The Sad Fate of Sally or Petey Possum

These days, I have so many tears lying just beneath the surface. So many. And there are not enough opportunities to allow these tears to flow. As much as I want or need to cry, I just can't.

One morning I was sitting on my front porch and a very large crow landed in the dogwood tree in our front yard. He was raising a ruckus about something. He faced the street in front of our house and ceaselessly cawed.  I talk to crows because they are so smart, I believe they understand me. At the very least, I think they can tell by the tone of my voice that I love them and I mean them no harm. So I asked the crow, "Do you have something to tell me?" He remained on the branch of the dogwood tree for a few more seconds yelling at the street and then he flew away.

I sat there, taking in the crisp morning air when I noticed something on the street. I put on my glasses and discovered it was a dead possum.

I went inside, put on some gloves and got a plastic bag in order to collect the possum's body. As I went outside, I noticed the person across the street in their car getting ready to back out of their driveway. This would almost certainly have caused further ruination to the poor possum's body. I rushed over to the possum's side, holding up my hand for the person to stop. Which they did. I gathered the body in the plastic bag. It was not completely taken by the process of rigor mortis. The blood was bright red. It seemed to me that this possum had been hit fairly recently.

I carried her lifeless body to the backyard and began digging a grave underneath a giant pine tree. I kept hitting roots and decided to dig around them. In this way, I sculpted an earthen cradle with a canopy of roots. I burned some sage and smoked the newly dug environs. I burned a candle and dropped some tobacco into the hole as a blessing. I removed the possum from the plastic, wrapped her in soft red cloth and tucked her into her resting place. She seemed comfortable there. As I covered her body with dirt, I began to cry. I apologized for the harsh end to which her life had come. I thanked her for her life. I told her I love her. And the tears flowed.

Once her body was covered, I heaped a pile of pine needles on top of her grave and placed some pine cones across the top. I put a piece of a cinder block at the foot of the grave. A fence stands at her head. So it is as if she has a headboard and a footboard to her bed underneath the tall pine tree in our backyard.

~~~

Towards the end of winter this year, I was awakened by a very rambunctious crow right outside my bedroom window. I dressed to go outside and see what the commotion was about. I discovered the crow was yelling at a possum in a tree. This went on for a long time, long enough for me to grab my phone and make a video of it. It seemed to me that the crow did not like the possum very much and was telling it to go away. The possum seemed nonplussed. Eventually the crow flew away and the possum ambled down out of the tree and on her way.

In the Spring, a baby possum found her way into our house. There was evidence that she had been making nightly stops to feast on dog food left in a bowl on the kitchen floor. My ally captured her and put her in a cardboard box with a little towel and some bits of food. We pondered what to do with her. Ultimately, we simply set her free in our backyard, which, even though we live by a street that is frequented by automobiles, provides a nice habitat for possums and rabbits and the like.

The next night, she returned. We captured her again, and again we set her free in the morning. I named this baby possum Sweet Sally Possum. I loved her. My ally and I continued this catch and release ritual with Sally until my ally decided it was time to set her free in a park. He captured her in a Have-a-Heart trap and drove her to a nice park with lots of trees and a stream running through it. I was a little bit sad about this move. At least if she remained in our backyard she would be safe, I thought. There was no harm in having her come in for dog food treats, I thought. I tried leaving dog food treats for her in the backyard. But if I failed at my task, she would return to the dog food bowl in the kitchen.

After Sally was taken away, another possum began to come in. He liked to show his teeth more than Sally, so I named him Petey. We played catch and release with Petey a few times before my ally drove him to the park as well.

I relate the story of the crow and possum and of Sally and Petey to you because I find it meaningful that this year has been bookmarked by episodes including them. A crow yelling at a possum in a tree, a crow yelling at a possum in the street, baby possums hanging out in our backyard, making nightly visits, and an adult possum buried in our backyard under a tall pine tree. There is no way to know if the possum I buried was Petey or Sally. But I honor them daily as I visit the possum's grave. The possums and the crows ushered in delight and tears. Both are necessary for my survival. I am grateful for this passage of time demarked by these beings and the quiet moments shared with Possum and Crow.

