I am not a Christian but I will most likely end up in Hell anyhow for all my sinful behavior, albeit sinful fun behavior. I like having fun. All which is fun, is sinful. I figure if I am not Christian, God, in Her infinite wisdom, well say unto Peter, "Ah, what the hell, Taha is just an ignorant savage Indian, go on, let her into Heaven, she is entertaining. Make her put on some clothes, though, and no wings for her, too dangerous to have her flying about."
No need for me to pray to God. I have spirits who are a lot smarter. We Indians do not pray to God, do not ask for help, never beg for forgiveness. Rather silly, we Indians choose to stand on our own two feet without help from others nor deities.
We never ask for help from our spirits. This is shameful. We do connect with our spirits, when we can. We listen, our spirits send some well hidden messages which rarely make a lick of sense. Nonetheless, in time we figure out those messages. No help is afforded rather a spirit message, if followed, sets into motion events which teach us lessons, sometimes very harsh but good lessons, sometimes lessons which leave us laughing at ourselves.
My medicine animal is Ashoba Holba, known to you as Coyote. He is the Creator, the Destroyer and above all, the Trickster. Coyote behaves in good ways, He behaves in bad ways, often He makes a fool of Himself, even gets Himself killed. His friend, Fox, always comes along then jumps over Coyote bringing Him back to life. Coyote always believes He was just asleep; He thinks He never dies.
You know I am constantly pulling tricks around here. This is Coyote. He rules my ways. A few around here have been destroyed. I try to avoid this. Quite a few have been created all over again. All of you have enjoyed or suffered my trickster ways.
I like to dream walk. Lots of learning there. I have enjoyed this thousands of times. Most recently, a mosquito bit my nose during sleep, my wound became infected, deep down, turned into a huge ugly red bump. Bothers me, I keep thinking, "Nile River Fever." Few nights later, I take to dream walking. In my night walk, I pinch at my mosquito bite.
Mosquito spirit has a huge spider with not eight legs, but ten legs leaping out of my nose wound. I try like crazy to catch spider to shove spider back in, but spider crawls up to our bedroom ceiling. Spider is still up there. Next, mosquito spirit has a fiery and angry hornet fly out of my wound. Hornet spits fire. This is bad. Hornet can fly anywhere in our world and do horrible things to people. Hornet flies out a window. Hornet is out there somewhere, stinging and spitting fire, during darkness of night.
Morning comes, I learn a lesson once you set something loose, you cannot put it back. Right off, I head down to my old man's work shop, heat up a piece of coat hanger wire to red hot and shove this into my infected mosquito bite to destroy whatever else might be hiding in there. Better to have a scar than have an open doorway to Pandora's Box.
Obama is something from Pandora's Box. He causes me worry. I am sincerely worried about where America is headed. Our path is not clear, our path does not look an inviting path nor a path easy to walk. I think Obama has us on a Trail of Tears.
Last night, our raccoons come around. They are sent by Coyote to pull tricks on us. Our raccoons are true rascals, constantly causing comical trouble. Late last night, couple of raccoons come over to our bed, as usual, get to complaining about my forgetting to leave out cookies and grapes for them. Raccoons love cookies and grapes. I think they are left liberals; not enough I feed them, no, they want cookies and grapes as well. They have a sense of entitlement, a sense I owe them a good life.
Our raccoons make me get out of bed to fetch cookies and grapes for them. No choice because they will carry on with their chirping, even get up on our bed then bite at my fingers until I give in. They don't bother my husband, they know he will whop them right off our bed. Boys are like that.
I cut a deal with those two raccoons. I tell them I will fetch cookies and grapes if they will relay a message to raccoon spirit, "I want to know where to find America." Raccoons are great at finding anything, sack of flour in your pantry which they rip open and let fly everywhere, an earring on your nightstand they use to make a trade with a crow, a work boot to drag off for chewing and even your bath toilet paper which they delight in unrolling and making a mess of your bath.
I want to know where to find America. I want to know where is America.
Those two sit around on their haunches, eating cookies and grapes while ratchet jawing and swapping lies, mostly telling me lies. You can never trust masked bandits. They finish, belch a bit, get to chirping at me, not thanks rather they agree to show me where I can find America; I am their only source of cookies and grapes. Both begin to leave, stop and look over their shoulders at me, take to chirping, a message for me to follow, to learn where I can find our America.
This is where raccoon spirit led me to find today's America.
