As the sun's rays splinter the morning welkin, I gaze at the Atlantic Ocean and contemplate its pull on my soul.
No matter its form, I need to be near water as it changes and flows over, with, and into the land. Both are one, soulmates in the best possible way, utterly themselves. Their juncture is also the common hearth where my maternal foremothers gather in spirit and open the door to myth and mundane.
It is at this very threshold that my grandmother wove mythic yarns about haunting coastlines, misty isles, and faery folk, especially the selkie; variations of tales hailing from Shetland, Orkney, and the Hebrides in Scotland, as well as parts of Ireland. I am aware that they are not true to their original form. Nevertheless, she raised me on these stories for a reason in a different locale, on a different shore.
The selkie is a raven-haired, hazel-eyed woman on land, in water, a seal. She embodies the sea: wildly beautiful, completely herself, deeply connected to the Creator. One fateful night, a fisherman happens upon her dancing in a shimmering wake of silvery moonlight. Some say he falls in love with her; others argue she mirrors a lost piece of himself. Regardless of opinion, he steals her sealskin, binding her to him. Years later, their daughter finds it. The selkie, forever pulled by the bassalia, dons her soul and returns from whence she came.
Per my Scots-Irish mythopoetic genealogy, I am a direct descendant of a selkie and fisherman. The women who came before me experienced oppression and thought they had to choose between two paths. One moves through windswept dunes and rocky cliffs. The other spirals with the currents within the fathomless abyss. Although I have faced adversity, I refuse to conform to just one course. Both land and sea are in my soul.
I sense the selkie’s cry on the wind. A part of me hesitates for a second. But suddenly, I hear voices behind me: a cacophony of dictatorial pleas begging me to step away from the edge, to succumb to toxic patriarchal demands and projections. Then, an inkling: to not answer her call would mean becoming society’s good little girl, so meek and mild. I would lose my wildness, the death of my very soul. Such madness!!!
Without a glance behind me, I swan-dive right in. The amniotic fluids cradle me as I sink into their ebony embrace.
Author
ponders on page 384 of If Women Rose Rooted:Do you fear it? Stay with the dark anyway. Don’t fight it; don’t try to manage your way out. You will simply postpone the inevitable, and it will come around again. Don’t fear the dark: it’s a natural part of the journey. The most beautiful butterflies emerge from the darkness of the cocoon; the finest plants push their way out of the deep, rich, fertile soil. Out of the darkness comes strength, and focus. There is always another rebirth. But it always begins in the dark. Be still. Listen. Let yourself disintegrate.
And so … I do.
Out of the ocean’s dark cauldron, I am selkie reborn. May my ancestors finally find peace as I step forward each coming dawn unapologetically myself, an imperfect mystic weaving my soulskin with each prayerful breath, both on land and in water.
Journal Prompt: How do you struggle with authenticity?
Thank you for sharing your beautiful Selkie story Alicia, 🙏🏼
Alicia, the photos and the story is beautiful. I am reading a series of books by Laurie Forest - The Black Witch Series. In some of the books, they have a story about Selkies and how they were captured when they came on land and their seal skins were taken from them so they couldn't return to the waters and then imprisoned by some humans. Interesting that we talked about this and the connection.