Years ago I traveled up a long steep narrow road of sharp switchbacks and no guardrails. Below, when I dared look, was twisted metal – here a fender, there a door – and the shattered glass of cars whose driver’s misjudged a curve. I hoped not to meet an oncoming vehicle as I wasn’t sure what I would do. Maybe get out and negotiate the protocols for passage. Wet with sweat, my heart pounding and hands shaking, I made it to the top, and met a small truck going down – the creator’s way of reminding me that sometimes timing is perfect – even when I am terrified. We could linger on this point, but everyone has their own instances of this truth. |
From a dim corner a dark-skinned, silent woman watched. There was no greeting when I entered. In fact, she was perfectly still except for her eyes, which followed my every move, as if I might be a thief or a ghost. We were each a bit wary of the other, or tentative – me wondering into what reality I had stumbled, wondering if I’d in fact gone over the edge on that road up the canyon wall.
Today I look around and find this woman has moved inside my house. She brought shells from Fiji, a necklace from Yakama, a felt purse from Peru, bark-paintings from Australia, two versions of a design on a clay vase – one made by a skilled Acoma artisan, the other by a mentally ill and very kind woman I met in the almost empty southern desert of Arizona. And, yes, one item from the store on the mesa, an item handed to me by the dark woman.
But what the woman gave was herself, wasn’t it - the witness in the dim corner at the end of a traumatic journey become internal. Yes, I have what I've gathered - the feathered shields, the carved mask, the drums – the bits and pieces - but the central message was always about the watching woman.
The role of the witness has traditional meanings that are complex and deep, but we know her best as she-who-watches. She resides in an inner world waiting for recognition, for us to remember who we are. She spreads out her strange wares inviting a closer look.
As always - when you meet her only tell those who have also met her. Only speak from that place where she lives. Let her decide what she says, to whom she talks.