Tapestry Migration: Timothy's Hawk

PLEASE VISIT MY NEW WEBSITE

http://www.spirittapestries.com/

"Timothy's Hawk"

by Savitri

Timothy’s Hawk

My sister’s son Timothy killed himself, violently, at age forty-five, three years ago. The bereavement counselor at hospice where I’m a volunteer here in Maine, agreed with the California coroner and the police, that it was not advisable for the family to see the body. Ordinarily it is affirming and healing to view the loved one, as a step towards closure. But not Tim.

Now, three years later, seemingly unrelated to Tim, my sister and I, through e-mail, reached an agreement about a tapestry she wanted me to create for her, including price, size, and free-flowing abstract design. Brilliant colors of lilac, magenta, burnt orange, amethyst, red, gold, in loosely spun bulky wools.

Minutes after our e-mail, I headed to the grocery store. On a branch of a leafy green maple, above my car I spotted a hawk. Just to be sure it wasn’t just a branch looking like a hawk, I edged to the side of it. The hawk’s brown eye followed me. Auspicious, I decided. A good beginning for my sister’s weaving.

When I returned from the store, hawk gone from tree, I lay on my carpet to relax. I thought how I’d seen Ospreys, Peregrine Falcons, Eagles, but never, in the seven years I’d lived on Mount Desert Island, had I seen a hawk. Crows started raising a ruckus outside. Suspecting the hawk, I jumped up to have a look.

Just below my balcony, on the lawn, there it stood. Crows, about ten of them, were settled and silent now, in sentinel positions on various trees, one on top of a dead pine. Hawk looked up at me with its brown eye. Then it took a few limping-style steps. Crows scattered, cawing. Hawk stood still. Crows returned to their posts. Then, hawk flew low to the ground and into the forest, with crows scolding, in zigzag flight, racing after.

I wrote my sister the story, asked if I could put a hawk in her weaving, asked if the hawk meant anything to her. She wrote that her son Tim had had a fascination for birds of prey, and most particularly hawks. “Yes,” she said, “put the hawk in. The weaving needs a subject. It’ll be Tim’s gift to me.” It was a Red-shouldered Hawk, about the size of a crow, not the larger Red-tailed, as I’d thought. And so Timothy’s Hawk was begun.

One or two days into the weaving, I began to have nightmares, every night, waking up with a start, sucking in air, someone or something chasing me. I rarely have nightmares. After sharing with a friend,  I connected the dreams to Tim. At that point I realized, that while I wove, I was to visualize Tim’s release from pain and suffering, and from the the ways he might be stuck on the other side.

According to the Tibetans, the images encountered in the after-death Bardos, can be infinitely more terrifying than those encountered in life.

Later my sister told me Tim had been plagued with chase dreams, from childhood into adult, sometimes waking him, screaming in the night. Meanwhile, during the weaving of Tim’s hawk, my sister was having her own experiences and recollections, including a dream of deep grief.

For days I wove and watched Tim’s hawk, under my fingers, rising out of a fire and soaring into color and light. During this time I had a numinous dream:

I am standing on a cliff above a Caribbean-blue ocean. I want to swim but someone tells me it’s dangerous. I see why. Not far out from the cliff is a huge, being-like mass of tangled seaweed that floats several feet above the water, rising and falling as if flexing muscles. Soon I find myself at the bottom of the cliff, diving into the ocean and swimming along the narrow passage between the cliff and the seaweed being, towards a white sandy beach. I feel awe but no danger as I swim with abandon, in the center of the turquoise waterway.

I awoke feeling elevated.

Detail

Note:
My sister and I are reading Timothy through The Tibetan Book of the Dead, The Great Liberation Through Hearing.

Another source: The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche

Tapestry Migration: The Beginning

"Ganesha"

Tapestry weaving by Savitri

Tapestry Migration

Om Sri Maha Ganapatayae Namah!

Tapestry Weaving. Aha! An electromagnetic-free profession. (read about EMF sensitivity in “Red-Zoned into the Arms Nature” link on the side panel)

So what do I do now? And what does weaving have to do with my blog, "Sudden Death, Sudden Life"? Well, if I stretch a bit, maybe it's related...transformation, transfiguration, transmigration, and all of those trans-whatevers that often have to do with all kinds of death and dying, from minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day.

