks, when I can move in rhythm with the earth’s own quiet awakening.   

Watching the morning coffee spill into my waiting cup, its steam swirling into the cool kitchen air, I am drawn to the hidden world it reveals, currents of life, unseen. The heat escapes the confines of my cup, dissipating into invisibility what was palpable a moment ago. Small miracles abound.

I note the parallel within me, so recently hot, strong, intense, now dissipated, softened. The reckoning fills me with similar wonder.

Morning dawns and my spirit is at peace, restful. I wonder at how that has occurred, when so recently it was agitated, its haunted ghosts stirred awake. Perhaps they have lain back down in their graves, settled back into the earth of my being, but perhaps they also have dissipated, escaped those confines, released by that heat at last.

Perhaps a little of each.

Last weekend, I hosted my siblings in our tiny home for a simple Christmas meal.  Tangible for me was the absence of my mother’s haunting presence, no longer, at least for me, heavy in the room, standing between us. I felt clear and free as a winter night’s sky.

Washed clean? So …perhaps this autumn was not so much a stripping as a cleansing. I can’t help but conjure up images of Dicken’s Christmas Carol – these ghosts of Christmases past, no longer haunting me; those chains, removed.

I am motherless now. Motherless. I try on the word and it fits. I suppose that my external, physical reality finally matches my interior one. Somehow that feels easy to me. Perhaps there is congruence where there was dissonance. No longer is there shame in saying the word, ‘motherless’, aloud. It escapes the shameful confines of my body like the steam from my cup.

At the same time, it feels as if something has returned to me.  To be actually motherless means my mother no longer holds that part of me that so desperately needed a mother, that longed for approval, acceptance, love.  She has come flying into my arms and my heart, for safe-keeping, where she belongs. I am intact

Whole. “A woman whole unto herself” is one definition of Virgin.  Intact, as SHE is on this night, bearing her own child within, that which was conceived in her by the Holy. The child, inviolably precious, a gift to the earth— no matter how unseen or shamed it will be.

Virginal. That word swirls through the currents of my body, flooding it with life-giving moisture. Moist as a virgin. Intact as a virgin- nothing given away to be defiled. Nothing broken. Nothing ‘Lost’.

I have allowed another to hold a part of me -my sense of goodness. Allowed my purity to be tarnished, shamed by that.

What does it mean to be virginal AGAIN? Is this the way of the Crone—this return to intactness, ceasing to give one’s goodness away to those who will name it as tainted. A second virginity, one seasoned by the experiences of a lifetime, with wisdom and grace.  A more deeply rooted, secure, confident virginity. A less naïve virginity. A wise virginity.

The earth is virginal now, on this cusp of Solstice. Virginal, like me, for she too has seen many seasons of life, and yet contains all of the seeds of life in her belly. Stripped of entanglements, she is her essential self, skeletal, structural, intact. Clear.

To mind come those venerated Virginal woodlands. They are so Old.  AND… of course, they too are not truly primal, not as they ‘first’ were. The earth herself has been washed clean innumerable times – by fire and ice, by uprisings of water and earth, and still She is considered to be Virginal in these places of long, deep-rooted growth.

May it be so for me.  May it be so for you too. eused0 \lsdpri

rising rooted – women’s winter retreat

Gradually, you will return to yourself, Having learned a new respect for your heart from “For One who is Exhausted, a Blessing”, by John O’Donohue

As I have been attending to my body, honoring its wisdom – to be quiet or still, to feel sadness or pain, to express rage or sense peace – and accepting without judgment the range of its feelings and instincts in all of its unfathomable intelligences, I have noticed something shifting in my perception of myself. I find myself deeply respecting myself in a new way. It’s seems that what I’ve gained from this season of darkness is a new rootedness—a deeper trust in the wisdom of my soul and the goodness of my being.

As the animal kingdom, whose vast wisdom has also escorted me through this season, has an innate intelligence, not only for surviving but for thriving within the external environments in which they have evolved and find themselves, so have I. And while I always find their adaptations remarkably, delightfully, wonderful, I don’t know if I’ve often looked at my own life with such wonder.

