"Human soul, should it
dream of me / Let my memory wakened be. / Moon, moon, oh do not wane…do not
wane…” From Song of the Moon, excerpt from Dvorak’s opera Rusalka (notes by
Martha Kate Lind)
I miss blogging here. Been meaning for weeks to write a
transition post. But couldn’t, especially on the home site closest to my heart,
during the deluge of physical and psychic details it took to uproot ourselves
from our
Sonoma County home. I managed a couple goodbye
posts, one over at
The Fertile Source, and again, another laced with what it
meant to homeschool my daughter the last four months, over at
Mother Writer Mentor.
New Year’s day we left the amber browns of our lime mottled redwood
trunks and the perpetually damp earth beneath for the bright sand bordered rind
of land housing
Coronado.
In the u haul, my husband, the boys and the Husky drove ahead of my daughter
and I, our van overflowing with coolers, pillows, socks and a case of wet dog
food to the dueling yowls of the two house cats overlaid by the calm and
mystical voice of
poet / priest
John O’Donahue on
CD (
Anam Cara, Wisdom from the Celtic World), parting gift of my writing
collaborator Elizabeth.
O’Donahue’s protracted r’s and the way he holds a syllable
on the tongue mid-word takes the edge off leaving behind four feral cats
renters have promised to feed, but when the sun sets, the tears come. My
favorite of the cats, the older male with his gorgeous uneven throttle of a
purr, is now likely rubbing his thick chin against the back door glass, one ear
torn but intact, brown gold eyes scanning for us as he stands on his back legs
and rests a paw on the second tier of door-panes.
My daughter notices I’m crying, so I admit it: I miss my ferals.
Wish we could bring them. But it would be cruel. The woods are all they know. I’m
trying to be bigger than that, reassure us both that though the woods are all
we know, we’ll come to know the
new city. Elizabeth, (play
with her over at
Perhaps Maybe—she’s still looking for prose poets) with
her poet’s heart and acuity, reminded me before we left to take in the surroundings
no matter what went down, notice the sun, sky, lay of the land.
Her advice comes in handy during our five long minutes of
crisis the last leg of our adventure crossing the blue bridge into Coronado. Even as the u
haul stalled and sputtered to a dead stop a mere 200 yards onto the bridge, I
noticed less the panic and steady throng of cars streaming around us, more the red
tip of sun plummeting past the Pt. Loma lighthouse. More the boats with their
triangles of white sails, less the winking of the u haul’s hazard lights. Eventually
the u haul started back up, we found our way to Orange Avenue, and the realtor
kindly unlocked the door for us so we could sign our new lease and fumble our
way through the maze of new rooms in the dark (without power).
If trees were king at the old home, water reigns queen here
at this farthest tip of California.
Since our new home won’t be ready for two weeks (we learn when we arrive—though
we are happy to wait for new carpets and paint and tile), we take by day to the
sea. I’m thinking of the round stained glass window that hung in our home in
the trees featuring a mermaid whose hands cup the largest of a set of escaped
bubbles of air--stand-in for her mirror.
Without a physical home and for the duration of this
transition, I’m navigating by sign. Following on the heels of the image of the
stained-glass mermaid, I find just outside the kitchen door garden of the new
house a beautiful six inch metal mermaid, rusting a beautiful green bronze, left
behind by the last tenant.
Here she floats in her own starfield, symbol of where air-line
meets water-line. An entity that thrives in both domains. Symbol of decisions of
maturity on the horizon. Threshold between girlhood and womanhood that we cross
once ourselves and once again when our daughters cross it. Maybe once again
when we lose our mothers; I don’t know. Tell me if you know.
I’ve often thought about the little mermaid (Hans Christian
Anderson) and her infamous trade—the voice for legs, made a collage book once about it titled "Army of Lovers," wrote a bit about it in
relation to raising a daughter earlier
here and tangentiallly with regard to sirens in relation to marriage (Deciphering the Siren)
here. This time I’m thinking about her
infatuation with the prince, goaded by something I came across when scanning a summary
of
Ambiguities in HCA’s The Little Mermaid by Jacob Boggild and Pernille
Heegaard (
Andersen og Verden, Odense 1993). On their way to discussing the complexity of HCA's ending for the tale and wieghing the little mermaid's spiritual vs. sensual motivations, the authors remind us she falls in love with the prince because he reminds her of a statue she keeps in her
garden.
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| soap by Cazgirl; see below for contact info |
So I take up the thread: if she’s enamored with a statue,
maybe she’s not really ready for the full blown flesh and blood human male, nor
could he be ready for the girl with the sweetest voice (remember the mermaid
hears the prince’s bride-to-be singing and it hurts her to know she could sing
far more beautifully, if she hadn’t given up her voice). What would that
relationship be like, say she kept her voice, and lured the prince with
song.
Would he be able to see past her
siren self, ever fathom her as a whole being?
Both prince and mermaid strike me as vulnerable. And The Little Mermaid wouldn’t be a fairytale without the sorrow
of near-miss, the longing of separation, without which we’d miss the chance to fully
contemplate the distance the pair would have to cross to coexist in
mature relationship. And thus as readers we fall in love with yearning, its purity of
impulse, unmarred by actuality of day to day relationship.
