the idea of the selkie seems universal to me. even kafka eluded to the creature living out of it element and comfort zone withing the story of gregor samsa in “metamorphosis”. and my new favorite comparison to that image of samsa writhing on his bed after becoming a cockroach as he struggled to recognize who he had become is beautifully rendered in the film “12 years a slave” with a scene of the main character chained to a cellar floor, stripped of the physical connections to his identity, pulling and writhing in the dark, almost blindly trying to figure out where he was and who he had been before now. david byrne (and talking heads) wrote “where is that beautiful house, where is my beautiful wife, how did i get here?”
it has been part of my journey to find myself feeling captured and/or washed ashore. weak from the effects of the foreign elements around me, i have struggled trying to remember just who i am and where i came from and more importantly where i am going. i felt fearful of almost everything. fearful of the current routines, fearful of the stories i hear, fearful of my own instincts, because my sense of grounding is so obliterated.
as ernie larsen discusses so eloquently in his writings about emotional sobriety, it is a wondrous and often mesmerizing task to unveil the truth about who we are and how we are. i am humbled during this process. i never imagined that my agenda could be so self-involved. yet it is. i am embarrassed at my own immaturity as well as the magnitude of my ego.
my buddhist readings teach me to lean into these uncomfortable positions in life. so damn hard to do when every fiber in my being wants to fill the void with my ego and my fear. so i continue to find myself writhing around trying to remember who i am and where i am. thank heaven it is called spirtual practice. that’s exactly what i need more of- practice.
But what fascinated me most were the stories of selkies — seals who could shed their skins and take human form. “The seas around Orkney and Shetland harbor the shy Selkies or Seal-Faeries (known as the Roane in Ireland). A female Selkie is able to discard her seal skin and come ashore as a beautiful maiden. If a human can capture His skin, the selkie can be forced to become a fine, if wistful, wife. However, should she ever find her skin she immediately returns to the sea, leaving the husband to pine and die. The males raise storms and upturn boats to avenge the indicriminate slaughter of the seals.” — Brian Froud and Alan Lee, “Faeries”
“He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight.”
― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
march is a good time for me to reflect on genetics. irish culture represents intellect, determination, poetry, and passion. my perception of the irish contribution to culture is one of documenting the experience. inspiration, commitment, ingenuity, and tenacity are just a few adjectives that come to mind when i think of the green island nation. i have been blogging for 8 years now consistently and have only heard an echo of these descriptors let alone a muse. i only wish i were able to compel the gifts i have received to the level of this part of my ancestry. i have always and will continue to revel in the simplicity and the pageantry that is woven by irish hearts and irish voices. genetically irish and spiritually sober and earth’s blessings abound. i humbly bow my head to this culture that has provided so much color and warmth to our (my) collective experience. happy st. patrick’s day.
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. – Dylan Thomas