However, during this late autumn of enforced stillness (really, that is how it has felt some days), imposed upon me by the utter stripping away of any remnant of defensive cover, I have learned that I really do have a lot of resilience and strength. Perhaps, just perhaps, my dear friend was correct when she said, ‘Your canoe trips are not what have made you strong.’

No, I was not broken- as I might have at times in my life defined myself- by the events in my life, nor by the external environment – no matter how cold or harsh it might sometimes have been—into which I was thrust. Yes, I learned ways to adapt, but I needn’t de-fine (to make less fine?) those adaptations as flaws. Perhaps, just perhaps, they are my strengths.

Just yesterday, during a time of honest sharing with my sisters, I heard myself, instead of lamenting the devastation to the trajectory of my life that was the teacher’s violation of my virginal, blossoming spirit, PROclaiming the remarkable resilience of my young self, the initiative she took to protect herself from his further advances, even when  that naive one didn’t know at all what that meant. Her instincts were alive and wild, knowing that something more terrible was what he was grooming her for. So she learned to stay out of empty stairwells, quiet libraries, and the aisle seats of darkened auditoriums, where he lurked with his plundering hands, like an animal learns how to play dead or feign a broken wing in the presence of a predator. How amazingly creative is that?

Yes, I carried the terror and confusion of it in my body. Some of that was released in the shower that day, 25 years later (almost 20 years ago now) when another man devastated my world and those ‘why’s’ poured out with my tears, bearing the memory of him. When another fire ravaged my safe and sheltered environment, I instinctively fled to the water.

I suspect more of that terror and despair was exposed with my mother’s final abandonment of me at her death. That despair, suppressed, never allowed full expression, shocked and shamed into silence, was at last seen, held, honored, by the adult woman within me, who was filled with animal rage for her child. I can celebrate that powerful energy of love within me. I can celebrate the creative resilience within me without in any way sanctioning or sanctifying the behaviors of those who did harm me.

The tree outside my window is visible now in the lightening sky. Against the backdrop of fog, I can trace her limbs, branches, twigs, tendrils – all built by the tree from the light, for gathering light- stripped bare. Today those light gathering branches rest, although in some way that resting also exposes her to potential breakage, for the winter winds are harsh and the ice hard. Less so, however, than if she still bore those leaves. Perhaps it is necessary for me too, at times, to let go of seeking the light. I need not find light in all seasons and all things….

I need no longer be ashamed of the way I pushed through the deaths of 2 babies to become the fierce mother I was, the ways I refused to lay down and die. I need no longer question my ‘receiver’ – the part of me that didn’t feel loved – because Love wasn’t what I was receiving. I can also clearly see, with tenderness, the times when I didn’t listen to my spirit/body’s wisdom, when I denied my instincts out of deference or fear, as well as the times when my animal instincts led me astray in order to save my life.

It’s as if, in this ripped open place within me, there is no longer room for shame to hide. Even my neuroses are visible and welcome and beloved.

That feels like freedom…..

I had risen early, before the others in order to have some quiet, to write, but C noticed my light and has come in from the cold. (she had been sleeping outside on the porch). Now that is a sentence that makes me pause, even as it flows from my pen. This community of sisters has shone a light in the cold for its members for seven years now. Each solstice we come, like bats returning to the cave where they congregate for mutual warmth in the winter, and we hold the light for one another in the dark. Community is as vital a survival instinct, it seems, as attending to one’s intuition is. To be WITH the warmth of empathetic beings whose thirst stirs them to waken the others in their midst, is to be kept alive in the cold. The conversations we have been having in this sacred place have, in their way, as so often they do, shed light for me, even when it is the other’s thirst that awakens me. By this light this day, I am able to see the blessed creature that I am.

hearth fires

I realized today that I haven’t written here in a few days.  Yes, there have been distractions — like my husband’s ankle surgery last Friday, and that addictive vocabulary-building (geek) game on the internet, and, well, Christmas IS coming  —  but mostly it is because I have felt something within me shift.  

