Soatsaki and the story of the Feather Woman

Part of moving north, living off the land and making family and self-love my number one priority in 2018 includes celebrating more of my culture.  The sad part is, much of my culture has been diluted, assimilated, ignored, hushed and 'cleansed' from our present lives.  The humble blessing, is that we have memories and effort; the ability to pick and choose like a grab-bag, onto the remaining pieces of our past.

Sinti nomads that moved north through Dachau, west to Ireland.  Welsh, German, Irish immigrants who married into colonial English-American families and later, welcoming Cherokee blood into the family tree.  Through my own marriage, I now celebrate Sweden/Norway and the Nordic culture that joins into my family tree. I'm honored to have the ability to choose what to celebrate, but therein lies the rub. What does one choose?

Celebrations and culture are more than a holiday, they are a lifestyle and serve a more divine purpose... at least that's what I try to live by.  So, my calendar is speckled with different colors, different traditions, different days to focus my perspectives and celebrate my ancestors.  Memorial Day, is one of grief and liberation.  Celebrating those who died in the line of duty, serving our greater purpose to have liberties and privileges as Americans.  The irony, that I would as an American, want to trace my lineage back beyond the political lines and find more meaning. Only because I'm American do I perhaps have the privilege, the time, the ability, to dedicate energy to finding out more about myself, and making those applicable changes.

I'm thankful to my family, friends, and strangers who have served and died in the line of duty. I'm thankful that I have the freedom to choose. I can choose to raise my children in a more organic, healthy, hands-on way that includes gardens, hunting, playing sports and building. The opportunities really are endless...

So, that brings me to a Native story that was read to me as a child that I had long forgotten, until a haunted doll crossed my path.  A shriveled face, decorated in vines, sticks, stones, and mostly, feathers.  The temporary owner passes her over and states, 'she is only ever called the Feather Woman, but she seems so sad.'
Like a vision not my own, but a memory I've had for years, her grief swept over me.  I could clearly feel the suggested sadness but it was also kick-starting a memory I had buried.

My mother used to tell us Cherokee stories, native tales and enjoyed scaring the children with spooky folklore. My father, also a gifted story-teller, would add voices and chime in with, 'it's true!'  Gullible had candy-coated my hand-me-down tales and one of those sad tales, was of Feather Woman.

Feather Woman, mostly a Blackfoot and Cherokee tale, was one of a grieving mother.  Soatsaki and her son.  As an adult, thinking back on the tale, it is mostly the Christian-themed labeling of curiousity and deviant ways.  The virgin mother, bore a son, was promised to be kept safe so long as she didn't dig a sacred garden.  When Feather Woman missed her clan, her family, she escaped with her son into the great hole from the sky, but her rope wasn't long enough...

The story of how she fell to Earth, what happened to her son, Starboy, and his lessons of revenge and curiosity go deep into American folklore. Seeing this doll, her soft feathers, made me want to go home and hug my children; it made me miss my family.  I wondered immediately if it was the charm of the doll, the curse of Feather Woman, but then eased my homesickness with a smile.
She is not mine, not for long... she is looking to be adopted in my store.

Interested to see where Feather Woman will go and what stories of Starboy will be told to children afar.