This is what it's come down to...Coyote-Man is dancing me.
I knew I was in for it during that hellride from Colorado two years ago. Running from a vampire-man, taking the Rockies at a screeching speed, to get them behind me quicker, I ran into the sheltering arms of the Navajo, where I was adopted, fed, named, and celebrated. Me, a white girl. The shaman, as shamans are wont to do, knew more about me than I did myself, and brought these people into the cool desert morning to make this consecration with me. Or to make it possible for me to consecrate myself, which is the more likely. At any rate, when the drums faded, and the dancers' dust-clouds still hovered, they were gone into the Northern Arizona desert like a dream. If I weren't still burping fry-bread I might have believed it a dream.
Ever since, I have not been without the company of the raven spirit whose name I bear. Nor has the coyote been far from me. I dance with his spirit in its many guises and guiles: trickster, Sacred Clown, Tarot Fool -- everywhere I look I see his face. And everywhere I step I hear him laughing. When I'm trying to make a graceful entrance and fall flat on my ass, Coyote is the guy holding up a number: "9.2!! You lose points on the dismount!!"
When the kid looks up at me and says "wow, Amber, you're fat!" Coyote smiles--and when I answer, goodnaturedly, "gee, kid, you're short!" he approves.
That seems to be the lesson of Coyote, that Life can deal some pretty wacky stuff, dump some really gnarly poop into your lap, but it's what you do with the wackiness that spells your success or failure as an effective person.
The wackiest stuff I've been dealt recently is a mind-numbing, potentially deadly disease. Even more insane is that the drug I have to take for it is itself toxic. In fact, and I just found this out recently, this drug's original use was as a coyote-deterrent. How weird is that?! Yeah! Apparently, at one time sheep ranchers would douse a sheep carcass in this substance, the carcass would be left out for the coyotes, and it didn't take more than one dose to discourage our feral friends from ever darkening that sheep rancher's dooryard again. But sick humans get to take it as if it were life-giving insulin*. Barber-surgery: its time has come again! Drag out the leeches and the trepanning drills, Festus! We're up!
Can you imagine
what my coyote spirit helper is saying about all this? I picture him shaking
his head at the folly of our oh-so-human progress. He whispers to me in
the twilight before my sleep: "hey! I'd get off that sh*t were I youse,
baby...it'll make ya sicker'n a dog!" And I hold out my hands in a "whaddaya
gonna do" gesture: "it's what they gave me. Whaddaya gonna do?" And he
shakes his head. "I wouldn't take it, I'd rather have the life-threatening
disease...at least then you could keep yer lunch down!" I sigh, and
ask him to stop talking now, or the next prescription bottle will have
the word "THORAZINE" in large friendly letters across the bottom.
Self-talk aside, I do find it ironic how often the trickster spirit has appeared to remind me just how comical I am. In fact, I'm finding a whole lot of stuff ironic these days, and that's the trickster's spell, too. Much of it can be found in these pages--much more is so mind-bendingly bizarre I would question the sanity of putting it here for the perusal of just any-ol-body. Instead, Instead, I will don the chicken-wing feathers, within which I'll look for examples and link to them. Sometimes a warrior takes the quiet path.
Boy, I wish that old Navajo guy had a web page! I could definitely use a link or two to him in the wee small scary hours of the insomniac's night. Couldn't you?
I'm making an assumption here with this insulin remark that insulin is a nontoxic treatment for its disease. If I'm wrong I'd love to hear about it. Yeah, I'll be a little embarrassed, but hey...Coyote'll get a good chuckle.
....And while we're at it, I would just LOVE to VIEW your Guest Book!