Meanwhile, I’m a bit shocked because you’d not have convinced me a month ago that I’d return to my earlier profession of tapestry weaver. These days I like to write. Not that I make any money at it, but monetary gain is something to strive for, not the goal. Isn’t it? If I’m going to allow myself to be turned all the way around, then I’ll have to buy a loom. Looms are expensive. Try $2,000 to $3,000, new. Price is one of my excuses as friends tell me, over and over: “You should weave again.”

Okay, okay. Maybe I will, but first, to start such an undertaking, I’d be smart to call upon the elephant-headed lord, the remover of obstacles, Ganesha. He’s is a pretty jolly fellow because one of his lordship activities is to open the way for new ventures, all comings and goings, even for in the door, or out the door and down the road. Practically every Hindu taxi driver in India has a picture of Ganesha (also known as Ganapati) on the dashboard, along with the deity of choice. These drivers know that before you pray to Shiva or Lakshmi or Hanuman or any of the gods of the Hindu pantheon, you pray to Ganesha first, because he clears the pathway, even for your worship endeavors. And maybe he’ll even open up the wall-to-wall traffic jam. You never know.

If you want to look at this crazy move from writer to weaver, or any combination thereof, you might take into consideration Mercury (Hermes), the Greek god with the wings on his heels, the messenger god, the trickster. From my viewpoint, which is a bit topsy-turvy after having given up tapestry weaving about fifteen years ago, to take up writing, and now maybe weaving again, there has to be some crafty business going on. And that would be Mercury’s department. I take into consideration that Mercury rules over both writing and weaving, and that my Moon is in a Mercury-ruled sign, and my Mercury is in my house of profession.

Do you know the story about Mercury stealing Apollo’s cows? Right after Mercury’s born, he runs off with the cows and then climbs back into his crib. Apollo gets word of the cow heist. When Apollo confronts him, Mercury says, “Who me? I’m just a baby. How could I steal your cows?” Well, Apollo, being who he is, sleuths out the location of the cows and then retaliates, threatens to curse Mercury with God-only-knows what. To appease Apollo, Mercury crafts a lyre for him, the very one you always see in the depictions of Apollo. Oh, well, I digress. I was always a better weaver than writer.

So one day about a month and a half ago, I tell my friend Juniper (not her real name) that I’m going to take up weaving again. Next time I see her she says, “I want to give you money towards your weaving loom, and in exchange you can weave me something.”

“Thank you! Oh, my God. A commission?” I ask.

“I hadn’t looked at it that way,” she says.

“Yes, that’s what it is, a commission. And so now you need to tell me what to weave for you, something to wear, something to put on your wall? Like that.”

Juniper says she’ll think about it. Next week she shows up with a check made out to me and tells me what she wants. “A gull and fog, to remind me of our times by the sea, on our weekly walks down there to sit by the water in the early morning, and our talks. And the lone gull that sometimes sits behind us.”

I go stiff. Can I pull it off, a gull and fog after fifteen years of no weaving? “I don’t know how to make fog,” I say. “I’ll need some practice.”

“Oh, Savitri, don’t practice. Just do it. You’ll remember how.”

What trust. I believe her faith in my abilities helped me pull it off. Say nothing of Ganesha, who hangs on the wall behind me as I weave, and Amma, my guru, who’s picture is on the wall in front of me. How can I go wrong? Well, I can definitely go wrong, even with divine intervention. What do they say…look for the positive in the things that go wrong. Be optimistic.

That week I find out about four used looms for sale—yes, four of them—three in the $1,000 range and one $600. All near home. A friend drives me to Belfast in his truck, and we lug home a loom, an excellent four-harness loom, a Herald (never mind the metaphor, unintended), for $450.

To avoid an attempt at gull and fog I do everything to distract myself, just as I did as a writer (and still do), even decide I need to refinish the loom because I'm not sure I like the walnut stain.

Eventually, I get myself going, without refinishing the loom.

Here is "Gull."

Prickly Pear Spirituality: Stories from the Southwest: Under a Dark Moon

If you've come to my blog to read my EMF (electromagnetic fields) stories, please use the links on the side panel, starting with "Red-zoned into the Arms of Nature."

Under a Dark Moon

Berneice Falling Leaves is a storm walker. That's how she spells her name---"Berneice." She was born during a thunder storm, and if you're a medicine woman that makes you a storm walker, and that means you take on dangerous and difficult assignments. She's tall, wears ankle-high moccasins, hair in a Native American bob, died black, white at the part. She's half Sioux and half Danish.