The new mermaid I found in the new house is not glass, but substantial,
elemental (metal). Which brings O’Donahue to mind and his musings on the way our bodies
are made of particles with memories of their own, earth memories from other
times and peopled with other people from long ago so that sometimes we are swept
with emotion the mind doesn’t understand.
Which also aptly describes my experience of listening to the
San Fransicsco based vocal women’s ensemble
Kitka. As we walked between our new home and the kids’
school along the waterway, bordered by ocean and harbor, I finally bought,
downloaded, and listened to
The Rusalka Cycle: Songs Between the Worlds, drawn
to the image on the album’s cover of a woman cloaked in blue, rising towards the
faint reflection of her face marking the water’s lid.
Notes for the album read: “In Slavic folklore, Rusalki are
the restless spirits of women who have died unjust or untimely or unnatural
deaths. They inhabit the waters, forests, and fields, luring people to them
with their mesmerizing songs and wild laughter.”
Titles from
To the Lake to
Awakening to
River
Rose to
Sirens forewarn of the supernally gorgeous field of lament one is about
to enter.
Here far voices, jubilantly macabre, swirl as if from down a long
silver hall with unparalleled simplicity to the lilts of cello. Phantom criers
rise and fall in the background, garlanded by the voices of sisters. In the
sweet high notes and later powerful guttural chants, one senses reproach beyond
confrontation: a complete mirror and witnessing to the suffering of not only
the Rusalka but those left behind and those later ensnared by her state.
Songs like
Siren or
Wave might frighten a male audience (and
some female), but a preverbal part of me felt soothed by the force of group
lament. You get the feeling that when something is known it is known forever, fathomed
in the survivors’ eyes. Debts remain to the living and the departed. I read
that a Rusalka’s state can be transformed if her death is avenged; Kitka, with
sound, has so delineated the sorrow of untimely death that it it feels an
avenging, via song.
When I asked permission to run the album cover, longtime Kitka singer Shira Cion directed me to a beautiful background article about the process of making the album, "
Singing Shapeshifters in the Shadow of Chernobyl: Kitka Ignites the Embers of a Disappearing Song Ritual" which details the journey the group took to the Ukraine (where rusalki rituals are still practiced) with singer Mariana Sadovska as their guide.
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| Kitka |
Reading about an early morning experience the group had in a village near the Belarusian border, I felt humbled once again by synchronicity. Though I have never traveled to the Ukraine, my ancestors hail precisely from that region. My father (who introduced me to Kitka when I was in my early 20s) taught me that our name loosely translates to "one who is of the marshes"). No wonder I wrote for pages in my journal while listening to The Rusalka Cycle, at the mercy of a cellular recognition beyond my control or immediate ken.
Those pages of raw writing ended on the asssertion, "you can't take the girl out of the girl" and the question, "how can such joy coexist with such sorrow?" I only know Kitka pulls it off, presenting the emotions as two halves of one sphere. Just as promised by Shira in the article: “We hope that the
songs invite the reckless spirits of the
Rusalki into the imagination
of each listener, opening portals into haunting and beautiful realms between the
worlds.”
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| Sculpture by Ananda Beattie |
To balance out the foray to such harrowing depth, I return
to the lighter and equally necessary wisdom of John O’Donahue’s words. In the
chapter,
Your Solitude is Luminous, O’Donahue implies if we can stop thinking
long enough to feel, the opportunity beckons to cross over to rapture, inhabiting the moment
with multiple layers of the little self we know so intimately and the big
self we aspire to encompass comprised of earth, sky, water, and the
scale of human experience across time.
In June of 2010 when we were first contemplating moving, I
found solace as well in the words of poet Robert Haas. Prior to reading from
his Whitman series (
Song of Myself and Other Poems by Walt Whitman, edited and
annotated by Haas and Paul Ebenkamp), Haas spoke of the fertility of
border zones, how deer like to graze at the edge of the forest where they
can see the meadow and the stream; fish, in similar fashion, are drawn to water
transition zones, finding at such merging locales rare and rich nutrient exchange. I’m trying
my best to occupy the internal zone with grace--picturing wingbuds between the shoulder
blades, thinking of butterflies and mermaids with wings.
Related Mermaid musings:
Ananda’s line: Ananda Beattie's mermaid sculpture; poetry set to the photograhs of
Robyn Beattie, including the one above Robyn took of Ananda's sculpture.
Mermaid soap (see middle photo in this post): a xmas gift this year from my mother-in-law,
of sandalwood, I found her on top of one of our packed boxes when looking for
two CD rental movies we accidentally packed and brought with us. Heavenly scent
of sandalwood, the label reads: cazgal [at] comcast [dot] net,
out of Cazadero California,
the sweetest smelling bar of soap I’ve ever had, with a stunning mermaid
sculpture on top. I can't imagine ever using it.
Just a quick note to say I still have room in my month long
on-line Transformative Blogging class that begins Monday, February 4th.
Detailed course description here at Story Circle Network (open to members and
non-members alike).
