Thursday, February 17, 2011

Untangling the Bones

This story appears in Clarissa Pinkola Estes's Women Who Run With The Wolves. She uses it as a lesson about the Life/Death/Life nature which we all must confront, either in a relationship with ourselves, or with others. So here she is:

Skeleton Woman

She had done something of which her father disapproved, although no one any longer remembered what it was. But her father had dragged her to the cliffs and thrown her over and into the sea. There, the fish ate her flesh away and plucked out her eyes. As she lay under the sea, her skeleton turned over and over in the currents.

One day a fisherman came fishing, well, in truth many came to this bay once. But this fisherman had drifted far from his home place and did not know that the local fisherman stayed away, saying this inlet was haunted.

The fisherman's hook drifted down through the water, and caught of all places, in the bones of Skeleton Woman's rib cage. The fisherman thought, "Oh, now I've really got a big one! Now I really have one!" In his mind he was thinking of how many people this great fish would feed, how long it would last, how long he might be free from the chore of hunting. And as he struggled with this great weight on the end of the hook, the sea was stirred to a thrashing froth, and his kayak bucked and shook, for she who was beneath struggled to disentangle herself. And the more she struggled, the more she tangled in the line. No matter what she did, she was inexorably dragged upward, tugged up by the bones of her own ribs.

The hunter had turned to scoop up his net, so he did not see her bald head rise above the waves, he did not see the little coral creatures glinting in the orbs of her skull, he did not see the crustaceans on her old ivory teeth. When he turned back with his net, her entire body, such as it was, had come to the surface and was hanging from the tip of his kayak by her long front teeth.

"Agh!" cried the man, and his heart fell into his knees, his eyes hid in terror on the back of his head, and his ears blazed bright red. "Agh!" he screamed, and knocked her off the prow with his oar and began paddling like a demon toward shoreline. And not realizing she was tangled in his line, he was frightened all the more for she appeared to stand upon her toes while chasing him all the way to shore. No matter which way he zigged his kayak, she stayed right behind, and her breath rolled over the water in clouds of steam, and her arms flailed out as though to snatch him down into the depths.

"Agh!" he wailed as he ran aground. In one leap he was out of his kayak, clutching his fishing stick and running, and the coral white corpse of skeleton woman, still snagged in the fishing line, bumpety-bumped behind right after him. Over the rocks he ran, and she followed. Over the frozen tundra he ran, and she kept right up. Over the meat laid out to dry he ran, cracking it to pieces as his mukluks bore down.

Throughout it all she kept right up, in fact, she grabbed some of the frozen fish as she was dragged behind. This she began to eat, for she had not gorged in a long, long time. Finally, the man reached his snowhouse and dove right into the tunnel and on hands and knees scrabbled his way into the interior. Panting and sobbing he lay there in the dark, his heart a drum, a mighty drum. Safe at last, oh so safe, yes, safe thank the Gods, Raven, yes, thank Raven, yes, and all bountiful Sedna, safe... at...last.

Imagine when he lit his whale oil lamp, there she - it - lay in a tumble upon his snow floor, one heel over her shoulder, one knee inside her rib cage, one foot over her elbow. He could not say later what it was, perhaps the firelight softened her features, or the fact that he was a lonely man... but a feeling of some kindness came into his breathing, and slowly he reached out his grimy hands and using words softly like a mother to child, began to untangle her from the fishing line.

"Oh, na, na, na." First he untangled the toes, then the ankles. "Oh, na, na, na." On and on he worked into the night, until dressing her in furs to keep her warm, Skeleton Woman's bones were all in the order a human's should be.

He felt into his leather cuffs for his flint and used some of his hair to light a little more fire. He gazed at her from time to time as he oiled the precious wood of his fishing stick and rewound the gut line. And she in the furs uttered not a word - she did not dare - lest this hunter take her out and throw her down to the rocks and break her bones to pieces utterly.

The man became drowsy, slid under his sleeping skins, and soon was dreaming. And sometimes as humans sleep, you know, a tear escapes from the dreamer's eye; we never know what sort of dream causes this, but we know it is either a dream of sadness or longing. And this is what happened to the man.

