How I Buried a Crow

Soupy Sales and I were taking a walk around the block. It was a strange walk. I found myself becoming progressively fuzzy-headed with each step. It was as if I was falling asleep as I walked. It became so overwhelming, this sense of sleep-walking, that I thought I would spread a blanket out on the grass when I returned home and stretch out under the sun to nap.

As we came down the final stretch of our walk, I spotted a dead crow on the road in front of my next-door neighbor's house. I squatted down to look at her. I reflected on this life, now lifeless, and was filled with sorrow and gratitude.

I put Soupy inside the house and pondered how to bury this crow.  I needed something to wrap her in. I discarded my immediate thought of a plastic bag in deference to a piece of fabric. Red, I thought. So I went to my store of fabric and found two pieces of red. I chose the brighter of the two. What else did I need? It occurred to me that it would be nice to have tobacco and cornmeal, neither of which I had on hand. I don't know why this occurred to me except that it is the sort of thing offered in Native American rituals. I considered going to the store right down the street from me to purchase these things. But it seemed to me that I needed to initiate the burial immediately and not when certain conditions were in place.

I scouted a spot in my back yard that I thought would make a nice burial site for the crow. I gathered a bundle of sage, a candle, which I lit, a seashell and a stone to leave on the grave, and took these to the burial site. I then prepared to gather the body. I thought for a moment about taking a feather from the crow. And then I wondered if that would be disrespectful. I would like to have the feather in case I needed to include it in a dreamcatcher I might make for someone...someone who might need some crow medicine.

In Native American traditions, Crow is the keeper of sacred law. Human law - including the dictates of any orthodox religion - is all an illusion. Crow sees that there is a higher order of right and wrong that guides us. This does not match the laws created by human beings. Crow signifies that "all things are born of women." Crow sees inner and outer reality simultaneously. Crow merges Light and Darkness. Crow empowers us to follow our inner sense of harmony and justice in our daily lives.

I decided that if I cut off a lock of my hair and give it to Crow, then I could take a feather in good conscience. So I grabbed a pair of scissors and removed a thick lock of hair. I placed it in the red fabric and went outside to collect the crow's body.

I knelt down and put the fabric around the crow. I held her for a moment and admired her beauty. Her talons, her feathers, her face. Then, I noticed a feather, a solitary crow feather, on the road next to the curb. A tiny bit of blood was inside the tip. I paused with gratitude. I would not need to pluck a feather from the crow's body. I wrapped the red fabric around her, completely enclosing her body, and carried her to her burial site.

There was a wooden step that had come loose from something laying beside the burial site. I laid the body on it while I dug the grave. In preparation for digging, I lit my bundle of sage by the candle and allowed its rich smoke to permeate my senses. I waved the burning bundle around the area where I was about to dig, around myself, around the crow.

I dug the grave. There were no tree roots in the area I had chosen. The soil was damp and soft. The grave was dug quickly and easily.

I re-lit the sage and held it down inside the grave, allowing the smoke to waft up along its walls. I encircled the crow's body with smoke from the burning bundle as I thanked her for her life. I thanked her for her beauty and her wisdom. For her guidance. For her mystery. For her medicine.

I felt tears welling up inside me. My inner editor said it was silly to cry over a dead crow. I allowed myself to ignore the inner editor. I allowed my tears to flow. I said to the crow the Ho'oponopono mantra: I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank-you. I repeated this for myself and for all humanity.

I placed the crow's body into the grave. I took a handful of earth and sprinkled it over her body. I did this again and again, breaking up dirt clods with my fingers. I found a rock the length of my hand in the pile of dirt. I brushed it off and set it aside. I found another rock that fit into the palm of my hand. I set it aside. After all the loose dirt and been piled on top of the crow, I placed the larger rock at the crow's head and the smaller one at her feet. I placed the shell with the stone inside it on the middle of the grave. I left the bundle of sage to burn out on its own. And that is how I buried a crow on a sunny afternoon as my mind went from fuzzy to clear.

Caution: Morning Ramble Ahead

Patton Oswalt strikes me as funny and so I sat down to watch his Netflix standup thing, "Talking for Clapping." He lost me at "there were these three menacing black men." 

I cringed. Why was that necessary? 

