Collecting Bones

When my father died he was cremated. His bones were the first human bones I've ever seen. While I was in shock to see my father as a pile of bones my nieces and nephews were squatting on the floor helping the "bone collector", they were laughing and competing with each other in finding the most intact bones from the still-warm ashes. It was like a scene at a science lab. The bone collector said my father must have been a kind man when he was alive. I thought he was trying to be polite in order to get a big tip. I asked him how he could tell. He was a little taken back and shot me a look I've interpreted most of my life as "How dare you challenge me? I am older than you, a man and the authority here!" But his winkled face and his voice actually were kind when he said, "You can tell a lot from the bones. If a person led a bad life his bones are dark and dull; your father's bones are bright and clean. He was a very kind man." Everybody in my family was nodding so I nodded too. We did thank him and gave him a decent tip.

I haven't thought about bones much except maybe when I am eating tofu or doing yoga. I've been reading Clarissa Pinkola Estes' "Women Who Run With the Wolves" again lately, before I went to bed. I've read it so many times since it was given to me as a gift from my friend Julie in 1993 it is falling to pieces. Even so I am always surprised when I read it. This time when I opened the book, it said "Introduction, Singing Over the Bones." As I read on I became even more at awe at its knowing and my knowing as when my wildish psyche is in disarray and needs the right medicine. It is time to go to the desert, collect the bones and give them a spring cleaning.