I have continued picking up the “All Creation Waits” advent book, sometimes reading several essays in one day, but sometimes letting it go altogether in order to simply be. I suspect that the gift it was to me has already been received, as it repeatedly affirmed for me that my instinctual self knows what she needs, and that I can trust her. I haven’t always listened to that.

In the wake of all that this autumn stripped bare, the whole of my being needed rest, inwardness, loving attention, and solitude, and I took hold of that root, helping myself to its nurture. Yes, there was a moment, during the greatest intensity of my pain, when I was ready to scream out from that place for help, but instead for some reason, listening to my body, I continually, instinctively, returned to the intuition to simply be still. 

Perhaps it is something like the healing of my husband’s bones. Being still when it is time to be still. Moving when it is time to move.

Another realization that has been swirling up into my awareness — like the soft scent of wood smoke, reminding me of the warming fire that burns within my own hearth, even when the outside world is cold– is that I really am fine – all the time.  Yes, there are harsh elements that swirl, reminding me of days when I truly was alone in the cold, wounded, without shelter or nurture or warmth, and sometimes current experiences can make that one inside of me recall the pain of that time as if it is occurring here and now. 

But the truth is, though I will always carry those formative experiences within me, like a tree bears at its core the heartwood that grew strong in being battered by harsh winter winds, I have long since grown strong around , within, and because of those battered places in me. They are my gifts now. My beauty. I am not wounded, I am whole.

I am no longer the Stone Child in need of warming, I am the Dangerous Old Woman, Wild and Wise, knowing what she needs and where/how to find it. I know how to warm her, how to feed her, how to soothe her. How to re-mind her that the story did not end there, nor is it over, but is rich and full and vibrant and intricately layered and blessed. Perhaps I have grown into my “far-sighted” eyes.

Picking up my pen is one way I have learned to attend to her. It is also a way I have learned to listen to my wisdom. Writing is the place where these two in me meet, tend the fire, break bread, have tea. 

Still, today’s chapter in “All Creation Waits” spoke of honey bees, a sisterhood that keeps its members warm throughout the long cold winter by huddling and continually circulating bees from the outside edges of the hive, where they are near to freezing, toward the center, where the beating of wings brings the temperature near the queen to a lusty 92 degrees. 

I have sisters like that too. Sisters whose warmth helps me remember the”strong, delicate, and fierce queen’ that I am. Sisters who remind me of my own inner fire, and who trust that I am capable of tending it. Sisters who also come bearing the tinder they’ve found while tending their own. 

One of them shared this scrap of birchbark today.

which felt like just the warming validation I needed on a day such as this.

So, no, this is not a fierce self-sufficiency or stubborn individuality into which i have retreated and buried my head, but a much softer place than that, one that welcomes not only myself but others who share this terrible-beautiful place we call life, with all of it’s pain and wonder. Many years ago, I dreamt such a place in the woods, next to a stream, my babushka wearing self tending the fire, recieving the weary and sharing tea from my garden.

And now, for you, here is a bundle of tinder, for which I left the hearth, where I sat writing, a minute ago.  See how that works, recirculating this warmth to each other?

One Day When I Was Old
by CP Estés

I remember one day when I was young,
forty-five years or so old,
I woke up an old woman that morning.
Not quite in body all the way, but close.
And also in mind.

And I thought, “This is good.”
For also, in the face I was changed,
a little bark-chipped and creased,
like a tree long-lived enough
after having been planted so long ago
by some winged bird
accidentally letting fall a semi-sacred seed
into some almost impossible place,
precisely the way most of us came to earth–
unplanned, and yet sticking to the place
where we were dropped,
growing, growing flowers and fruits
set into our DNA–
and this too was good.

I leaned through the window
of my bathroom mirror,
and touched her old, cracked face…
I soothed back her black hair
with fire opals
in its strands of white.

And I saw as I leaned in,
There were permanent diamonds
in her tear ducts,
those gotten from years of use
and pressure in dark places.

