Yemoja's Daughter
Our A/C hasn't worked a single day this summer. During the early weeks, I didn't much care seeing it mostly rained and I was away from home. In the middle weeks I didn't care either as I was so thirsty for New England humidity upon my return from the arid mountains above SanDiego--so hot and dry I think I nearly burnt myself to the ground. Wildfires started inside me there and I was just barely able to contain them. Now, though--now we are in the final weeks of summer and the air is a veritable steam-sauna. Gross.
This morning, I awoke after three restless hours of sleep--sticky and tangled in damp sheets. The guys were on their way to replace the entire climate control system. I gave prayers of thanks that I rent and someone else is footing the bill.
The men arrived and said, "It'll be tomorrow evening before the AC will work . " Great.
The weather man said "Mid to high 90's. 87% humidity. 40% chance of thunderstorms in the afternoon."
No f*&$%#@* way. I wrung myself out and wiped myself off for the 40th time in an hour.
I said, "Kids! Grab your bathing suits, pajamas and a clean change of clothes! We're outta here!"
After packing, finishing up some business and running errands we arrived at the beach in my old hometown about four hours later.
There is nowhere on earth like the beach in Narragansett. Nothing like seeing Mama along that narrow strip of land with the castle at one end and the river emptying into her at the other. I know this landscape, this sand. The continuous ssshhhhhshshshshshshshs sound of her voice. These smooth black stones people my altars. The way the light reflects upon these waves in this place reminds me that the green-black Atlantic gives up pinks and yellows, blue and purple and even red if one is familiar with her. I know this salt water. I know the hard floor beneath the waves and where it drops off into "over my head" and even "I'm in too deep and out too far." I know the grey sand--so fine it sits stubbornly in the bottom of the tub after five rinsings. I know her taste and temperature, the rise and swell of the waves coming in to this shore and the infinite view of water at eye level looking east. I know it like I know the curl of my daughter's hair or the green of my son's eyes. I know it like the sound of my sister's voice and the hand of my own mother cool upon my fevered brow. More intimite than some human lovers, we are.
After greeting her properly, after accilamating to her cold and depths as well as to her mood today (thunderstorms possible, fog coming in with the tide, full moon, eclipse, early August, late afternoon), I laugh. Diving into waves twice my height, I laugh. I let all the weight fall away. I let myself be carried on her will. I release all care and heaviness. Bouyant, I laugh. A wild merchild, I play for hours upon and beneath the waves. I stay in the water longer than my children. I laugh out loud when they tell me they are tired and I swear I will not get out until the police come and drag me from the water kicking and protesting.
Alternating between laughter and praise songs (the teenagers 30 feet away cannot hear or see me for they are too enamored of their youth), there is weeping and letting go. There is release and elation. Each wave is a cleansing. Each a blessing. Each an affirmation. Each a welcoming and a knowing. I feel the negative ions in the air and the salt in the sea changing my chemistry . . . the sea changes me.
For the first time in weeks I am fully and completely present. I remember my honor and my power. I remember my humility and smallness. I remember I am paradox and sex and magic and practicality. I re-member myself in her arms . . . .
Here I am!
My children hint that we should move back here. I cannot. My people are in the gentle rolling hills 90 minutes inland. The Ocean and I love one another passionately, but she is colder and wilder than I. And her voice, if listened to for too long, can drive one such as me mad. But Oh! Oh! These stolen unplanned days spent in this particular ecstatic union--these I need like . . . well, like a Daughter of Yemoja needs the sweet lullabye of the sea. It is very good to be home here.
This morning, I awoke after three restless hours of sleep--sticky and tangled in damp sheets. The guys were on their way to replace the entire climate control system. I gave prayers of thanks that I rent and someone else is footing the bill.
The men arrived and said, "It'll be tomorrow evening before the AC will work . " Great.
The weather man said "Mid to high 90's. 87% humidity. 40% chance of thunderstorms in the afternoon."
No f*&$%#@* way. I wrung myself out and wiped myself off for the 40th time in an hour.
I said, "Kids! Grab your bathing suits, pajamas and a clean change of clothes! We're outta here!"
After packing, finishing up some business and running errands we arrived at the beach in my old hometown about four hours later.
There is nowhere on earth like the beach in Narragansett. Nothing like seeing Mama along that narrow strip of land with the castle at one end and the river emptying into her at the other. I know this landscape, this sand. The continuous ssshhhhhshshshshshshshs sound of her voice. These smooth black stones people my altars. The way the light reflects upon these waves in this place reminds me that the green-black Atlantic gives up pinks and yellows, blue and purple and even red if one is familiar with her. I know this salt water. I know the hard floor beneath the waves and where it drops off into "over my head" and even "I'm in too deep and out too far." I know the grey sand--so fine it sits stubbornly in the bottom of the tub after five rinsings. I know her taste and temperature, the rise and swell of the waves coming in to this shore and the infinite view of water at eye level looking east. I know it like I know the curl of my daughter's hair or the green of my son's eyes. I know it like the sound of my sister's voice and the hand of my own mother cool upon my fevered brow. More intimite than some human lovers, we are.
After greeting her properly, after accilamating to her cold and depths as well as to her mood today (thunderstorms possible, fog coming in with the tide, full moon, eclipse, early August, late afternoon), I laugh. Diving into waves twice my height, I laugh. I let all the weight fall away. I let myself be carried on her will. I release all care and heaviness. Bouyant, I laugh. A wild merchild, I play for hours upon and beneath the waves. I stay in the water longer than my children. I laugh out loud when they tell me they are tired and I swear I will not get out until the police come and drag me from the water kicking and protesting.
Alternating between laughter and praise songs (the teenagers 30 feet away cannot hear or see me for they are too enamored of their youth), there is weeping and letting go. There is release and elation. Each wave is a cleansing. Each a blessing. Each an affirmation. Each a welcoming and a knowing. I feel the negative ions in the air and the salt in the sea changing my chemistry . . . the sea changes me.
For the first time in weeks I am fully and completely present. I remember my honor and my power. I remember my humility and smallness. I remember I am paradox and sex and magic and practicality. I re-member myself in her arms . . . .
Here I am!
My children hint that we should move back here. I cannot. My people are in the gentle rolling hills 90 minutes inland. The Ocean and I love one another passionately, but she is colder and wilder than I. And her voice, if listened to for too long, can drive one such as me mad. But Oh! Oh! These stolen unplanned days spent in this particular ecstatic union--these I need like . . . well, like a Daughter of Yemoja needs the sweet lullabye of the sea. It is very good to be home here.