Skeleton Woman saw the tear glisten in the firelight and she became suddenly soooo thirsty. She tinkled and clanked and crawled over to the sleeping man and put her mouth to his tear. The single tear was like a river and she drank and drank and drank until her many-years-long thirst was slaked.

While lying beside him, she reached inside the sleeping man and took out his heart, the mighty drum. She sat up and banged on both sides of it: Bom Bomm!.....Bom Bomm!

As she drummed, she began to sing out "Flesh, flesh, flesh! Flesh, Flesh, Flesh!" And the more she sang, the more her body filled out with flesh. She sang for hair and good eyes and nice fat hands. She sang the divide between her legs, and breasts long enough to wrap for warmth, and all the things a woman needs.

And when she was all done, she also sang the sleeping man's clothes off and crept into his bed with him, skin against skin. She returned the great drum, his heart, to his body, and that is how they awakened, wrapped one around the other, tangled from their night, in another way now, a good and lasting way.

The people who cannot remember how she came to her first ill fortune say she and the fisherman went away and were consistently well fed by the creatures she had known in her life under water. The people say that it is true and that is all they know.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Bones and Songs

I stood yesterday on sacred ground. Out in the cold, with my hand resting on the bones of Mother Earth, I stood and I hummed a little song. The words were simple, but that wasn't the point. What I felt, for a moment there, was connection. I took my hand away, and brushed off the grains of sand that had been left behind, and I felt a little sadness at that, because the sand was a gift of a sort, a present to remind me that no matter where I go, the Earth is always there with me.
Inside the Earth

I hiked for a while after that, down into two different canyons, and I came away with tired eyes, stiff fingers, swollen feet, and almost three hundred photographs. When I got back to the car I took my hat off, and as I removed it, grains of sand fell down at my feet. I must have brushed my head, for a moment on a wall as I went past, and my mother was clinging to me, on my hands, on my head, and under my feet. The shower of grit made me smile. Truly, no matter where I go, my Mother is with me.
St. Louis Canyon

Today, in my pocket, I am carrying two tumbled gemstones. One, a piece of amethyst, the other, quartz. Both are reminders. Both are memories. Both of them make my heart sing, and both of them carry me home.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Happy Imbolc!

It's February 2nd. We have the day off from school today, due to the snow storm, and on the Pagan calendar it's also the first day of spring. Really. Seriously. Yes. It's officially spring. Which is clearly why there are drifts of snow nearly as high as my backyard fence (so we're talking 3 feet here), and which also explains why I couldn't get the back door open this morning to let the dog out.

I did finally shovel out the deck, and a path to the garbage cans, and around my car so I can get it out if I need to, and since then, I've spent the day hiding inside. I played some WoW, played some guitar, and re-set my altar for the season. All in all, not a bad way to spend the first day of spring!

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

The Wild Soul

When I was in high school, I read two books that fundamentally shaped my spiritual beliefs and practices. The first was The Mists of Avalon by Marrion Zimmer Bradley. Although it's fiction, I have always found that there is Truth in stories, even if they aren't true in the factual sense. There is a deeper meaning inside them that matters more than facts and figures. The second book I read confirmed that belief in a very academic way. Not only did it help me get more deeply into stories, but it also gave me words for what I was talking about. Particularly, I started learning about Jung and archetypes and the universal unconscious. The book that opened that door for me was Women Who Run With The Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D.

Here is one of my favorite quotes from what she has to say about stories:

"Fairy tales, myths, and stories provide understandings which sharpen our sight so that we can pick out the path left by the wildish nature. The instruction found in story reassures us that the path has not run out, but still leads women deeper, and more deeply still, into their own knowing. The tracks we all are following are those of the wild and innate instinctual Self."

To me, this is just a beautiful way of explaining why stories matter. Neil Gaiman and G.K. Chesterton both have similar quotes, though I didn't find them so early in my life, and therefore they weren't quite as essential to my developing beliefs.