And I gazed at the body
she and I share,
and I saw that rubies
had grown into all my cuts
and that tiny mirrors shone
in all my widders and spalls…

and I saw that I was old
and strong
and delicate
and fierce, like a queen
who has ruled the lands within her reach,
not perfectly, but despite brutal winters,
she was still alive,
the heartwood hardened off just enough,
the tender capillaries still able to carry
the juice and the warmth.

And then, twenty-some years later,
I crossed the crone line,
wearing the tissue-paper crown
with the sacred words “Still here,
still standing…”
engraved upon it.

These words of triumph for all of us elders,
these words “Still here… Still standing,”
they’re the ultimate royal “Ha!”,
the ultimate para la vida “Ha!”,
to life, with life, all of life, filled with life.
Us, crossed now, the crone line,
para la vida, filled with life.

I remember one day when I was young,
forty-five years old or so,
I woke up an old woman that morning.
Not in body quite all the way, but close.
Also in mind, and this was good.
And also in the face I was changed
with all the marks of rings like a tree,
and this too was good.

I looked at my body
and saw that rubies had grown
in all my cuts,
and mirrors shone in all the widders and spalls.
And I saw I was old and strong,
like a queen who had ruled herself
not perfectly, but well.

And I leaned in and touched her old, cracked face,
and I saw the permanent diamonds in her tear ducts
that were gotten from years of hard use
and pressure in dark places.

I remember one day when I was young,
forty-five years old or so,
I woke up an old woman.
And I have been more and more free
ever since.
______________________

CODA
And so may it be for you.
And so may it be for me.
And so may it be for all of us.

Amen.

And as my grandmother used to say,
“Amen… and a little woman.”
_______________________

“One Day When I Was Old,” a blessing-poem by CP Estés, Copyright ©1990, 2010, All Rights Reserved, including but not limited to electronic, performance, theatrical, musical, graphic, film, commercial, derivitive. Uses: You are welcome to use this blessing poem in non-commercial ways without adding to nor deleting any part, just using the work in its entirety along with author’s name and this copyright notice attached. Thank you. Other permissions: Ngandelman@aol.com

deep calls to deep

The aquariums broke, the waters gushing out over the floor. The emotionless, frozen faces of my mother’s porcelain dolls, propped upright in their high chairs, stared, unflinching, at the inundating overflow.

It was a dream within a dream. In it, I was searching for 2 aquariums to purchase as gifts for 2 young girls, but new aquariums were far too expensive and so I was looking for second hand ones. Finally, throwing my proverbial arms in the air, I said, “What does it matter! They’ll just break anyway” It was then that I ‘saw’, in my dream’s eye, the water pouring from the tanks like water over a dam before unseeing eyes. 

Upon awakening, it occurred to me that I have had the ocean on my mind a lot recently. Or rather, that the ocean has been asserting itself into my mind- a Christmas gift trip to the National Aquarium, along with a few ocean themed books, purchased for my granddaughters, a small salt-water aquarium appearing surprisingly upon my own ‘wishlist’, an impromptu trip to the seashore with my husband before his upcoming surgery. Yesterday, while browsing the shops in this seaside town, it was a puzzle of fishes that drew my eye, and this morning, the chapter in the book I brought with me here told a story of a Selkie, one of those mythical beings who lives as a seal in the ocean, but who, once a month, on full moon, can rise from the waters, take off her sealskin, and dance. 

Similar to mermaids, these beings come onto land at great cost, for if a Selkie’s skin is misplaced or stolen when she has removed it, she cannot return to her life in the sea. Unlike the tale of the Little Mermaid, however, the Selkie of the tale told in this book never longed to be fully human; she was truly at home in her skin. She did not fall in love with the handsome human male and ask to undergo the painful transformation/severing of herself, but instead was tricked into marrying him when he stole her sealskin from the rocks while she was out swimming with her sisters. She had no choice then but to go with him, as he promised only to return her skin to her after she lived with him for 7 years, if she was not happy.  Of course, as these things go, at first the man was kind, and soon she bore him a child, whom she loved dearly.

