"In a time of destruction, create something.
 A poem.  A parade.  A community.  A school. 
 A vow.  A moral principle. 
 One peaceful moment."

                                          ~~~ Maxine Hong Kingston

There was  -- as I explained in my first post 4-1/2 years ago -- a reason why I named this blog Trickster's Hoard:

“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.”

But for the last months, I have been hoarding again.

I have taken photos to share, entertained ideas, even — occasionally — found words. But I have kept the coffer sealed, waiting for some unimagined “perfect” moment. And the result has been, of course, stagnation and inertia — the very things that Trickster abhors. And so he has come again to poke at the walls I have built around myself. There are cracks. And through them I hear his croaks and howls and the sound of his flute calling me to come out & join the dance once more.

Oh, the importance of cracks! That’s where a seed might find soil to grow or (thank you, Leonard Cohen!) where the light may get into a darkened space, a darkened time. As Cohen councils,

“Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering.”

So here is my imperfect offering.

A large part of my problem has been not knowing what the purpose of this space wants to be. I am — as I’m sure you are too — filled with frustration, rage, and abiding grief at so much that is happening in our world. It seems impossible for me to write without reference to all the on-going destruction on so many levels. We do need to be aware of the negative forces that are rampant, so that we can understand them, resist them, and work towards healing.

There are many ways to begin the healing, even in the midst of the onslaught.

An African proverb reminds us:

The times are urgent.
Slow down.

How am I to begin imagining a better way of being if I am not actually “present” in my own body as it is, if I am not attentive to the small things that compose my current world?

And how will I find strength to move towards the enlivening future I’ve envisioned if I cannot draw energy from the good that –nevertheless — persists here and now, if I cannot find joy in the beauty that exists, if I cannot allow myself delight in a moment?

"The call to slow down works to bring us face to face with the invisible, the hidden, the unremarked, the yet-to-be-resolved. Sometimes, what is the appropriate thing to do is not the effective thing to do."   -- Bayo Akomolafe

While I ponder Akomolafe’s statement, I’ll continue to find joy in the rowdy colors of summer flowers in my front yard and in those they feed.

Including, of course, the brilliant goldfinches who forsake the bird feeder to pull petals off the flowers, digging out the seedlets beginning to form beneath.

I can even cut some blossoms for a vase on the table.

There are plenty for everyone, and most of the fun is in the sharing.

Was that a hummingbird I just glimpsed?