The Craft of Witchery

When I was your age, I started making potions. Witch's brews. No one taught this craft to me. It was a knowledge which seemed to have been imprinted in my DNA.

Remember that song you sang in Kindergarten? Stirring and stirring and stirring my brew, OOOOOoooooo! I sang that song, too. And it meant something to me. It stirred a longing deep in my chest. And then I heard - from who knows where - a Shakespearean couplet: “Double, double toil and trouble: fire burn and cauldron bubble.” I knew that sensation – that fire burn and cauldron bubble sensation. Innately, I knew it.

I would go to a secluded part of the woods and set up next to a creek. I dug my fingers into the rich black dirt creating a hole big enough to accommodate a standard mixing bowl from my mother's kitchen - one which I had taken for this purpose. The bowl was placed into the earthen pit. And then I gathered my ingredients.

I collected creek water in a cup, ceremoniously walking down the bank to the edge of the water, filling my cup, walking back up the bank and emptying the cup into my “cauldron.” I repeated this process until there was enough water with which to create my base. I added soil, which I stirred in sweeping circular motions with a stick. Stirring with a stick was elemental in the process. Sometimes the brew was thick, sometimes not.

I gathered ingredients as they spoke to me: the prickly sweet gum balls, which looked like futuristic modular housing for alien beings. These would invoke a higher knowledge, one with which this world is not acquainted. The seeds of maple trees resembling tiny fairy wings would, so I believed, imbue my potion with a bit of fairy magic: part mischief, part delight. The flower petals from the tulip poplar tree - sometimes whole blossoms - would be included. Bits of moss. Oak catkins, which when intact, resembled stringy green caterpillars. But I crushed the stamens releasing the granular bits of pollen and stirred them into my brew.

When I had been jolted out of a synergy, whenever I felt displaced or disconnected from everyone around me - but most importantly, from myself – I would make a potion. It wasn't even a conscious decision. I just found myself going to the creek bank and setting everything up. The potion's purpose, which was not known to me at the time, was simply to bring myself back to my core, back to my heart and spirit. It was to reunite me with magic and hence, with life.

Considering circumstances that arose when I was six, it makes sense to me that I would embark upon this practice of making witch's brews. I was deeply injured by someone I trusted. I was violated in a way only a woman can understand. I sought justice from my parents on this occasion but it was to no avail. Some things are better swept under a rug when you are a working parent, exhausted from long hours of a thankless job. It takes less effort to stifle a child and pretend nothing happened than to confront a wrong and stand up against it. I completely understand their perspective now. But at the time, I retreated to my own world of making something new from preexisting crap in an attempt to order my world, to make sense of it all.

Soon after that, I began to make potions. I cast spells of wellness out into the world. Spells of justice, of making things right. As I meticulously selected my ingredients, I felt a personal sense of well-being. I felt right with my world. As I combined my ingredients into the basin I'd planted in the earth, I felt my sense of wellness being projected out into the universe. I felt a powerful force field growing larger around me. I was creating a charm of protection, of self love, and of well-being. I see this now. Back then, I acted on impulse.

As I grew older, I fell out of the practice of casting spells. I followed in the footsteps of those who had come before me. I found employment in order to make money. I married a man. I gave birth to two children. The wildness within me was tamed. I stayed in a small box of acceptable behavior. And this box grew tighter and tighter, compressing me, stifling me.

My daughter began making potions around her sixth year. She gathered rainwater and rich black dirt from the woods. She too stirred her potions in a sweeping, circular motion with a stick. She selected tree bark and acorns, pine needles, leaves and rocks to go into her brew. One day, she found a dead bat in her brew. This was both alarming and mysterious. But we are taught by our Native Ancestors that bat medicine signifies a rebirth – the end of one way of life and the beginning of another. We were getting ready to move to a different state, away from the only home my daughter had known. And so it seemed that the bat had found it's way into the brew for a reason. I cried the day my daughter found the bat and I did not understand why.

