Raven Woman Waits

 

I am the Ferry Woman
I came back
to where the old people were
only to find
they have long gone

I am the Ferry Woman
I sit silently,
vigilant.
upon the stones
the old people placed here
long ago

I sit listening for their voices
their songs
I sit listening
but all is silent now
bar for the macaws cry
and
the eternal lapping
of water upon the shore

I am the Ferry Woman
I am Raven
I wait for the old people
to return to this place
where they promised they would
meet me
where they promised we
could all be together again.

~Journey to meet an ancestor Pt One~

It is incredible that I should choose my old dust-laden french horn case as a traveling bag. The horn, untouched for decades lies within its velvet lining. There is scarce room for anything else. Carefully, I tuck a small wrapped package within the bell of the instrument.

Darkness has taken over as I pick my way down the steep cliff to the quay. Were it not for the brief partings of the clouds there would be no moonlight at all. Every stumble loosens a fresh cascade of gravel and it’s fearful sounding as it tumbles into the nothingness below.
I wrench my gaze from the path to measure the distance to faint barge lights bobbing on the black tide below.
Finally, there stands a mismatched clutter of barges aligned before me . From each the strident hawkings of their Ferry’ers bidding me come on board.

I set down my case confused, and quickly it is plucked by a figure out of nowhere. Now, I need run breathless just to keep her within sight. Chasing round to the edge of the quay where lies her dilapidated barge, all the old insecurities and misgivings seem bobbing on the water before me. She turns and hurls an uncoiling snake of rope to my feet. Slowly I knot it around my waist and step into the waters of self-doubt.
Deeper and deeper until the water laps at my throat and the choice becomes whether to sink or to swim. Suddenly, the rope is pulled taut and I am thrown off balance, drawn against the current. Eons later, the barge timbers slam into my body, and I am dragged upon the deck to lie bruised and choking as she poles her craft through the darkness of the night….

I awake and lick my lips, tasting the crusted salt. Surely I am burning, the searing heat has bled me dry of sweat. I dare not move lest the scalding deck boards release their fiery flames. My plastered eyelids first squeeze tight then open to the mid-day sky, alive with the shapes of sea birds diving straight from endless heights to spear sushi from the deep.

She turns and glares at me, then settles back to her task, and we move so incrementally toward that fine line resting upon the horizon….

When next I awoke, the damp night air shook spasms of chills and fever throughout my body. I sat upon a moonlit path surrounded by apple droppings from the boughs above, unsure whether delusion or reality. Greedily, biting the succulent fruit and sucking at the juice within, I remained unprotected and unaware as she sat my case close then turned toward Duwamish shore.

BBCM

Journey to the Isle of Ancestors – Ramona Gault

The Ferry Woman appeared vividly–a young, light-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar. She was calm, with no expression, and did not look at me.

In the great hall, at the hearth, sat a figure with an ancient face–bulging eyes, long crooked nose–a man, I think. I asked what path I should be following. This ancestor produced a large red heart–the actual organ–held it up, and then began gnawing on it. Though I was shocked, I understood this was a symbolic art that I needed to meditate on to understand fully. It means something about giving up myself, giving up my heart. He gave the heart to me. Then he asked me, “What are you doing for the Earth?” “I try to honor the Earth,” I replied. “I give thanks every day.” In return I give this ancestor a necklace of purple, blue, and yellow beads that I made several years ago. I thank him and depart. The Ferry Woman appeared vividly–a young, light-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar. She was calm, with no expression, and did not look at me.

Waiting

I am the Ferry Woman
Who waits
Patiently
On the shores of Duwamish Bay

Who will choose my craft?
Who will know to come to me?

To row across the silken waters
As the Duwamish people
Sing old songs
Of yearning
Of belonging
Of times long gone.

Who will plant the seeds I have gathered from the old people?

Heather Blakey July 2006

Churning Waves

My smallish canoe glides, nay whispers

amongst the forthright Ferry Boats of Isle.

Stern faces speak of intense soul yearning

for those called to ancestral wisdom,

while those returning glow with childish blush

of innocence re-found and future bound.

Of the Ferry Women there is only

that focused will that comes from surrender –

purpose, task and presence linked secure

to helping others with no thought of self;

the quay of practiced spiritual anchor

or the slippery stones of the unknown.

No one notices the ever roiling waves

whipped to a gentle froth of creation

by the patient, steady oars of forgiveness –

blending tears and fears with eternity,

in a symphony of cleansing dew drops

cycled home to this bay of memories.

It is not the home to which you return,

nor the haunting hearth and ancient stones

that watched your exchange of thought and gift

with what was and now must be in birthing –

but this bold journey alone, my Sisters,

that binds our hearts and laughter once again.

papa

His Name on Every One

Not now, please dear God, not now. Of course, God hasn’t the time or perhaps the inclination to listen to me. I heard the screen door slam shut. That would be the end of my afternoon’s plotting. I nearly had it worked out. He would walk in right as I was putting the bullets in the gun. Great timing he had.

I stuffed the revolver in my apron and hurriedly tried to find and tuck away the bullets as they rolled all too noisily along the wooden floor. The one under the couch was out of sight and he probably wouldn’t be able to bend down well enough with that fat belly of his to spot the one under the table. Five out of seven. Not bad for a quick grab.

I walked past him into the kitchen. He grumbled some facsimile of a greeting and I reached a beer out to him. He took it and plopped himself ever so predictably into his chair. The very same chair I had just been sitting trying to load a revolver with bullets, all of them with his name on them.

aletta mes