The Shape of Water
“They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;
These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.” — Psalm 107:23–24
I did not go down to the sea in a ship. I went up, into the Frank Church wilderness, onto Shoshone-Bannock land. Yet it was there that the waters found me, there that the land called me Dammen Baa — our water.
It showed me my true self, not with eyes or ears or voice, but as the Selkie-shadow, walking in human form without the need for human senses. She terrified me at first, because she was not the stolen-skin Selkie of Celtic lore. She walked as herself. Blue-skinned, formless, and yet fully formed, the shape of water made flesh.
The first night on the Middle Fork River, we camped unbeknownst to me, at a campsite that had Bear scat. Later, we would find the headless remains of a large elk - and as I looked at the landscape, the tall blonde grass on the ridge above made it clear where the ghostly mountain lion could lie in wait for prey. Unlike my fellow travelers (co-workers at the time, actually), I cared not - to perish in a land as beautiful as this? It would be a privilege. Maybe that's why that night I dreamt of her - of me - in my childhood home as she stood tall, long, confronting as I backed into my mother's bedroom. A room that ALWAYS creeped me out. The old converted player piano that my sister and I used to practice on was in that room. As I practiced, I would always feel many eyes on me, and her closet door would always slightly creep open - for there were secrets buried deep in that closet too - an envelope hidden under what felt like a ton of old blankets and handmade quilts. An envelope that held letters written to a man I did not know, and quite frankly still don't. But there is one photo included in that letter of me that I hold deep in my memory.
I was in second grade, and that Christmas I had been given this incredible coat - it made me feel like a Polar Bear with it's fur and yet it had gold buttons and red ribbon around the waist. The photo with me wearing it - it's snowing and I am catching those snowflakes on my tongue. Despite the contents of the correspondence within, I choose to remember that photo - and the little queen with her fur garments rejoicing at the sky showering the earth in snowflake treasures. The shape of water that day was in geometric finery, as I was as well. Perhaps from that day onward, I should have known that I, too, shapeshift as water does - we humans, after all, are about 60 percent water and this planet at about 70 percent. The first night on the Middle Fork River, we camped — unbeknownst to me — at a site marked by bear scat. Later, we would find the headless remains of a large elk, its body torn by something that did not waste time with trophies. Looking up, the tall blonde grass on the ridge whispered of a ghostly mountain lion lying in wait for prey. My fellow travelers, co-workers at the time, fretted and checked their steps. I did not. To perish in a land as beautiful as this? It would be a privilege.
Perhaps that is why, that night, I dreamt of her — of me. In my childhood home she stood, tall, long, confronting, as I backed into my mother’s bedroom. That room had always carried a chill. The old converted player piano stood there, the one my sister and I practiced on while I felt the weight of unseen eyes upon me. Her closet door never stayed shut. It would creep open, as if to breathe.
There were secrets buried in that closet. An envelope, heavy with old blankets and handmade quilts, hidden deep. Inside, letters written to a man I did not know, and still don’t. But one photo included in that bundle remains carved in memory.
I was in second grade. That Christmas I had been given a coat of pure enchantment — white as polar bear fur, trimmed with gold buttons and a red ribbon at the waist. In the photograph, snow was falling and I was catching flakes on my tongue, little queen of winter crowned in geometric finery.
Despite the correspondence, despite the shadows in that closet, I choose to remember the girl in the photograph. The little queen clothed in fur, rejoicing at the sky showering the earth in snowflake treasures. The shape of water that day was crystalline, each flake a perfect pattern. I was crystalline too — young, radiant, already echoing the truth: that I, like water, shapeshift into whatever form is needed - this includes clouds and fog.
In Irish mythology, Féth fíada is a mist or veil that the Tuatha Dé Danann utilize to enshroud themselves, rendering their presence invisible to human eyesight - through the mist without ships they came.
“Mist, cloud, and fog — the liminal forms of water — have always been mine, though I did not know it. In Irish lore, the Tuatha Dé Danann wrapped themselves in féth fíada, a shimmering veil of mist, to pass unseen into new worlds. Through mist they arrived, shipless, sovereign. Perhaps that is why I met her, the Selkie-shadow, in the wilderness. She was veiled too, not to hide, but to reveal me to myself.”
There is yet another element — the storm — the force that makes the seas heave and toss, the thunder, the lightning, and the rain. When I moved to Utah in August 2014, a summer thunderstorm rolled in. That night, as the thunder shook the sky, it also rolled into my apartment. An incredible being ran into the room and stood over me. Only now, years later, do I understand: it was a Thunderbird. And as of late, another storm-bringer has come to me as well — Thor, teaching me the secrets hidden within the Thurisaz rune, the thorn and the lightning strike.
I cannot imagine the terror of being on the North Sea in ships looking, searching, landing in places perhaps their imaginations could not have dreamt of - but I thank them for gifting me the ability to navigate the mighty seas of me.
I leave you with Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Ocean
The Ocean has its silent caves,
Deep, quiet, and alone;
Though there be fury on the waves,
Beneath them there is none.
The awful spirits of the deep
Hold their communion there;
And there are those for whom we weep,
The young, the bright, the fair.
Calmly the wearied seamen rest
Beneath their own blue sea.
The ocean solitudes are blest,
For there is purity.
The earth has guilt, the earth has care,
Unquiet are its graves;
But peaceful sleep is ever there,
Beneath the dark blue waves.
