In working with Coyote – the trickster who tricks even himself – there can be no rigid thinking, no frame around the picture. Perceptions are dissolved, expectations are deconstructed. One must take oneself less seriously, welcome laughter, crack open the shell of one’s own ego.
An open heart is required, and it is like the open road: lending itself to endless possibilities, allowing whatever wants to come next to happen, inviting the mind to loosen its grip on everything it has convinced itself of, softening into fearlessness and deep listening.
The processes of nature, miracles all. How full of folly we are, how powerful, how small.
Sometimes we are born with deep secrets. Secrets we don’t even know we’re keeping, until they unveil themselves. Startling surprises. So open up, open up, roll back the curtain, don’t close yourself off, don’t shut down, don’t do it. It is tempting to keep quiet and lay low, but let your heart take a few lashes, let all the voluminous light inside of you come out before your inevitable worldly departure.
Contemplate the line between who people think you are, who they need you to be, want you to be, and who you truly are. Let yourself change, stretch out, grow, expand.
One would think that once your heart has taken its share of lashes, you might retreat, pull back, run for cover. Never mind this, it’s only logic tugging at you. Go up and out instead, run towards the fire. Open up the wicker of your rib basket and pull your heart loose. Set it down gently, still beating, in the eye of the whirlwind.
You never know when you might see yourself. Not a glance, not an examination. See. What you once could have sworn was solid now reveals itself to be translucent. What once looked to be a pillar of immovable strength now strikes you as fragile. So take everything they think they know about you, every last scrap of how they think you should be, of who they think you are, and just burn it.
Don’t be frightened, it’s only death and resurrection. Open up.
If I didn’t have to go to work today, I’d write a clever turn-of-phrase or a cryptic suggestion only you would understand the meaning of. I’d spend my time among the dead, paying my respects with a few well-put-together lines destined to become a classic. I’d write a poem for you because you’ve been on my mind lately, maybe even work on the novel that’s been sitting in a shoebox on the floor in the corner behind the desk for half as long as it takes children to grow up and finish school.
I’d write about the sideways snow going on and on, the unexpected cruelty of someone who was once a dear friend, the weaving and un-weaving of music leaving an indentation where it makes contact. I’d consider how writing, women, and weather can all be fickle and tough to predict. I’d consider how, of all the woodpiles I’ve seen, the German beehive requires the most patience and is a thing of beauty.
I’d mull over all my fears and desires, go for a walk, stare out a window, hope I might be of use to someone by the time my head meets a pillow, contemplate my dream about Paul Simon where I attended the opening night of a play he wrote, and afterward we sat and quietly drank pint-glasses of beer, me telling him how much his music meant to me that time I rode the bus in the rain. He understood and – of course – will be coming for Christmas.
Whether I have to go to work today or not, I’ll remember nothing has ever been mine to claim – all is given, even my name. I’ll not forget I’m blessed, palms pressing together in front of my heart. I’ll take a look at all the circles in which I’ve lived, gain some perspective, as if seeing them from the tiny window of a passenger plane with my forehead pressed against the glass. And, pulling the sword of my life from the stone of the world, my heart might recall how to make the much larger circle of a thank-you spoken in the wordless language of peace.