We talk about her work as we cross paths with one of her several peacocks that roam free on the property around her old adobe home outside Phoenix, Arizona. Another peacock is sounding its blood-curdling screech from behind the chicken coop. I know it's a peacock calling, because my mother used to take us to the San Diego Zoo and there you can hear the peacocks all the way from the bear grotto.

Strolling along with Berneice and me is William the trance medium, middle-aged, with large balding head, and a tumbling baritone laugh. As we squeeze into single file to make our way past a cholla cactus, Berneice says, "So, anyway, Moon has invited me to Korea again if I'll bring two other ministers along with me." She's referring to the Reverend Sun Myung Moon.

William and I don't say anything.

"I'm not done with him and his Moonies," says Berneice, as she bends over to unhitch her purple squaw dress from the cholla cactus. "It's a free round-trip," she says, "all expenses paid at five-star hotels. And you both qualify as ministers---I'll vouch for it. We've got work to do in Seoul and the cards say you're coming." She's referring to the Tarot cards.

We pause under the sparse shade of a mesquite tree. William looks at me, blue eyes round and ready for fun. "Come on, Savitri, Let's do it."

For some reason, I'm booked on an earlier flight arriving in Seoul in the afternoon, time enough to poke around and scope out the neighborhood. At about midnight, Berneice lugs her suitcase into the room. She's laughing. "William is furious because he had no idea the bottle of wine he ordered downstairs was going to cost him $100, all his spending money for the trip."

Meanwhile, Berneice pulls out her cards and spreads them out on her bed. "He," meaning Moon, "is going to lie low. There's a plan to assassinate him," she says pointing to the Tower card and the Ten of Swords. "We're not going to see him on this trip. Anyway, we'll work on the other planes so it doesn't matter."

I still have no idea what work we're going to be doing, but figure she'll let me know. I'm guessing Berneice is operating on the principle that when you witness a dubious act---really see, clearly, what's going on---your job is nearly done.

"I found out there's a Buddhist service down the street at four in the morning," I say.

"Good, we'll go to it."

I've never traveled with Berneice before and feel excited that she responds to my desire for adventure, but I also suspect her reasons for wanting to go to the Buddhist temple is somehow related to "our work."

The next morning, the Moon program begins at 9:00 AM sharp. William is jealous that we didn't tell him about the Buddhist service. I look around the hall at the two hundred or so ministers, half of them Afro-Americans. I find out later that nearly all people on the Moon trip are from the South, mostly Baptists and Methodists. I supposed that a free trip would be tempting to just about anyone, except Episcopalians and Presbyterians, Catholics, who are conspicuously absent.

For several hours we watch videos on a huge screen about Moon and his mission, complete with testimonials and shots of his mass weddings. Moon arranges marriages, pairing all colors and races in his attempt to create a utopia of one color, one race. That evening after a Korean banquet, we are bussed to Moon's opera house, a monumental building reminiscent of the architectural grandiosity of the Nazi era. And, like Hitler, Moon is a connoisseur and patron of the arts. We are dazzled with song and dance for three hours, a Korean ballet folklorico.

I've mentioned that William is a trance medium. He channels Dr. Peebles, a Scotsman, though I've never been clear as to why Dr. Peebles would be found to have any more wisdom than the rest of us. I remember one day when I'd invited William to channel at my yoga center in Tucson, Arizona. William sat in a chair while the thirty of us in the "audience" sat on the floor in my temple room, on my European Oriental rug. My temple cat Bok Choy, a large white tiger point Siamese with Egyptian profile, sauntered in and sat in front of William, looking up at him, obviously waiting for the show to begin. William, when he took notice of Bok Choy's profound attention, burst into his loud baritone laughter. Bok Choy stood, flipped his tail a few times, and walked out of the room, head high. William, covering his smile with his hand, said, "O Lord...I think I insulted your cat." When William recovered his calm, he brought on Dr. Peebles.

Anyway, the day after the Korean dance gala, the Moonies bus us to a parking lot not far from the Moon headquarters. To get there we walk down a quaint street with up-scale oriental-style homes. Berneice says, "His house is one of these. I know it." And William agrees. At the surprisingly modest headquarters, a young American woman shows us around, and I take note of the surprisingly ordinary-looking office workers, mostly Koreans.