In time, I reached a point in which I could no longer breathe. I could not speak. I felt a heaviness in my heart. It became necessary to break out of my small box and to set my heart free. I planted seeds and pulled up weeds. I caressed earth worms and carried water to my plants. I again experienced the sense of well-being that I had known as a child. I grew wild again.

We have a wild streak that should never be tamed, you and I. You will notice when people try to tame you. They will tell you that you can't do something that you want to do. They will tell you that you do not have the wisdom to make choices for yourself. They will tell you how to behave, how to dress, how to manipulate your face and hair to fit their definition of acceptable beauty. They will not see the beauty of your heart. They will not see the beauty of your wildness. It will be hard for you to keep your wild heart alive. But this is necessary to your survival.

When we lose our connection to nature and our urge to create, we lose our life force. We begin to feel sad and lonely, or strangely empty inside. This is because we are neglecting our wild and magical nature: that which creates a desire to dwell among forests, mountains, oceans and rivers, to interact with all living creatures and to make things.

This is why magic is necessary for you to practice. This is why you must make your own potions. It will help you to put order to a world which makes no sense. It is necessary to invoke the help of our Mother Earth because her strength cannot be conquered. Through Mother Earth, we experience the mysteries and wonders of nature. Through her, our urge to create grows strong.

The knowledge of crafting witch's brews can take many forms. Sometimes it is in the form of paint on paper. Sometimes it is in the form of a mask one paints on one's face. Sometimes, it takes the form of words on a page. It could be a cake you bake. Or a song you sing. You must find your own means of crafting a witch's brew. And you must hone your craft well. Do this for your own protection. Do this for your own sense of well-being. It is up to you to carry on the tradition of magic-making.  

People In Cars

It's funny how being in a car emboldens us to do things that we would not necessarily do outside of a car.  I pick my nose in my car.  I engage in primal screams in my car.  I make up songs and sing them into my portable recording device in my car.

People in cars are funny.

Today, I was driving in my car, my Great-Aunt-Minnie-Lee-Mobile, when I approached a long line of other cars waiting to get through a left turn lane at a traffic light.  I thought for a moment, "Oh no!" but then I remembered that there was no rush: my destination would be open for a couple more hours.  So I slowed my car to a halt, allowing enough room for some cars waiting at a connecting street to turn left in front of me, and for others to get in front of me in line.  This made the man in the car behind me furious.  

He blew his horn.  I looked into my rear view mirror and saw him gesturing at me.  He put his hands on top of his head and jerked his hair in an upward motion as if he were plumb pulling his hair out.  He shook his head violently as if this gesture would suggest to me what an absolute idiot I was by being polite.  

The light was red.  Traffic was not moving.  Yet I had stalled this man's progress too much.  

Eventually, of course, the light turned green.  And the first stream of waiting cars made it through before it turned red again.  The man in the car behind me continued to make gestures and blow his horn as if that would make all the cars ahead of him move.  He pulled out a portable phone unit and began to make his most exasperated facial expressions as I'm sure he used his most exasperated tone of voice to the person on the other end.  

I listened to happy music and watched the people walking in the warmth of the bright sunshine.  It was a lovely scene, most pleasant to observe while waiting for a green light.  One man walking down the sidewalk wore a brilliantly colored shirt.  I wanted to call out of my window to him.  I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated his shirt.  But I did not want to break the sacred in car, out of car barrier.  It is sort of intrusive when people in cars yell at people outside of cars.  I didn't want to be that person.  If I were outside of a car, I would do this. I let it go.