Still, before long she found herself stealing away to the sea, longing to find her way back to herself.  And as the years went by, she grew increasingly sadder and weaker. Finally, one day her daughter, seeing how frail and empty her mother was becoming, sought the wisdom of the old woman at the edge of the woods, who told the daughter that her mother must help herself, that, though the wise woman knew the healing herbs of the earth, she did not know the ways of the sea. Her mother must somehow get herself to the Old Woman of the World, who lived in the underground cave in the cliffs at the edge of sea.

The daughter returned to her mother with what she had learned and begged her mother to go. In the end, it was the daugther’s anguish at her mother’s despair that finally roused the Selkie to attempt the trip. Weary and feeble, the journey was arduous, stormy, and fraught with peril, and the Selkie almost abandoned hope along the way.

Until one day, near the edge, it seemed she heard singing, a vibration coming from deep within the earth. Following the resonance, she descended the edge of the cliff, and beneath the water found the entrance to the cave of the Old Woman, who revived her to her previous vitality with a nourishing drink of medicinal sweetness from her cauldron, which contained all the herbs and seeds of the world. Then the Old Woman instructed her on where she must go and what she must do to find her way home.

So, the selkie woman boarded a curragh and rowed across the sea to an island, where, as the Old Woman had foretold, within its center cave lay the dead bodies and skinned hides of her slain sisters, victims of a seal hunt. At last, Selkie mourned… and mourned, singing the songs of lament she had been taught to sing by the Old Woman…..until the bodies of her dead sisters reformed. That is, all but one, whose skin the Selkie, with deep sadness and reverence, took to her breast, inhaling the familiar scent of her long lost sister.

Before donning the skin, however, the Selkie knew that she must go to her daughter, for whom she made the long journey back across the sea. Upon their reunion, however, her daughter somehow understood that her mother must go, that there was ‘something so deeply a part of her nature that she must not resist it- the need to find her element, to find her place, to find her home’ . And so Selkie slipped the young skin of her sister atop of her old, life-experienced bones and disappeared beneath the waves.

Selkie returns to her daughter once a year, but her daughter can see that she is different somehow. She is at peace. She is herself. Selkie comes to tell her daughter the stories and teach her to sing the songs of the sea, the songs that will call her kin, the songs of mourning, the songs that will take her soul home.

The last line of the story, as told in the book, is this one

 “All mourning will be transformed into joy, if you have endurance enough to make the journey, and courage enough to face the Old Woman in the cave’

If Women Rose Rooted, Sharon Blackie

And so I wonder. This call to the water in me.

This call to soul in me

As I think back on these years, and the times I have professed to be weary, the ways that I have bit-by-bit adapted to living here on the surface, the times I have said aloud, the words, that I would ‘go back for her one day’, after the years of childrearing were completed. I wonder if I relinquished that journey too soon, when it became too difficult, if I turned back too soon, my fear of abandoning loved ones keeping me from following that call.

I wonder if a soul is that slippery, that one can lose it so.

I think about my lost youth and the ways I likely have never completely sung the songs of mourning, not wanting to admit that anything was lost—for to do so would have meant, somehow, that the life I had ‘landed’ upon instead was unworthy. I think of being a young girl, naïve, never suspecting that there are those who would take what doesn’t belong to them, what I didn’t even know was steal-able.

I think about how rich (and also scary) my life was when I went diving in those depths a decade or so ago, when my grief ripped open the door to that cave and thrust me into its arms in such a manner that I could not hold up my usual shields to cover its vastness. I think of the ways that I feel like myself, ‘at home in my skin’, when I am ‘out there’ in my place of belonging. I think about the pain that both distracts me and beckons me. I think of my daughter’s anguish, my mother’s emptiness. I think about the years of surviving that and what it has done to my energy.

I think about those aquariums unable to contain it all, the unseeing eyes of my mother’s dolls, my own sense of uselessness. I think about a being of such vastness encaged within glass. I wonder if its a good thing that I realize they will break. 

I think about my deep sorrows and griefs, this recently opened new/old sorrow in me, its invitation, if I let it be one, if I let it carry me out to sea, in my boat, if I let myself swim in those depths, if I let my voice sing.

The songs it knows how to sing.

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