At the tour's end, while everyone in our group files out, William signals for me to linger, and whispers, "Let's walk back." Though I'm not sure how far the walk will be, I follow his lead. Berneice doesn't want to stay. With our group gone, I notice that nobody in the office seems to find our presence strange. William strikes up friendly conversation with a Korean woman in her forties. After a bit he says to her, "I'm a spiritualist."

The woman smiles, nodding.

"Are you familiar with spiritualism?" he asks as if it were the most normal question in the world.

"Oh, yes," she says, "In fact we have several among us who are learning to channel. When he dies, that's how he'll communicate with us."

I try really hard not to look at William and I'm pretty sure he's trying really hard not to look at me.

Later the next day, Berneice and William and I huddle in the hotel lobby during a break in the program. Berneice says, "I just found out that about 70 of those ministers from the South have already been persuaded, because of what they've seen so far on those videos, to spread the good word about Moon to their congregations. They're buying the idea that Moon is the new Messiah."

"You can't be serious," says William.

"Dead serious. And, I want you to know that they have Moonies assigned to us, to pick our brains." She punches her fist into her palm and says, "Just send them away whenever you feel them probing around in your brain."

Now I know why I've been feeling irritable and out of sorts. "One of them came up to me, the tall American who introduces the program every day, and told me that we'd get sent back home if we didn't attend every program. I understand, now, how he knew I was planning to play hookie. And he said to stop going to the Buddhist temples."

"Creepy," says William.

"You better believe," says Berneice. "Anyway, we've got an afternoon break today, so let's go look at those masks you wanted to see at the folk art museum, Savitri. And just remember...our mere presence is throwing off their energy."

I feel I'm just along for the ride, but am glad our storm walker thinks we might be making a dent in Moon progress.

On our seventh and last day in Seoul, we three hike up a hill spotted with shaggy trees and wild grasses, the sight of a bloody battle during the Korean War. We'd been up the hill, not far from our hotel, earlier in the week and had decided to do a ceremony to help release what William referred to as "trapped souls," souls who hadn't realized they were dead, were deep into the war trauma, unable to move on. Additionally, we had learned that a good deal of Moon's fanaticism towards creating utopia is fueled by his bitterness over that war.

It is a windless afternoon when we settle in a shady spot at the top of that lone hill that overlooks brown haze surrounding the sprawling city. Berneice pulls out her eagle feather and a braid of sweetgrass which she lights while she's saying her prayers; William calls on his spirit guides, Dr. Peebles included; and I light some incense and say a Sanskrit chant. When we finish, a gentle breeze brushes across our faces and flutters the leaves on trees.

A couple of weeks later, at my yoga and meditation center in Tucson, about thirty people gather to hear Berneice and William and me tell stories about our Korean adventure. First off we let everyone know that we'd developed a taste for Kimchi, the sour cabbage dish served with every Korean meal. In most neighborhoods in Seoul, we saw Kimchi "brewing" in large clay pots on roof-tops.

Then Berneice tells about the assassination expectation, and reveals that she wasn't the only person to know about that possibility. "And he knew about it, too," she adds. "He's no dummy." Berneice punches her fist into her palm and lets us know that her last Tarot card spread, with the Sun and Moon cards prominent, the Joker in the middle and the Five of Swords at the top, indicated that our work in Seoul had met her measure of success, for the time being---though she didn't say how.

To round out the evening, William offers a short channeling session with Dr. Peebles, who seems to answer the unasked question: "Mr. Moon may aspire to build a trans-Pacific bridge, but a Scotsman, such as myself---embodied, of course---is more likely to find a pot of gold at the end of an Irishman's rainbow."

***

Note: The above story took place in the 1980's. We'd heard of countless, similar stories, of people like Berneice working to defuse Moon's progress. On February 13, 2009, Rev. Sun Myung Moon celebrated his 90th birthday. The world is pretty much the same as it was in the 80's---no Moon-designed utopia, no bridge across the Pacific, and Korea, unfortunately, appears to be quite a bit worse off than before.

Credits: Korean scarecrow photo: www.fotosearch.com/photos-images/korean-traditional-mask.html

More Prickly Pear Spirituality Stories:
 "Owl Head Buttes Connection"
http://suddendeathsuddenlife.blogspot.com/2009/05/red-zoned-into-arms-of-nature.html

"Shaman of Wands" 
http://suddendeathsuddenlife.blogspot.com/2009/06/prickly-pear-spirituality-stories-from.html

Prickly Pear Spirituality: Stories from the Southwest. "The Owl Head Buttes Connection"

Arizona Sonoran Desert

The Owl Head Buttes Connection

“I’m gonna show you the Owl Head Buttes,” said Gum, short for Gumbert, a balding skinny fellow with a leathery tan. “That’s where you want to have your place.”

