Eyes of Gold

I am dazzled by you.

The coyote was feeling puckish, her belly full of voles and rabbit droppings, replacing one hunger with another. She stuffed her snout into a shadowy place, but nothing scattered to amuse her. She pawed through clumps of grass, splashed across a creek, but the wonted music of the woods did nothing to entertain her restless soul.

It was then that the color of the sky caught her eye, pulled her blue gaze into the rosy horizon where the sun was slipping away into something far more magical. Never before had she played in the sky, nor did she know where the sun went each night. She knew the trees, the swells and valleys of the earth, and all the groundlings that live there. She was kin to the wind, its endless ribbon of tidings. She was intimate with water in all its forms, pooled and in a rush. She was friendly with the stars that winked nightly above her pack, and to which they sang their stories. But the sky was new to her, unexplored, a vast place of light for only those who could wing away.

How might I explore the sky, she wondered. Her ears flicked and her nose twitched. Her agile mind sent the thought afloat, an agitated bee of wonder until an idea formed, hard and bright like a wet pebble catching sunlight. The coyote grinned, wide and toothy, as she removed her blue eyes, one in each paw, and tossed them as high as she might into the pastel light of the setting sun.

The sky was aglow with all the colors of the flowers. Posy pink and heather lavender. Skunkweed purple, deep as a bruise. Jewelweed gold, flecked in fire. She could almost see what came after the sun, and so she hurled her eyes again and again, higher and higher, to catch sight of the moment it slid away into the unknown, trailing the blanket of night in its wake. The coyote saw the mountains in the distance and the thunderheads that gathered in grave council above their peaks. She saw the sea, sister to the sky, and was in awe at their tight grasp, the way they danced together at the ends of the earth.

I must see even more, said the coyote, even though she was growing weary, an ache blooming at the back of her skull. Her eyes careered ever upward. A wood frog, gambling among wet blades of grass, paused to observe the coyote.

You won’t find what you seek in the sky, said the little frog, for she knew that the wonder of change, the birth of curiosity and all its splendid, quenching adventure, came from within. But her voice was so small, and the coyote so preoccupied, that her offering went unheard.

The eyes of the coyote dropped heavily into her jaw. One more time she thought, even as she panted, her tongue cupped perilously around her blue eyes. The sun was nearly gone, but the coyote was desperate to see the moment of final departure, believing there was some truth or magic to be discovered, and so she threw her eyes into the sky once more, the highest toss of them all.

It was then that a raven, soaring home to her roost, swooped past and swallowed not one but both of the blue eyes. An amuse-bouche, thought the raven, how delightful! And she disappeared over the treetops only the coyote was unable to see because her sight had been extinguished.

In a panic she darted across the field, smashed into the unforgiving trunk of a tree. She stumbled in the hole of the rabbit she’d chased earlier that day, and tripped over the vole tunnels she’d so ravenously unearthed. She fell snout first into a puddle at the bank of a creek, and soaked her fur in mud. It was only when she paused to catch her breath, heaving fretfully in the center of the meadow, that a solution to her plight flowered in that place where curiosity had so hastily snapped up and then discarded the reins of her mind.

The coyote stood very still, closed the empty pockets of her eyes, and drew in a deep, calming breath. She put her nose to the ground, whiffing for her way home. A sweet scent caught her attention, and she found herself in a patch of bright blooms, a cheerful trim of buttercups embroidering the edge of the wood. There sat the wood frog, and feeling empathy for the coyote and her plight, the frog plucked two flowers.

For your eyes, said the frog, and the coyote popped the buttercups into the vacancies where once her blue eyes had beheld all there was. Now she could see again, through a soft golden gaze, and the amber shine of her new eyes gave her face the sharp, cunning look of an imp.

Better, said the coyote, I thank you. The wood frog gave a friendly nod, then sprung away, and the coyote, too, turned toward home, casting the whole matter aside, a thought as forgotten as a clean picked bone. She trotted off to find her sisters and brothers with whom she would sing to the stars, no longer with eyes of blue, but now with eyes of gold, a trait she would pass to her pups and all the dogs of song that would follow in their wake.

At the beginning of the year, I missed a newsletter because I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t. I feel slightly paralyzed, a form of fawn fear.

I don’t know how to make sense of life other than to create. So as the world shambles, I make flowers. It is a task for mind and heart. My house is a field littered in shreds of crepe paper, fine as skin and shipped from Italy. The tips of my fingers are accustomed to repeated burns by melted glue. I spend hours trimming petals so that I may layer dozens into a Ranunculus, a genus of more than 300 species of buttercups.

Ranunculus is Latin for “little frog,” perhaps homage to the damp places where the flower thrives. Buttercups have many meanings. In Victorian floriography, they represented the simplicity and sweetness of childhood, were a symbol of joy, and often given in bouquets to say, “I am dazzled by you.”

There are many stories about the buttercup, but the one that best captures my imagination is a variety of Native American myth explaining how the coyote came to have yellow eyes - hence my own personal telling.

Coyote has been following me. I believe that when you are haunted, it’s best to pay attention, that magic is afoot and wisdom waiting to be revealed.

Coyote is a trickster, a playful soul keen on adventure. She is also a survivor, adaptable, adept at dealing with the unexpected, uncontrollable parts of life. She understands that control is only an illusion. Her eyes are clear, willing to see the wonder, to accept what cannot be changed, and to move ever forward into whatever might be on the horizon.

I am leaning into the natural world, seeking comfort and wisdom from its beauty and destruction - the Earth knows how to revive herself, and therefore that wisdom must also live in me and you, even if we all have forgotten how to access it. Perhaps, we can remember? If we sit quietly in the thin winter light. If we look to the horizon as a bird flies home. If we pause to marvel at the intricate whorls of a ranunculus.

We won’t be here for long. So in our short breath of life, let us embrace the dazzling charms of buttercups and the wily spirit of coyote.