Who knew what a blistering Pagan barrage would ensue over a $10 Wal-Mart shower curtain of all freaking things?! We crafters have our priorities straight. One day recently I discovered that I was bored to tears with the bathroom in my house. Since I'm a Taurus, for me epiphanies take decades, ruts become comfortable places and ennui takes awhile to sink in -- in my case, about four years. Hence, my quest for the perfect shower accessories began.
Where else should a seeker go, but to that holy of holies, WallyWorld? That Pagan-est of places, where vested acolytes come greet you at the temple door, equip you with a vessel to contain your sacred relics, decipher the cryptic "clearance" signs in aisle 3 and reaffirm that their ascended master, Sam Walton, is rolling back prices just for you?
Because I'm oceanic by nature, I found four aquatic, but in some ways different, elemental choices. What was a priestess to do? On the "Yacht Club" motif, with its jaunty sailboats and gold sailor's knots, the earthly tones came through. My mind's eye was filled with rich old geezers, sipping gin or vermouth, with hardly a hair among them unless it curled like algae from their ears. Many an oyster, nary a pearl. Pass!
That led me to "Under the Sea," where the waters overflowed. You never saw so many striped bass in your life! Little fishy eyeballs bulged out everywhere! Two thousand finny friends watching me lather my pits. Ulp! Such Piscean voyeurism was simply not for me. Next?
With the sweep of a far memory wand, "Lost City" depicted the ruins of Atlantis. Crumbled coliseums, tattered turrets, and a floating porcelain head lent a really chipper view. Here, a couple of flounders flitted by as well. They were probably either skipping "school" or had asked Shirley Maclaine for directions to the scenic route to Barbados. In any event, since I'm a woman proudly hailing her 50th birthday one Beltane soon, I was not in the mood to greet each dawning day with scenes of ancient wrecks!
What was left? My heart fell in love with "Footprints" as soon as I saw the colors. Daybreak gold gave way to muted violet and mauve. The single row of graceful footprints along the wet shore sand ran just above the bottom hem. Yes, I knew well the famous Christian poem, but the vinyl curtain mercifully contained only the title line, "Footprints in the Sand."
Perhaps I should've paid more attention when my daughter warningly shook her head, but since I'm not a "recovering" anything, I knew I could turn that image around. I eagerly hauled out my stash of driftwood and shells, pictured a shrine to sea-born Aphrodite and her pals and informed other pagans of my plans. Oh, what flack I got!
Suddenly there were online posts from everywhere, hinting grimly that I must feel like a "desolate soul" to crave such a sentiment nearby. I was admonished to cease expecting deity to carry me and get up off my sorry ass and back onto my own two feet. Say what?!
Inexplicably, Pagans were hung up on one poem, penned by a Christian, and mentally mistook that inspirational verse as a kind of spiritual barbed wire none of us were allowed to step over. Some clarification was due.
You see, to my way of thinking, those reverent, solitary footprints adorning the vinyl curtain are my own. Many are the times I have found clarity, wisdom and discovery along the water's edge. There is nothing quite like gazing at roaring infinity to put one's small life in perspective, or nothing like seeing your footprints swept clean by the tide to remind you that nature ever renews.
The loveliest children's book I've stumbled across, On the Day You Were Born, describes the way all nature prepares, and the ocean agrees, to make way for one more set of newborn footprints on the sand. I cried when I first read the book at Barnes & Noble, and have given it to several new souls since.
Have deities walked beside me on the sand? You bet They have. From the Norse, old Aegir has placed creatures of the tide pools in my hand. During a time of family strife and heartache, Oceanus, Greek father of the waters that encircle the world, came to me in vision and told me, "I will help you." The turbulent waters were calmed and love restored. Venus has opened Her briny arms and accepted roses from me.
As for the footprints of unseen companions, how many shamans from the dawn of time have sought divination from the patterning of shells? How many worshippers, torch in hand, have answered the ocean's call? Every priestess, every woman straining to hear amongst the wind and foam a word, a stirring, an answer from beyond, walks invisibly with me too. We are twinned, heart to heart and hand to hand.
My journey to the sea began with an out of body experience, one California dawn, many years ago. As sleep gave way to drowsy semi-consciousness, somewhere around 5 a.m., I "found" myself shivering, surrounded by grayness, mist and cold. My feet were bare and I asked, "What is this place?!"
A soft voice answered, "Patience," and I waited, not quite knowing for what.
Suddenly, prismatic morning light burst forth and the sun's first rosy radiance heated up my bones. Gulls circled and cried out to one another, creatures I could not quite see in the distance leapt and splashed in distant crashing waves. I ran along the shore in sheer delight, astonished to be the only human there. When I yawned and stretched a short time later, uncurled from my friend's couch, there was coffee brewing and poetry filled my head.
Whether we shun a religious image because one faith has pronounced it their own, or embrace it as having too many facets to be confined, the symbolism is profound. Sometimes we as pagans are temporarily borne along on the waves, or uplifted by the divine. Wherever we tread, no matter how fleetingly we stand and reflect, the walk is ours alone. Good journeys and blessed be.