Blue Swan
Gazing over the rippling waters of Lake Huron, I wonder again at the deep mystery these waters seem to hold over my family. I have no idea that I will soon have every answer to questions which have haunted me since childhood.
Being a Native American, descendant from the Ottawa tribe through my Mom’s side of the family, I never truly understood our tribal name. The name which my friends know me is Natalie but, at home, I am Blue Swan. My mother is White Swan and my grandmother, always strange and mysterious, is Moon Swan.
My friends point out that we don’t live like Native Americans with exception to our dreamcatchers in every room of the house. They find it funny when I’m called Blue Swan at home, shedding the name Natalie at the door. Other than the tribal Swan names and the like, we’re just like the average American family.
Grandma and Mom co-manage an Indian bead shop where apparel ranging from necklaces to beaded cigarette lighters are sold. Along with their long braided hair, they honor our heritage with fringed ponchos and turquoise jewelry. I am the typical teenager—UGG boots and a hoodie from the Gap—with a blonde streak in my dark hair and ears pierced twice.
We sleep in on the weekends, eat junk food, and watch reality TV like any other family. In the summer, we take vacations and honor Christmas with a decorative tree. My dual names were simply a bit of my normal world just like laughing, teasing, and arguing. Taking a step back now, I recognize so much more.
To my mother and Grandma, I am always and forever their Blue Swan or sometimes beautiful swan. We live on the beach in Grandma’s house which is set on the low, jutting bluff with a perfect view of Lake Huron.
Looking out our kitchen window, the lake appears endless. I never grow tired of being nearby, smelling the distinct aroma of Lake Huron. I was enchanted as a child, taking ballet lessons and pirouetting in the sand. From our back door, I would skip down the rock-studded path and run through the beach grass down to the white sands while the wind whipped at my hair.
That same breeze seemed to pick me up, propelling me through leaps over the sand. I know it sounds weird but I could never get the same lift anywhere else which I found around Lake Huron. Practicing for hours at a time, I would perfect my moves only to perform simply decently at recitals. My heartfelt and energetic dances over the sandy beach wouldn’t transfer as if the wind breathed life into my soul.
Because of this, I quit ballet when I was only ten. Why bother continuing when grace from the beach fell flat at recitals? Swimming turned out to be the same; a mermaid in the lake but just another thrashing child amongst the little kids at the huge swimming pool. To see me on the beach in my teenage years, though, one might think I was an Olympic athlete. I never could figure out why my limber and fit body would betray me when I performed elsewhere.
I finally came to the conclusion that I lacked confidence in front of people outside my mother and grandmother although I didn’t feel self-conscious. Every year as I grew older, similar events would prove the same.
Lake Huron’s sandy shore, distinct aroma, and soulful breeze were like a blended elixir. When taken away, I was another bumbling and lanky child which lacked something yet tried to prove I was the best. I once asked my mother, “Does Lake Huron cast spells on people who live around its shores?”
In all seriousness, I felt a powerful pull and just knew that my neighbors had to feel the same. My mother graced me with a doting look but laughed, “You have quite the imagination, my beautiful swan.”
I knew that, to her, I was a beautiful swan because I exuded grace and agility when I danced and swam. I wondered if she realized that it was only around the lake and if she sensed my rather ordinary abilities away from the wind and sand. Baffled wasn’t quite the word I’d use but, at an early age, I began to watch my neighbors to see if they’d been touched the same way. In some, I sensed an enlightenment of sorts.
Marking it down to human connections, I strived to figure it out but was left with a visceral connection with nature. I listen closely when my grandmother mentions our Ottawa heritage, saying things like, “For centuries, we have lived along the northern shores. The lake infuses its wildness into our soul. Only when we’re nearby will the wind from the waters calm our restlessness. But do not attempt it in the dark, Blue Swan. You must stay ashore in the night.”
I used to ask about my father, which I never knew, but my grandmother and mother would both smile softly and exude an air of mystery while glancing toward the lake. When my grandmother hinted that it made my mother sad, I stopped asking about him and embraced the feeling of freedom and love of the location instead.
They would tell me I was maturing which seemed right. On the other hand, they always said it with an air of such mystery, which sent my curiosity into a tailspin. I spent many days at the shoreline, pondering over every aspect of the lake. In a sense, the lake became the embodiment of my father.
It watched over me as I cut swiftly through its waters and lent me grace when my toes left the sand. The sun kisses its surface and the moon pulls it into a churning force. I am at peace and belong only when I’m near its water.
The glorious feeling of security and purpose made me complete but there was still that warning—don’t swim after dark, stay ashore in the night—which nagged me as the wind teased my hair. Being an obedient girl, I would mind my mother and grandmother because I knew one day that I would get the answers I sought.
My grandmother was wrong about one thing, though. The wind didn’t calm my restlessness but seemed to amplify it as I grew older. Those days, a yearning swarmed my soul. I needed to look out over the glinting surface with the same surety and exuded mystery as my mother and grandmother did. Every time this yearning spun through me, I would dip my fingers in the water as if the essence of the lake could only relieve.
