An Offering Back To Me

I offered Iya Yemaya an offering. And I think she accepted it.

I offered her—and the Mamis of the sea—two oranges and five bananas. I cannot swim, so I went to the lava rocks that separate the sea from the minor pool formed behind the rocks. I went far enough, though. I spoke to her. I spoke to them. And then I offered my offerings. The fruits I'd gotten from the small seemingly neglected town—but for the beach resorts and hotels and unlived almost unloved vacation homes that litter the water/earth boundaries—we are in.

A few days earlier, when I'd gone to the sea, they'd told me to make sure I do not forget to leave a little something. A reminder. Gentle. So I remembered. This life is a world of give-take. When you give without taking, you empty. When you take without giving, you choke. That's the law. It just is. I am learning to take as I give.

The tides were high this morning, so I didn't go in to see the sea. Later, when I did, I found myself becoming a kid. About to chase a shell with two holes with the tides rolling. I went to the sea and forgot I could not swim. The two holes in the small shell fascinated me. It teased me. The waves would wash it close to my feet and then send it back to the sea. And then bring it back close so I could see. I followed the one shell with a smile on my face. The sea could have taken her child—willing, with a smile on her face. My face. I remembered I could not dance with the tides. I stood up straight. I let the shell with two holes go.

It is almost noontime now. I did not forget about my gifts. My offerings. If I've learned anything at all, the universe will always hold those who see her. See them. So I try to see. Beat myself over the head sometimes for getting it wrong. But then I remember: formulas of right and wrong are social contracts. Social constructs. I still feel inadequate about doing things right, but the intent of my heart is much stronger. I pray to trust my intent some more. Besides, the energies are not people. They will not punish me for trying to be there with them. For them. In respect. In reciprocity.

My intention toward communing—that's what matters.

So I squat on the lava rocks. I offer my little gifts: five bananas and two oranges. I ask them to humbly accept this gift and make my life sweet.

I stand there for a bit, and they tell me to respond. To the human in my life who loves me. And I ask, Is love enough? I don't quite remember if they speak back. The fruits lay in a pool of water between one of the many cracks and creases of the lava rock.

I begin to sing. To Osun, because it's the only tune I know. In some patakís of Santería, Candomblé, Umbanda, Haitian Vodou, Isese/Lucumí… Yemaya is Osun's mother. Sometimes, her sister. They are related, and to sing to one is to sing to the other. So with this intention in my heart, I sang to the sea.

The whole time I stood and squatted next to the water, she moved. The sea danced—close enough for me to see, but not close enough to me.

Then I opened my lips to sing and felt a splash of water on my face. And the waves—not once, not twice, multiple times—came to me… strong. I wonder, Will she sweep me off my feet? Into the sea? Like when she almost lured me with the shell with two holes?

I am writing this, so clearly she did not.

She heard me sing and came to me. With enough strength to pick up my offerings. The strength of her proximity carried the two oranges and bananas floating in the cracks of the lava rocks upon which I stood. After carrying her gifts, she returns again to show me that she is here, that she cares, that to see her is for her to see me too. She returns with one banana and places it on the rock next to my foot. I guess she is saying: You can have that. I will always look out for you.

I asked her for sweetness. She put a few drops of salt on my lips. Then she gave me a banana and took the rest of her offerings.