I’d been searching for land where I could build a yoga and meditation retreat. Now, where Gum and I sat on an old Perisan rug I’d saved from the dump, I held yoga classes in my rental in Tucson, Arizona.

Next day Gum picked me up. While we headed north on Interstate 80 to the Owl Head Buttes, he told me about his time as a dealer at a casino in Las Vegas. “I could count cards, see.” In those days that meant you were invincible at winning. “I was breaking the house when I’d play for myself, so they banned me from playing, but not from dealing, of course. So I used to go places where they didn’t know me. I’d pretend I was drunk. After a few days, they’d catch on and throw me out.”

About ten miles outside Tucson, Gum said, “Get off here! Jesus, we almost missed it.” Then he guided me down a well-graded road, with lush desert vegetation—palo verde trees with yellow blossoms, giant saguaros raising their arms to the sky, ocotillos with their orange flame blossoms at the tips of spiny branches. Flatlands all around, not a house in sight. Tuscon Mountains to the southwest and Mt. Lemon to the southeast.

“There they are,” he said, pointing to three reddish mesas, flat on top, steep rise, maybe 400 feet high. We couldn’t figure out how to get close to them, but close enough for me to know this was where I wanted my yoga retreat. Then one of my favorite desert birds, a cactus wren, whistled its wheet wheet from a mesquite tree, cinching my sense of “right place.”

A week later Gum showed up with the classified section tucked under his arm. “Look here,” he said, snapping the paper open. “Owl Head Buttes. Property for sale.”

The next morning Gum and I met the broker, Mickey, at Dunkin Donuts, and he spirited us off in his new broker's jeep. Mickey was a big guy, football player big, maybe fifty, with snow-white hair that seemed to glow, and eyes translucent blue. I’d been reading Ruth Montgomery’s book Strangers Among Us, about “walk-ins.” Not to beauty parlors, but dead people walking into someone else’s recently-dead body. Meaning there were these souls wandering around bodiless, searching for a body to occupy. If someone died, one of these souls would enter the dead body and suddenly, the person who’d been pronounced dead, would come alive again. Usually the souls that did this, according to Ruth Montgomery, were very advanced beings, compassionate people who hadn’t finished their life-tasks on earth.

While we drove down the interstate, I got this idea that Mickey was a walk-in. I kept looking around at Gum in the back seat, who had no clue what was on my mind. Finally I got up my nerve and asked, “Mickey, are you a walk-in?”

Much later, after I had gotten know Mickey a bit, he confessed he’d nearly driven off the road when I’d asked him that. Now he was silent for a minute. “What makes you ask?”

“Just a feeling.”

“Our instructions were to always tell the truth when asked, though we weren’t necessarily supposed to go around telling the whole world about this. So, yeah, I’m a walk-in. But not the way you think. I’m actually from another planet.”

“Another planet?!” I let that surprise grind around in my throat as Mickey made a right off the graded road, and bumped along over potholes, towards the Buttes.

“We’re almost there,” he said. “I’ll show you the 80-acre parcel that I think you’ll like best for your project. It has a great view out to Picacho Peak, spectacular at sunset.”

Using my trained psychological counselor voice, I said, “Okay, that’s nice, but can you tell me a little more about being a walk-in from another planet?”

My heart lurched as he maneuvered his 4-wheel drive through the deep sand of a fairly wide arroyo. “You won’t have any trouble crossing this in your old Oldsmobile,” he said.

“How’d you know I have an old Oldsmobile?” Gum and I had driven to Dunkin Donuts in Gum’s car.

“It comes with the territory,” he said as he pulled over and got out, and then Gum and I got out, too. Mickey’s face was rugged and kind, not handsome, but pleasant. He stood, thumbs in his jeans pockets, next to a mesquite tree and looked me up and down. “We have x-ray vision, too, and I can see you have some obstruction in your intestines.” It was true. I’d been having indigestion and didn’t know what was wrong. “I don’t mean to scare you,” he said, “ but you wanted to know.”