I kept this to myself as part of my own mystery, not even telling my friends from school. One particular day, I approached the house and smelled the sweet and spicy aroma of zucchini loaf. I knew Grandma was baking bread in the kitchen. I also knew I would see fog lacing the windows overlooking the lake.
Growing older, I’d began to realize a pattern. My grandmother loved baking but there was only a few times a year when she made specific treats. Zucchini bread was one of those treats.
As I hung my jacket and shed my boots, I called out, “I’m home.”
Like clockwork, Grandma folded me into her embrace. The little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes seem to smile along with her mouth as her long gray hair spilled down her back. She always seems more vibrant when she bakes zucchini bread. It’s hard to explain but the exuberance seemed to travel from her to me as she breathed, “Hello, Blue Swan. Your mother is still in town. How was school?”
Tucking my legs underneath me, I propped my elbows on the table as I told her about my day. Since we’re so close, I feel that I can tell them anything. I spoke about the freshman drama that has ruled my day: the demanding teachers, stuck-up girls in cliques, and the awful cafeteria food.
Not all of it’s bad, though. I tell her about Mr. Helm’s descriptive portrayal in history class that kept my attention. She claps her hands when I tell her I got an A- on my English paper. Then I tell her about Jason Chin, a Chinese-American and the cutest boy I’ve seen in my life. He’d smiled at me that day in study hall.
Those wrinkles showed her happiness as her smile widened. She handed me a slice of zucchini bread, sprinkled with raisins and walnuts, from the cooling rack. After buttering it, I took the tall glass of milk and listened while she told me of her day. Nothing ever felt so right nor tasted as good as eating and sitting before her in that moment.
Afterward, I started my homework until my mother came home. We settled around the kitchen table, eating while she told us of her day. Like any other family in America, I had to finish my homework after dinner but I had no idea that night would bring clarity in many aspects of my life. Once I’d showered and dressed in pajamas, I fell into bed around eleven-thirty.
Normally a heavy sleeper, I rarely awoke in the middle of the night but that night was different…
I awoke to a chill in my room but that’s not really unusual. Our house was drafty but I noticed the heavy darkness within my room. Normally, the moon would cast its glow through my windows. This darkness was complete.
Shivering, I pushed the covers away and grabbed a pair of thick socks before heading toward the closet for more blankets. When I stepped into the hallway, the moon’s vibrant glow caught my attention right away. The floorboards were luminescent while my room remained in darkness.
I gasped, immediately feeling the need to see how the lake absorbed its rays. Rushing to the double-window at the back of the hall, I forgot all about the blankets. A full moon hung over the waters of Huron, lighting it like the midday sun.
My jaw sagged when I saw my mother and grandmother on the beach near the silvery water’s edge. Their faces were tipped up to the moonlight, filled with hope and expectation that vibrated something in my soul.
Their expressions embodied the same mysterious vibe as when they speak of the lake. My hand flew to my mouth when they shed their robes and slid smoothly into the water. Forgetting their warnings, my mind latched onto their movements.
They showed the same grace and elegance which I’d felt as the wind lifted me from my ballet days. The surety of their movements remind me of my own confidence within the water. I can only think this must be a family thing or maybe something to do with our Native American heritage. I’m so enchanted that, at first, I could only smile as I watched them.
Within the strength of the silvery moonlight, I jerked as it suddenly hit me. Wait…it’s after dark! Why are they swimming after dark?
Panic ran through me when they suddenly disappeared. With heart hammering in my chest, I flew down the stairs while screaming, “Mom! Grandma!” Plunging down the rocky path, I frantically scanned the water for someone they’re possibly rescuing or any signs of them. Nothing!
Hearing no answers, my calls were swept away by the wind. The lake seemed to be absorbing the moonlight, churning and pushing it away to maintain the blackness of the water. My hair flew in my face and mouth but I pushed it out, walking toward the water as I frantically called for them. Silvery moonlight winked on the waves before the water swallowed it once again. Like a magnet drawn in, I couldn’t stop.
My feet glided through the cold water, drenching my thick socks. No longer was I cold as their mindful warning Never after dark, stay ashore at night swarmed my mind while the water seemed to beckon with My beautiful swan…come to me.
A restlessness like none other swept through me from toes to my head. I can only describe it as a yearning force that couldn’t be denied. My arms outstretched, bent at the elbows to skate across the surface as if I was trying to embrace the moonlit waves themselves. Only I was the one embraced.
Warmth enveloped my body while I watched my pajamas float past. My fingertips skated the waves before my neck elegantly elongated. Before my very eyes, my arms spread wide in a graceful flurry of blue feathers. The yearning drove me to plunge into the lake, basking in its liquid essence.
Natalie was no more. The mystical realm I’d formerly known as Lake Huron transformed me into the one and only…Blue Swan.
Like a puzzle, everything fell into place as I cut through the black and silvery water. I glimpsed them up ahead, regal as the shroud of mystery drew me in. Every question I’ve ever pondered became clear.
By day, I now realize we are human. Under moonlight, we are guardians of the deep; beautiful swans that soak up the moonlight and grace the lake with a magical life.
I am empowered with the knowledge that I am a Lake Huron force of nature…
I am Blue Swan.
~~ The End ~~