I occasionally glanced at the man behind me playing an angry cartoon character in his car.  I had an impulse to get out of my car, walk back to this man's car, lean over and say, "Do you really think that by letting a few people out in front of me, you will be any more delayed than you already are?  Why did you not take a different route when you noticed the line of cars ahead?  Are all these melodramatic gesticulations necessary?  What is so all fired important that makes you miss the beauty of the day?" I decided this was a very bad idea.  

Still, I wondered about him.  It must be some sort of survival mechanism for him to behave in this manner, I thought.  He apparently needs to feel inconvenienced by the world around him.  And this is more important to him than pausing to enjoy a moment of stillness.  How tragic.  But his anger is his anger and doesn't need to permeate my psyche.  My ability to transcend his negativity was a personal victory.  In a way, I am celebrating that by writing this blog entry.  Anyway...

The light once again turned green and the few cars ahead of me crawled through the intersection.  The light turned yellow as I approached it and the man behind me blew his horn much longer than he needed to in order to make his point.  I proceeded through the intersection and he raced through a red light.  Once through the intersection, he passed me of course.  My car's bumper was too contemptible for him to bear another second.  It was only after he was down the road a way that it occurred to me, I should have flashed him a peace sign.

Traffic was heavy going into downtown.  Many people in many cars - some patient, others less so -observed the rules of the road, stopping at lights, allowing pedestrians to cross if they were nice, pulling out in front of others if they weren't.  

A boy in a car in front of me was furiously playing the drums on his steering wheel and dashboard.  He was bouncing up and down in his seat and swinging his arms wildly about.  I wanted to know what music he was listening to.  What was causing him to move with such wild abandon in the driver's seat of his car?  I was supremely curious about this.  

I moved into another lane with the notion that I would pull up along side of him and yell out of my window to ask who he was listening to.  Because there was no sacred barrier here. We were both in cars.  But my row of cars moved at a quicker pace than his row of cars and before I could call out to him, I was already past him.  But until I lost sight of him, he continued to play drums on his steering wheel and dash board while bouncing up and down.  

Yep.  People in cars are funny.

The Bodhisattva

A bodhisattva works at Planet Care.  You can find him in the "dish room."  We often speak together of existential problems and techniques for transcendence.  We are able to gauge each other's internal climate the way a meteorologist tracks a storm.  Ultimately, we manage to help each other feel better when there are obstacles in our paths.

Last night I said to the bodhisattva, "I do not like this game called making money that was invented by some person a long time ago.  I don't even understand the rules of this game.  Who invented this game of making money?  Who?!"

The bodhisattva said, "You!  You did!"

We both fell into hysterical laughter.  

"Of course!  I did!  I invented this game!  I did!  And I know all its rules!"

Later, I walked through the dish room and the bodhisattva said to me, "That's it!  I'm finished!"

"What do you mean?"

"I quit!  I never want to see another dish in my life!"

I commiserated with him for a moment.  Then I said, "Thich Nhat Hanh says washing dishes is like bathing the baby buddha."  

The bodhisattva's eyes lit up.  "Ah!  Yes!  I will kiss each dish from now on."  And he pulled a large pan out of the soapy water and gingerly kissed it.   

The Rainbow Inside

During my stint in what felt like a third world country but is better known as West Virginia, I encountered a remarkable woman.  She came to the site of an "intentional community" to which I belonged to conduct a weekend-long seminar called "Opening to the Creative."

At barely five feet tall, Dr. Edith Wallace was a force of nature.  Her brilliant white hair was accented by the rich shades of purple she wore.  She was elegant and filled with a divine Grace.  Yet her eyes spoke of mischief - past and present.

Edith created a form of art therapy involving tissue paper collage. This was a focal point in her seminars.  She supplied every color imaginable, all cut to her size specifications.  These were laid out in an order dictated by Edith on long tables.  We were instructed to select the colors that appealed to us in the moment.  We took the tissue paper to a work station where there were pieces of poster board, paintbrushes and a watery glue mixture.  We were instructed to tear the tissue paper into pieces, assemble them on the poster board, and immediately brush the glue mixture over them to secure them into place.  We were told to work in silence, not to belabor this process and not to attempt to create recognizable forms or something of beauty.  After we completed one collage, we were to sign it on the back and draw an arrow indicating which way is up.  We could make as many as we wanted during the allotted amount of time.