As we started walking the property, Mickey waved his hand in the direction of the Owl Head Buttes that rose up at the end of the 80 acres. “That flat area to the left of the Buttes, that’s where we’re going to lift people off when the polar axis change happens. No one will be able to survive the winds. So my mission here, as commander of a space fleet, is to lift people off planet Earth. So this won’t be a bad place to have your retreat.”

Good grief, I thought. “Hmm,” I said as I nearly tripped over a barrel cactus.

When Mickey wasn’t looking, Gum raised an eyebrow, while whirling his forefinger around his ear.

“Come on over here,” said Mickey, trudging up a small incline. “This would be a good building site.”

I made my way between two jumping chollas, with their spiny, ball-like growths at the ends of their stems that can suddenly end up on your pant leg, or on an unwary animal’s fur. "Oh, look!" A small herd of javelina, wild desert pigs, were scuttling along through a wash. On the knoll, I surveyed the land’s bumps and gullies, the rich colors of the desert, then took in the view of Picacho Peak, shimmering on the horizon like a spire on a distant planet. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it, Gum?”

“Yup. It sure is.”



Back at Dunkin Donuts, as soon as Gum and I climbed into Gum’s car, he said, “That guy’s totally whacko.”

“I don’t know. He sure knew his stuff.”

“Sick psychic tricks, just like the ones they’ve got working in Vegas to spot smart card players, or players who are also psychic.”

“I like the idea of living right there at that pick-up spot when all those earth changes happen. Crazy or no, I’m going to purchase that land, but it’ll take a while for my mom’s estate to finalize, and we have a lot of planning to do. Like how are we going to take calls for retreats when there aren’t phone lines out there?”

“There ain’t gonna be no earth changes. Believe me. That stuff doesn’t happen over night, not all over the whole damn planet. Maybe Vesuvius exploding onto Pompeii, yes. One spot or two, now and then, just to keep us on our toes, one year at a time.”

“What about the great deluge of Noah?”

“Yeah, how often have you heard of that happening?”

(Twenty-five years later, Gum’s take on earth changes proved to be true, though it is a known fact that the axis will shift, as is does now and then, perhaps sooner than thought because of how we’ve been messing up the planet. But the “sooner” numbers are in the hundreds of thousands of years, give or take a few. But then there is the ice melt now in 2009, raising the sea level).

Meanwhile, Mickey didn’t want to wait around for me. He sold “my” parcel. I was pissed. But, as it turns out, even if I had bought that land, I’d not have had enough money left over to build a retreat place. But since my belief is that most things happen for the best, I bought an adobe home on Hacienda del Sol Road in Tucson’s Catalina Foothills, on three and a half acres, with a huge great room perfect for classes, and even a swimming pool closed in with an ocotillo fence. A friend of Mickey’s, another walk-in from another planet—not Mickey’s planet—helped me find the place, using his brand of other-worldly talents.

Since the yoga center showed signs of success in the first year and Mickey still had some undesirable land left out there in the middle of nowhere, I took part in his buy and sell scheme, dividing my new 80-acre parcel into three. In short time I doubled my money. Gum had a laugh. “Better than Vegas,” he said.

I invited Mickey to come to my yoga center one night to give a talk about his planet and his mission here on Earth. About forty people showed up. At the end of his talk, he promised he’d let us know in advance when he’d be getting ready to land his ship. And so we all had fun waiting—not on pins and needles—for the Owl Head Buttes lift-off.

Prickly Pear Spirituality: Stories from the Southwest. "Shaman of Wands"

Woven mask by Savitri

Prickly Pear Spirituality:

Stories from the Southwest

"Shaman of Wands"

A sound, like sizzling sparks from exposed high wires, disturbed the quiet of the hot desert air. My dog Delilah, a fun-loving Old English Sheep Dog mix, barked and wouldn’t stop. I’d been reading my friend Yarrow’s tarot cards, even though I didn’t really know how. She was the tarot reader. She insisted that I let her know what was going on between her and her Yaqui chief husband. She’d giggled when I said I couldn’t. In her little girl’s voice she’d said, “Why, any woman can read the cards, and especially you.”

We were sitting cross-legged on a rug in my yoga and meditation center in Tucson’s Catalina Foothills in Arizona. I’d been examining the Shaman of Wands card in the Motherpeace deck, using a relationship spread, when that loud buzzing started up. Yarrow leapt up and out onto the adobe brick porch. I tore out after her. In the flower bed next to the sliding glass doors was an enormous rattle snake, coiled to strike, rattling its tail.

