Found in Translation

(I first posted this a year ago, but I felt I needed to hear this story again today. Maybe some of you did too.)

A young woman stumbled onto the Old Mermaid Sanctuary the other day. She was lost. She was more lost than any being I had ever seen, and remember, we walked out of the Old Sea and into the New Desert. We know about being lost.

She had thorns in her feet. They had gone right through her shoes. She had thorns in her arms. She had palo verde leaves in her hair. And her fingers were bleeding. She was wild-looking. Not good wild. Not natural wild. Lost human being wild.

We took out her thorns and helped her bathe her cuts and bruises. Sister Ruby Rosarita Mermaid made her soup. Sister Sheila Na Giggles Mermaid made her tea. Sissy Maggie Mermaid gave her clothes. She ate the soup, drank the tea, and put on the clothes. And she talked. She talked about all that had happened to her, she talked about all the misery she had seen, she talked about trying to get away from the roar that followed her everywhere.

"I can't stand it!" she finally said.

We listened and dried her tears.

Then Mother Star Stupendous Mermaid took the woman into the desert. They didn't walk far. Just far enough.

"Now be still," Mother Star Stupendous Mermaid said.

"But then all I will hear is the roar," she said.

"Then listen to it," Mother Star Stupendous Mermaid said. "Stand it. But first, first, listen for the birds. Listen to the cactus breathing. Listen to sound of the air on the wings of the crow as she flies over. Listen to the trees."

Mother Star Stupendous Mermaid left the young woman. We glanced out at her a few times. We could tell she wanted to bolt, to run, to keep going, going, going. Gone. But she was learning what we all must learn: We can't run away from the roaring inside.

When it became night in the desert, the young woman returned to us. "I am learning the language of my soul," she said. "The trees, birds, bees, wind, the coyotes and lynxes—they are all helping me with the translation."

We nodded. Mother Star Stupendous Mermaid said, "Yes, that is the way to be."

Later, we all went out into the desert night and held hands with the stars.

Ahhhhh.

—from Sister Lyra Musica Mermaid

Read the whole tale here...

Rattleday

It is so quiet. I hear the wind lifting the dry palm leaves and shaking them. It sounds a bit like the rattle Sissy Maggie Mermaid made out of a dried gourd one year. Only bigger. It was a storm rattle. Sissy Maggie stood outside with that rattle and danced for a long while, until a Storm did come to see what all the noise was about. The desert breathed moist that night.

I know the Old Owl is hidden up in the green leaves of the palm, but I cannot see him from where I sit.

I wonder where the others are. For a moment. Then I continue to relish the silence. A tiny whirring bird dips her long beak into one of the pink flowers near the palm tree. Annie, the Woman Who Loves Birds, calls them hummingbirds. I have never heard them hum, only whir.

They are fierce birds. Flecks of the moon, sun, and stars make their feathers iridescent. One of the whirring birds is the color of the mountains. I believe he must know the Old Man and Old Woman of the Mountain, but I have been unable to confirm that.

Annie is the one who gave us this journal to record our daily lives at the Old Mermaids Sanctuary. This does not come natural to most of the Old Mermaids. We don't need a record of the ongoing conversations we have with ourselves and the world. We've kneaded these conversations into our home, our friendships, the land, our community.

Oh look. This whirring bird one has a throat the color of the night sky in summer. I wonder how he convinced the Old Sky to part with those pieces of night. Probably with the same determination that the others used to get pieces of the sun, moon, and stars. Ah, but who would not want to be a decoration at the throat of such a being?

The cover of the journal is made of red-cloth with white and pink stitching. I am not much for words, although the others often seek my advice. I believe the world is always whispering an enchantment to us—to all that exists. Too many useless words might interfere with this magic and then who knows what might unravel?

We must choose our words, our songs, our enchantments carefully so that we are not generating a cacophony but instead toning with the universe, singing a kind of creation lullaby.

Now the mourning birds have come for their daily drink and bath. I had not realized it was so late in this day. I will sit here and watch them. Perhaps I will tell this journal about it another day.

Ahhh, listen to the palm rattle. Someone is dancing up a storm somewhere.

from Mother Star Stupendous Mermaid at the Old Mermaids Sanctuary.

Read the whole tale here...