At the end of the collage-making process, Edith would ask each participant, one at a time, to set their collages up on an easel in front of everyone.  She would make comments based on any impressions she received from the assemblages.

The first set of collages I made were of muted colors: gray, brown, pale pink.  On one, I pasted bright red, yellow and green and then covered these up with black.  When I displayed my collages, Edith asked me if I had children.  I was startled by this question.  "Yes," I said, rather timidly.

"Do you ever play with them?"

"I used to."  I broke down and cried, blubbering out all manner of excuses for why I was no longer able to play with my children as I once did.  Edith listened patiently.  And all she said was, "You must find you inner jester.  You must allow yourself to play."   

At that point in my life, Edith's words were monumental.  They shook me to my core.

I had been severely depressed.  Ex-husband guy had violently attacked me.  My world was collapsing in around me.  I had no hope.  And in Edith's simple question, "Do you play with them?" I realized how far removed I had become from my core, from my delight.

After lunch one day, I went to the room I was sharing with other participants and stretched out on the twin-sized bed.  The surroundings were lush for me but rustic for others, I'm sure.  The seminar was housed in a  200 year-old mansion built by George Washington for his nephew Bushrod Corbin Washington.  My room had a lovely upstairs view of the apple orchard out back.

I lay on my bed looking up at the high ceiling, aware of the afternoon colors, and trying very hard to feel some warmth.  I thought of my murky collages.  And I thought about my daughter, who was at this time, six.  My daughter, who radiates warmth, was going through a phase of drawing rainbows.  Self portraits, tracings of her hand, landscapes.  No matter what the subject was, each drawing had a rainbow. 

I wondered about this.  How did she become that way?  How did she become so bright, so warm, so full of color?  I had nothing to do with it!  She just is that way.

But then I thought, wait a minute. I did have something to do with it.  I housed her in my body for 40 weeks.  I gave birth to her.  Whatever is inside of her that creates rainbows has to be in me as well.  It has to be.  Right?

It was time to reconvene in the main room downstairs for more collage-making.  As I selected my colors, I was drawn to the colors that had danced around in the room upstairs when I was having my revelation.  And then, I selected the bold colors of the rainbow.  I made two collages and felt satisfied - as if there was nothing more to express.

When Edith looked at my two collages, she remarked that she saw birds in flight in both of them.  She was glad, she said.  I seemed to have connected with precisely what I needed in order to heal: play.  Indeed, I felt worlds lighter.  Almost giddy in fact. 

We chose a collage to "dance," to bring to life with music and movement.  We selected a piece of music, and we performed our dance for each other.  I do not remember the piece of music that I selected.  But I remember moving my body as if every limb, every gesture was an expression of a rainbow.  Full of a vibrant radiance, a warmth and most of all hope. 

It is incredibly easy to become absorbed in the act of day-to-day living, so much so that we fail to notice the beauty inside us and around us. If we allow the daily grind and the unkind people around us to continually drag us down into despair, anxiety, or hopelessness, our experience of life becomes dim and colorless. But we all have a rainbow inside that is ready to radiate out. We all have a vibrant joy that is uniquely ours. It may seem very far away. But I guarantee you, if you look for that inner jester who loves to laugh and play, who is filled with wonder and a tiny bit of mischief, your rainbow will appear. And you will be so glad. 

So I invite you, dear friend, to go outside and play today. Jump in a mud puddle, or a pile of leaves. Tumble down a hill, or climb a tree. Assemble a crown of clover. Then wear it. Because you now occupy your royal station. You have found your inner jester. 

~For Brooke Edwards~

Angel of the Lord

I've fallen into a bit of an existential crisis of late. This happens from time to time, it's nothing new and I know it'll pass.