I grabbed Delilah’s collar and held her back. “Hold on, girl, hold on.”

Yarrow bent over and started talking to the snake. “Grandfather. Please don’t hurt my friend’s dog.” She spoke low and soft, a mumble of words. “Settle down, Grandfather; go back into the desert sand. Go back into hiding among your relatives, the giant saguaros and the barrel cactus. Wait there for the small beings, the rabbits and the mice, the ones who are ready for you to take them.”

Delilah was shaking and so was I. Hoping for some sign, I gazed over at the saguaro cactus, with its leathery, accordion-like skin, towering above my adobe house, its arms reaching to the sky. The rattler uncoiled and slithered away. Yarrow stared at me with a vacant look, her usually tanned face white, her brown hair limp. “Angelo doesn’t want you to read the cards for me.”

“What?!” I said, as I looked around for my husky. “Where’s Shaman? Come here, boy.” I ran the perimeter of the ocotillo fence that surrounded the swimming pool, and no Shaman. “The gate’s open. How did the gate get opened! I raced out and called some more.

“Oh, please don’t hurt my friend’s husky,” said Yarrow, as she followed me out the gate.

My stomach was doing deep sea dives. “What are you talking about?!”

“Angelo…his totem, besides deer, is rattlesnake. Don’t you remember? His hat band is a rattlesnake skin.”

I hadn’t remembered that, but I had remembered visiting their home amidst creosote bushes and prickly pears, near the Tucson Mountains. I’d been sitting, cooled by the overhead fan, on a faded bedspread, where Yarrow and I had been talking. We’d just returned from a walk through the graveyard. She’d gone out to get something in another room. Angelo appeared at the doorway, pausing ever-so-briefly, in the posture of a deer, his eyes wide and doe-like, looking straight at me. No…into me.

Now I reminded Yarrow of that scene. She smiled. “Yeah…he liked you. He doesn’t show himself to just anyone.”

And I’m thinking, when am I going to get it that medicine people can be dangerous. “Come on. Let’s go find Shaman.”

You’d think, after Yarrow had talked that rattlesnake into leaving my back porch, she’d be able to find my dog, but instead she dragged along behind me like a child who’d lost its rag doll.

We zigzagged over the hard-packed sand, around the cholla cactus and the Palo Verde trees, calling for Shaman. I was very careful where I stepped. We slid down a shallow ravine into the deep sand of an arroyo, and scramble up the other side, heading in the direction of Mount Lemon that rose high above the hills. At the top of a knoll, in front of the Hacienda del Sol Guest Ranch, there was my husky, poking around the flowers lining an adobe wall.

That night I dreamed of the Native American deer dance, woke up feeling uneasy. Shaman, Delilah, and I went for our morning walk along the arroyo across Hacienda del Sol Road. About three hours later, when Shaman had not followed me home as he usually did, I called the humane society in hopes that someone might have found him and turned him in.

“Yes,” the guy said, “We have your do…” But then he was silent. “Ma’am. Someone brought your dog in. He’s dead. A car ran over him.” He paused. “I’m sorry…do you want to come and pick him up?”

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pick him up. I’d saved him just one year ago from a pet shop, to the tune of $400. I’d paid $20 for Delilah. When I happened upon him in that pet store, Shaman had grown too big for his cage, and was circling, chasing his back foot. And I fell in love with that yellow-eyed, red Siberian Husky. For the first several months I had him, his eyes didn’t see, didn’t look at you with recognition. He didn’t understand human touch. He didn’t understand that you don’t mess in your own bed. Then, bit by bit, his eyes had brightened, got that far-seeking, mysterious look of his breed. He had begun to lean into me when I hugged him, sinking my fingers into the down of his fur.

Now I couldn’t bear to see him dead. I’d trusted him to run happy and free while we walked through the desert. I wanted to remember him that way. People had warned me that huskies run away. But he was never more than five minutes behind me.

After a few days of non-stop tears, I called my friend Berneice Falling Leaves, an elder, to seek advice.

“Your dog took a hit for you,” she said.

That night a couple of friends and I went out into the desert, lit a fire, and did a little ceremony for my dog, under clear desert sky, stars sprinkling down out of the August Perseids. A great horned owl swooped, settled in a saguaro, and hooted. I went ahead and did what Berneice said to do. I imagined Shaman standing there, looking at me with those eyes, like he knew everything there was to know. Then I called out to him, “Run, Shaman, Run!”