The Importance of Magical Thinking

These are confusing times. Anything is possible. Anything.

Yesterday, I went downtown early in the morning with my ally, Brian, who has been commissioned to film the process of two murals being painted. Brian flies drones and sells his aerial photography services to anyone who needs them. I went with him to scope out the site, meet the muralist and film the boom lift being set up.

Downtown Greensboro is nice in the early morning before all of the hullabaloo of the day begins. I guess almost any place is nice during that time, when the world has not yet swung into full motion. It is conducive to a peaceful, contemplative state of mind. I wandered about taking photos of emptiness and quiet.

A car pulled up and three people emerged. I looked for the muralist. Brian had the impression, for some reason, that the muralist is from China. I observed a white man, a black man and a brown girl. There was no overtly Chinese-looking person. The young girl approached me with a large smile and introduced herself. She was the most exotic looking of the three and I looked for indications that she might be from China. I decided looks cannot be trusted and she must be the muralist. The fact that she looked no older than 12 made me doubt this belief and I considered simply saying, "Are you the muralist," but thought that would be rude. Instead, I waited for the information to present itself as information often will.

Let us focus on this state for a moment. For a second, I believed that a girl, age12, had been commissioned to paint two gigantic and prominently located murals in Greensboro. That reality existed in my brain. This experience can be attributed to a state of magical thinking: a moment in which anything is possible. There are no fixed definitions of anything. There are no imposed boundaries or beliefs. In the world of magical thinking, there is absolute freedom and expansiveness.

To experience such freedom even for a second is such a blissful thing. This passes quickly, for the constraints of the world are quickly imposed upon us. There isn't much room for magical thinking in the hullabaloo.

As such, it was determined that the white man is the muralist. The information regarding the muralist being from China did not reveal itself. Nor did I seek clarification.

The importance of this missive is to define that moment in which all possibilities are equally viable. A clown can be president. A boddhisatva can be a dishwasher. Friends can become enemies. Enemies can become friends. Truth can overcome lies. Justice can be delivered. People can have enough to eat. Healthcare can be available to everyone. The power that was put into the hands of the wealthy can be taken from them. We can live in solidarity with one another. We can care for each other. There is such freedom, such expansion in these thoughts. Let us focus our attention there. We must silence the inner editor and actively put our attention into that space of any and all possibilities. And someday, a 12-year-old girl with exotic eyes and brown skin will paint a gigantic mural in a prominent location in your town.

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.

The Doppelgänger

The other day, I received a visitation from Tim LaFollette in the form of his doppelgänger, a man named Kenneth whose friends call him "Peanut."

I was standing at the customer service desk at Planet Care talking with my co-worker.  I had been feeling agitated by recent manifestations in the health of my body.  I found myself sucked into a maze of self inquiry, wondering what my body needs to be well and what I need to be happy and wouldn't my happiness aid my body's health and what are all the strange dreams I've been having lately trying to tell me and on and on.

Then suddenly, I looked up at this man, whose face so resembled my friend, Tim.  The style of glasses he wore, the way he smiled, the jubilance in his eyes, even his voice were eerily similar to those of Tim.  My heart leapt.  I think I actually gasped.  The urge to rush over to this man and throw my arms around him was overwhelming.  Yet I held myself in check, reminding myself that Tim is dead.  And one can no longer receive visitations from one's friends once those friends have checked out.  But this awareness and the presence of Tim's doppelgänger served only to disorient me.

After a moment of staring at this man, I apologized to him and told him that he reminded me of a friend.  He said he gets that a lot.  All the time, he said.  He said people always tell him that he resembles someone they know and love.  He said a man once pulled a photo out of his wallet to show him how much he looked like a friend of his.

I said, "You must have some mission on this planet, some great responsibility, to remind people of what is important."  I said that because that is what he did for me.  He said, "I guess."  And he tilted his head and smiled a golden Tim LaFollette smile and I wanted to weep.

After Peanut left, my co-worker and I looked at each other and shivered inside ourselves.  My co-worker said, "You know, I don't believe in reincarnation or any of that sort of thing.  But if I did, I would swear that was your friend, Tim."  I wanted to collapse into a fit of tears.  But I was at work.  Dealing with the public.  A few tears had to escape.  And as I returned to my work station I could not hold back the few others that had heated in the tear factory and stung my cheek upon release. My co-worker came over and put his arm around me and said, "You know, maybe that was a message from Tim.  Maybe he's trying to tell you something."

I long to talk to Tim right now.  I want to hear him.  I want him to tell me to stop being a wimp.  There's important stuff to be done.  Just do it.  I want to hear him say, "Fuck ALS.  Fuck Cancer.  Fuck ITP."  I want to bask in his bravery.  I want some of it.  I want to fight like Tim.  I want to stand up for what's right like Tim.

If Tim LaFollette were to look at me in this moment, what would he say to me?  Would he shake me?  Would he say, "Get over yourself?"  I think more than anything Tim would say to me, "Whatever it is that you want to do, do it."

And that is what I am doing.  Right now.  In your honor, Dear Heart.

Wise Women

A wise woman told me that to remain youthful, keep moving your body.  Eat well.  And surround yourself with a supportive community of women.

A wise woman told me that laughter is crucial in fighting depression.

A wise woman told me that if you attract people to you who like to tell you what to do or how to be, it is because at some point in time - most likely when you were a child - you were told that what you say is not valid. You must forgive yourself for believing in that myth and trust in the validity of your expression.

A wise woman told me to say these words: I'm sorry.  Please forgive me.  I love you.  Thank-you.

May this wisdom be retained and used by wise women everywhere.