Ocean Deities

I’m starting a new series about ocean deities from various world traditions. Today I begin with Sedna, Inuit ocean deity.   My usual writing style is to research, describe and explain (as I am doing right now.)  In this series I intend instead to imagine the deities speaking for themselves.  I will try to be accurate and respectful of different cultures, but I am not an expert in anthropology or mythology.   I am intrigued with how prescientific people create stories to understand the mysteries of the deep.  Often it’s an ocean goddess.   Why female?  These myths say more about human nature than about the ocean.  We still personify and anthropomorphize the sea and its creatures. Let’s see who might be ruling the deep.

From fineartamericacom Sedna is a painting by Antony Galbraith which was uploaded on April 11th, 2015I am Sedna, goddess of the deepest ocean for my people the Inuit, people of the north who live and die by the sea, my realm, my home.

The Inuit tell many different stories about me, how I came to live here in the cold dark depths.  Some stories say I was a beautiful human woman who was strong willed, and refused all suitors. So my angry father threw me into the sea.  When I clung to the kayak, he chopped off my fingers, one by one, and that’s how seals and walrus and whales were birthed.

Other stories say my father forced me to marry a mysterious suitor who turned out to be a bird, some say Raven himself, who then imprisoned me, and when my father came to rescue me, Raven was so mad he churned up the sea into a horrible torrent.  Only by chopping off the fingers of my clinging hands did my father survive, while I fell to the depths.

When the ocean is rough and the Inuits can’t hunt, their shamans try to appease me.  Sometimes the shamans are said to comb my long hair, which I can’t do it myself because I have no fingers, and from my hair are released marine mammals they can hunt. 

There are many other story variations, but they all seem to have me unwilling to marry, while my father or husband angrily trying to control me.  And the amputated fingers. 

In some stories I have a husband in the deep, but mostly I am alone with the sea creatures.  My powerful emotions and moods churn the sea.   Often I am depicted as half human, half seal or porpoise.   I have become a denizen of the deep.

They tell these stories to explain the changeable sea and the origins of the animals they hunt, which have warm blood but live in the cold sea. 

But I would tell my own story differently.

I live here because I can do what I want, no father or Raven or hunters can tell me what to do.  I chose to live here, but I wanted companions, so I chose to give parts of my vast body to create new life, new animals. I am a powerful swimmer and the ocean is huge.  The sea animals are my children, my friends and companions. We deep ones need lots of room to move around, and when we do, the ocean moves.  We like it that way.  

I am not angry at the people on land.  They have their home, I have mine.  We all have to eat and I understand their hunting the sea animals for their taste and strength.  I will help the animals hide and fight back when the hunters take too much, but we can all live together. 

They tell stories about how I am a big woman, and angry, but that’s just because they like their women to be small and docile.  Yes, the animals like my hair, but that’s because they like me, and my hair anchors them in the waves.  It feels great to have seals and sea lions playing in your hair.  And yes, I am large.  Skinny animals don’t last long in the sea. 

Don’t tell the Inuits, but sometimes I swim south to get warm and lie on the beach.  Goddesses need vacations.  My whales and dolphins manage things fine without me. 

But things are changing up here in the north, less ice, more oil rigs, fewer animals.  Now, these changes actually are making me angry, and it does seem to be mostly men on those big ships and rigs.  They may not have heard the Inuit tales, and I doubt they have shamans who can try to appease me.  They will feel the wrath of the sea.

Copyright © 2018 Deborah Streeter