Sgili

In Cherokee, the word sgili is dark and ominous and I sincerely hope no one is offended or distraught by my discussing it here. Sgili is the word used for a witch, most often thought of as a bringer of ill fate, a creature to be avoided. Some sgili are said to be shapeshifters, capable of transforming themselves into bird or beast as fits their need. Specific tales speak of sgili turning into owls and flying away into the night. More than once, I have heard of sgili being used interchangeably with the word “ugugu” (owl). I’ve often thought it is perhaps this potential for the owl to actually be a shapeshifted witch which causes many Cherokee to this day to view the owl with deep suspicion.

I find the relationship between them to be quite natural. Once we accept that shapeshifters do, did or will exist in our world, it is easy to see that the owl would be a preferred form. Regardless of whether the witch’s designs are malevolent or benign, the owl form serves as a perfect vehicle for conducting covert operations. It is master of the night, the unseen observer winging silently on the moonlight. I must admit that it is, in fact, the form I have always most wished to become should I suddenly find myself capable of transforming.

Every work of original art is autobiographical, and mine are certainly no exception. Furthermore, the story being told by the artist is never fully realized until the work is complete, and often not even then. It is in the creation of the work and in the reflection on its final beauty that the artist comes to better understand the story they are telling about themselves. Through the creation process, both artist and artwork have passed through the fires of becoming, and the artist more clearly glimpses their own story.

As explained in a previous blog post, I began Sgili determined to avoid self-limiting factors such as deadlines or other people’s expectations, and to use a much more organic approach. Now that it’s complete, I can say I was very successful in sustaining the organic approach to the design. It seemed that every few days, I would surprise myself by adding or changing features that I had not even considered the day before. As I look at it now, I am amazed at how seamlessly it all came together. And just as I had hoped, the joy I had lately felt missing returned. Throughout the project, I allowed the stone the freedom to explore its form, to grow naturally from under my hammer, while my heart sang along with the rhythmic tapping. In retrospect, I can see that this approach also guided my story down unexpected avenues.

My first cuts into the stone were done with no real vision beyond vague ideas of an avian figure engaged in ceremony. For several working sessions, I refused to determine whether the figure would be a man wearing avian regalia, an actual avian creature, or something in-between. After a week, I had to admit my hands had already made their decision and I was working on the shapeshifter.

As I reflect on the finished piece and ponder the story I was telling, I realize its message is not of the frightening creatures haunting our dreams, nor even of my admitted fantasy of turning into an owl. Rather, its message is of transformation.

The shapeshifter embodies our transformation from who we were to who we are and who we will become. But transformation is not a singular event. We remake ourselves throughout our lives. Some transformations are small, while others may be seismic shifts. But regardless of the scope or scale, we never completely leave who we were behind. We bring our past with us. Not the past as regrettable baggage as many would have us believe. Rather, we bring the sum total of our life experiences to the point at which transformation begins. We bring the wisdom learned from our ancestors. We bring our hopes, our loves, our losses and our tragedies. We bring cherished memories and forgotten dreams. Ultimately, we bring forward the purest essence of who we are, fold it gently into the ever-evolving dream of who we wish to be, and shape ourselves anew.

But transformation is never complete. Who we were will always be a part of who we are. And this is exactly as it should be.

Sgili’s transformation from man to owl is likewise incomplete. One hand is stretched into a talon-like claw, while the other retains a mostly human form. Similarly, he retains his human mouth while having grown a vestigial beak. He is no longer witch nor human. But neither is he the owl of which he dreamed. He is neither. He is both. He is something old made new.

And the newborn Sgili sings the pain of his transformation. He sings the loss of his old self and the exhilaration of rebirth. Pounding out the rhythmic beating of his heart, he sings to all who will hear his promise to live his life true to this new being he has chosen to become.