My existential crises contain certain givens. I will worry about my True Calling, whatever that is. I will ponder my mortality. I will agonize about the power of money and the control it has over me. I will fret over how I might make a difference on this planet. I will contemplate my many health issues and the toll they take on all aspects of my life. And I will encounter a holy person.

Always, in the midst of an existential crisis, when I already feel like I've barely got a grip, a holy person will enter my world and shake it completely up. I marvel at the predictability of this and wonder how it is possible.

A couple of days ago a man named Jamaal came through my line with a case of dates. Fifty-some dollars worth of dates. I asked if he was about to through a party. He replied that he was in the midst of fasting - I don't remember for how many days - but he would break fast with dates and begin each day before sunrise with dates. I asked if this was Ramadan. He said, "You know about Ramadan?" I said I know some about Ramadan. But obviously I don't know when it occurs. He explained that this particular cycle is not Ramadan but another period of fasting with different fasting rules. I commented that this must require a great level of discipline. He said that "it builds discipline."

Jamaal told me that he is willing to give up food for the Lord. "And you know I love food!" Jamaal is an amiable man with a broad smile and kind eyes. And his robust body indicates he does indeed love food. He tells me that he would not give up food for his best friend. Not even for his mother. But for the Lord, yes.

I was taken aback by the level of devotion in this man's being as he spoke these words. I felt oddly underprivileged. I offered that I do not have that sort of relationship with God. I did not offer that I have never felt that degree of devotion to God.

Jamaal looked at me, smiling, and said, "Why not!?" I felt my eyes filling with tears, my chest constricting. "Kathy, why not?" He placed his hand on his chest and said, "This heart, every time this heart beats, God does that! Every breath you take, God does that! God gives you everything!"

I was momentarily stunned. What a staggering notion - there is some mysterious force at work inside this frame of flesh, blood and bone that we call "life" but could just as easily be called "God." Because it is just as mysterious. I mean scientists understand a good deal about how the body's systems work separately and together. But I venture to guess that they don't understand why a body works. What is at one's very source that causes the heart to beat and the lungs to respire?

And imagine for just an instant that God is the source of life in me. It would follow, then, that God is the source of life in everyone. So in each heart that beats, there is God. A generous, magnanimous entity in us all that connects us.

It was too large a concept for me to ponder for very long.

I thanked Jamaal for this reminder. I told him that I often forget these things. He said he will come see me every day to remind me if I need him too.

I was moved beyond measure. This stranger wants to come see me every day to give me a bit of magic? To stitch a thread of hope into the warp and weft of a dismal brain?

I felt a bit like the Grinch, whose heart grew three sizes at once.

In my existential crises, I lose God. I rarely have a firm sense of the presence of God, but I do have a spiritual nature. I do feel verklempt while watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" when Charlie Brown throws back his head in despair and asks for the meaning of it all and Linus, in a pristine voice of childhood wisdom, says this:

And there were in the same country Shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, 'fear not, for behold I bring you tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you. Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in the manger.' And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying 'glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good will toward men.

Maybe it is Linus' voice. Maybe it is the atmosphere created by Linus standing alone on stage in a follow spot. Maybe it is the familiar cadence and evocative language of the King James bible. Maybe it is Vince Guaraldi's soundtrack. But no matter how many times I watch this scene, no matter how old I am, I find myself suddenly filled with wonder and joy.

Jamaal instilled in me a distinctly Charlie Brown moment. I would have cried if I had allowed myself to.

Whatever is touched on in moments like this, it is real. I cannot label it, nor do I care to. Sometimes our daily grind becomes such a chore that we lose moments of wonder, moments of brilliance and magic. Whenever I am in one of my existential crises, I am completely removed from the wonderment of living - which simply is. It simply exists. And it need not be analyzed.

How tremendous was this encounter with a holy person in the check-out line at Planet Care during one of my most pronounced existential crises! I am overwhelmed with gratitude.