Of course the frogs are at my window. Three of them, all sprawled and relaxed along the sill. Motel room number 4 at El Portal in the hellaciously-hot breath-of-god, Beatty, NV. Eighty bucks and my last chance at a mattress, an A/C, a fridge & ye ‘ole wifi before a month off in the woods for a wilderness-rites-of-passage training -- dying to everything I thought I knew and pulling on some new, wholly-realized woman skin.
Other rooms at the smoky joint have little darling human statuettes, stretching cows, kitschy ducks, Easter bunnies as their keepers.
Surprised, in a way, that I didn't get the bun buns considering I killed one the other night. I can still clearly see the wild dart and feel accidental tires. I was hoping that in my unstoppableness, the bunny would position itself in the middle of my steer, but no. Backed my car up all the way into the New Mexican sunset — the rosiest pink against Navajo red rocks — after I watched the small creature hoist itself to the side of the road, hind flattened.
"Bun bun!” I called out walking the uneven shoulder, a tremor in my heart and the nighting breeze. "Where are you? Did you make it? Show yourself to me, please."
Then, there, in the chalky, broken-glass dirt: Rabbit. Brown eyes still opened. A last twitch in the ears as I knelt and petted its belly. I offered a sincere, teary-eyed apology for taking this little circle of life. Grief for this loss of innocence. Grief for the family. Some of her fur rubbed off on my fingers. She dangled limp in my hands when I picked up her lightness. I noticed the puncture on the other side. Holy red marble where jumping had been. Blood from lower down. Drip. Drip. Drip.
I wished I knew how to process this death in full. Instead, I prayed for a coyote to come collect the body and I cut off her broken foot. An eventual offering to the Inyo Mountains and the spirit keepers there. Have this little girl, I'll say. Please have all of me. The rest of her slept on a bed of roses under a piñon tree.
The frogs wink deep, though.
In Hyemeyohsts Storm’s story, “Jumping Mouse,” a busy little mouse, curious about some far-off roaring he hears in his ears, ventures away from his home with the guidance of a raccoon friend who takes him to the river, the source of the roar. There, he meets frog, the Keeper of the Water. The frog asks, “Would you like to have some medicine power?" and encourages the mouse to jump higher than ever before. Though scared, the mouse jumps, and his eyes meet the Sacred Mountains. That is, they meet the mother. And he remembers his place in the circle again.
Feels like my job in the circle right now is to go fucking wild. To unstitch from all the shoulds of how to be and what looks good to really, fully live as my brightest and deepest and most all-embracing self.
This means I have to let Her -- fully, unabashedly. Let her roar past the fear that separates, divides any final part of me. Let her eat the night. Let her become the night. Let her become love. Let her silly and serious without too much thought. Let her feel and feel and feel some more. Let her silence. Let her listen. Let her scream.
It seems as if for my whole life there's always been at least some little part of me holding back. Now, it is my job to find that part. Hoist her up there with me when I jump to peep the mountains and feel the whole circle of myself within the circle of everything. And from this place I shall lead.
Tomorrow is already right here.
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Ok, that's all for now. I'm writing as if I'm dying, and so not going back to doublecheck nada and really don't care if this is repetitive or vague or somehow doesn't make sense. Plus this little Big Pine library closes in 5 mins and the clerk in purple wants to gaaayyy. Keep me in your good thoughts as I venture out to the land and embark on this great journey of what it means to truly be and to lead wholeheartedly. Talk soon <3
Blessed Be Bun Bun. Be at peace.