The last few weeks, I’ve been thinking about how I’ve been “not-writing” for Trickster’s Hoard. There have been plenty of amazing moments to share — ones I’ve liked, ones I haven’t enjoyed, and many many that have been so awesome that the words allude me. In fact, I’ve believed that my lack of communication has been about my lack of words. But, a couple days ago, I realized that this wasn’t the whole problem, that I’d somehow slipped back into my own fearful self that felt safer being silent. I’ve failed to reach out & share — as so many of you do, so beautifully in your blogs! In other words, I’ve been “hoarding.” Then I remembered the reason I’d named the site “Trickster’s Hoard.”

This morning I went back to read the first of my 100 posts, explaining the name:

For the last 15 years or more I’ve been haunted by the Trickster Spirit as he appears in cultures around the world. I’ve studied him diligently in anthropology texts and read volume upon volume analyzing his tales. But Trickster doesn’t live in categories or theories. He doesn’t dwell on the printed page. Trickster — like Life itself — is present only in movement, relationship, and change. If, in a story, he is cut into pieces, he puts himself back together and goes on his way. No one can truly capture his essence, but storytellers, poets, and artists do invite you to glimpse and participate in his many facets. Trickster is Change & he changes the world.

When I attempted to analyze or describe Trickster in approved academic fashion, to pin him down like a specimen in a museum, he just slipped off the page and, laughing, danced off to other adventures. Finally I realized that all the time I’d been trying to “understand” him, he’d been trying to invite me to play, to explore my own transformation, to engage with the world in all its guises.

Trickster Spirit is a paradox. Whatever you can say about him, the opposite is also true. For example, among the Akan-Ashanti of West Africa, the Trickster (Anansi, the Spider) not only scattered the world’s Wisdom among the people but also, in other stories, brought the people Disease and Death. Among the Diné of the American Southwest, Trickster (Ma’i, Coyote) is a source of both healing and witchcraft.

So, is he a culture hero? Yes. Or the source of trouble? Yes. Or a character in instructive morality tales? Yes. On & on… The only things I might dare say about Trickster are that he is insatiably hungry, insatiably curious, and an inveterate boundary-crosser and transformer. In many of his stories, Trickster brings things out of hiding or tricks others into giving them to him. Then, most often (as in next week’s story), Trickster inadvertently spills his cherished hoard out into the world.

Hence, this blog. For far too long, I’ve kept my weavings of words, fiber, and ideas safely hidden in closed boxes. Now, in response to Trickster’s prodding , I’ll open some of those boxes, spill out the contents, and see what happens.

trickstershoard.com March 21, 2021

Well, all I can say is that Trickster has been at work in my life again — not, this time, inviting me into the Dance but rolling up the dance floor the way Raven rolled up the Beaver’s house & their lake and tucked the bundle under his arm. [see story, Oct. 15, 2021] The Beavers were were diligent in pursuing their lost belongings. They couldn’t catch Raven, but they kept gnawing down his roosts until at last he flew off — spilling the sweet waters, giving them not to the Beavers who’d hoarded them, but making lakes, ponds, rivers for all the people. What will happen if I shake off my inertia & begin to chase Trickster in earnest. As Einstein said, “Nothing happens until something moves.” Hmmmm…. we’ll see……

The surge of new Spring life here continues with all its drama. For several weeks earlier this spring, our community pond hosted a hooded merganser and her 8 babies. Mergansers are diving birds and it was pure delight to watch the little ones discover their powers — diving deep & bobbing back up, again & again.

Then suddenly — overnight — the whole family disappeared. We all miss them. The ducklings were not yet fledged. There was no evidence that the resident hawk or marauding raccoons had been at work. I guess it will remain a mystery.

In recent weeks, a mallard and her 4 babies have been a joy. Then one day last week there were only 3 to be seen.

We suspect one of the pond’s turtles got the 4th.

This morning there only 2 ducklings.

Neighborhood ponds have lots of Canadian geese & goslings. Even the little retention pond next to the local grocery store hosts both ducks and geese. The fluffy babies there have grown into gangly adolescents — They are just beginning to get their feathers & look like they’re still working out how to gracefully coordinate longer necks & legs.

[There were lots of Canadian geese here when we arrived summer but — much my sorrow — not everyone shares my passion for these beautiful birds & the administration hires someone to chase them away. Sigh… ]

A great gray heron visits the pond here occasionally, always bringing joy to anyone watching. Who can resist their stately, patient stance or their majestic wingspread as they fly, with neck folded in an S and legs trailing. Magical beings. There are many indigenous stories about Heron, gathered from all over Turtle Island. And, even though herons aren’t related to cranes, I can’t help thinking of them in relation to all the old European stories & myths of cranes. Liminal birds — shape-shifters dwelling at the intersection of many worlds.

Last night, the tiniest frog I have seen hopped across the pond path in front of me. It must have been a Little Grass Frog, the smallest frog in North America. This photo by Tracy Welker https://fineartamerica.com/featured/little-grass-frog-tracy-welker.html will give you an idea of the size. The memory of this tiny being — intricate of form & acting according to its own purpose — still floods me with awe & simple happiness.

Such diversity and so much beauty in this incredible world — an astonishing interweaving of all into One — a multi-dimensional tapestry, the great feast we call Life — with each being always becoming something new. I am filled with gratitude, humbled to be both a witness to and a part of it all!

Messenger by Mary Oliver

"My work is loving the world. 
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird — 
equal seekers of sweetness. 
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums. 
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? 
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me 
keep my mind on what matters, 
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be 
astonished. 
The phoebe, the delphinium. 
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture. 
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart 
and these body-clothes, 
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy 
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, 
telling them all, over and over, how it is 
that we live forever."
 
~ Mary Oliver ~