I'm sure he doesn't consider himself racist. In fact, he condemns racism. And probably I am not familiar enough with his m.o. I mean Louis C.K. certainly breaks the bounds of propriety. So I could be wrong. But he lost me. Sorry, Patton. I just couldn't watch any more.

~~~

I had another wretched nightmare full of violence. This time, it featured ex-husband-guy. And his venom, as portrayed by my subconscious, was so true to life that I woke up feeling queasy and scared. This dream had an added feature of sexual abuse of minors and offspring. It was the last dream I had before waking, which is why it's so hard to shake.

I marvel at the way the mind works. I believe dreams occur for a reason. They aren't just the offspring of late night Chinese food. Although, I am beginning to feel that there is a correlation between drinking wine and having nightmares.

See what I just did? I referred to my late night food as Chinese. Is that racist?

Is it necessary to refer to people by their allotted nationalities? I feel this is an arbitrary categorization based on boundaries established by men hundreds of years ago.

At any rate...

Prior to the nightmare, I had a nice dream in which I saw Sweet Sally Possum out in the wild. She smiled at me. This made me feel incredibly happy. I will try very hard today to focus on the smiling possum rather than the aforementioned awfulness. 

~~~

Yesterday, I met with a doctor about having a colonoscopy. The doctor who will perform this procedure is a beautiful East Indian lady. And I only mention her nationality because I have an envy of the beauty of East Indian women. I want to dive into their bosoms and inhale their musk. This sounds sexual, but it is so much more than that.

At any rate...

I was in the process of cleaning a house that is about to go up for sale when I had to dash off to the colonoscopy doctor. I was improperly dressed. My jeans were my standard paint-spattered and grimy. I had on my neon pink "Who Arted?" t-shirt. I was sweaty and gross. I drove like the devil to get to my appointment on time, all the while, strategizing.

When I reached the parking lot, I stealthily removed my t-shirt and put on a sweater that I had worn over it in the chill of the early morning. I used the water from my water bottle to dampen my t-shirt and wipe the sweat and grime from my face and neck. My arms would be covered by the sleeves of the sweater. I wiped off my Merrills, which are casual but could easily pass as dressy casual when the dirt is removed. My jeans, I decided, had been bought at Nordstrom's. I was cutting edge. Thanks, Nordstrom's, for giving me permission to dress like a slob.

When I walked into the reception area, I noticed the receptionist acknowledge my presence and then immediately look at my jeans. I didn't let it faze me. They were from Nordstrom's.

The nurse who took me back into the examination room similarly stared at my jeans. I felt an instant of judgment so I decided to let her in on my Nordstrom's joke. She hadn't heard about the $425 jeans with fake mud on them. So we had a good laugh and I successfully broke through her icy demeanor.

I was left to wait for the doctor in the examination room with only a diagram of the digestive system to keep me company. I stood up to examine it closely. I read about the functions of the duodenum and the villi. The villi really get me. I mean seriously, what a brilliant system. This body that allows me to enjoy a planetary existence is a delicately balanced ecosystem that demands respect and care. Not the abuse I usually heap upon it. I treat my body like a giant landfill sometimes. Dumping crap in it that does nothing for its healthy functioning.

I was standing there, marveling at the magnificent engineering of the human body when the doctor entered the room. Her eyes met mine and we shook hands. She has a very gracious smile. It wasn't until I hopped up on the examination table that she commented on my jeans. "Are you a painter?" she asked. I admitted that I am. She asked if I am a house painter or an artist and I told her that I do both. She asked about the sort of art I do with genuine interest. And she smiled as she said, "You are so fortunate. I wish I could paint. I am not artistically inclined at all." I replied, "Everyone is artistically inclined!"

"Oh? You just have to practice, eh?"

"No! You just have to play! Art is fun!"

She asked about my masks and then about papier mache. She told me about the elaborate paper mache lamps and bowls in India. She spoke with a passion for beauty and a deep appreciation of art. Again, she made a regretful comment about her lack of artistic skill and said, "It is interesting, the choices we make." And I said, "Not to downplay the fact that you are a doctor or anything..." and she laughed heartily. And I thought you're going to go up into my bowels, for goodness sake! The skill required to maneuver a precision course like that....if that isn't artistry, I don't know what is!

What a strange and beautiful moment. What a strange and beautiful life.

After I left the doctor's office, I drove home where I ate a bit of lunch, changed back into the t-shirt I had just used as a washcloth and shoeshine cloth and proceeded to finish cleaning the house I was working on. At the end of the day, I stood back and admired my work. There is artistry in everything we do as long as we are working for the betterment of a situation or a thing. And this is why art, and only art, will save us.