Thank you for being here - it really means the world to me that you’ve landed in the halls of Sacred Wyld. This is a reader-supported newsletter. Every read, comment, and ‘heart’ is appreciated and received with open arms. If you’d like to support my work further, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
What comes to mind when you think of a Raccoon?
Is it glowing iridescent eyes staring at you while you take the trash outside in the dark? Or tiny hands rummaging through wrappers, finding treasured morsels to offer the rascals living under your deck?
Perhaps it’s haunted echos of racial tensions in the American South, or associations with other night-walking opportunists?
Maybe it’s the warrior heart of a masked bandit who’s willing to delight in the very stuff the rest of us discard as unwanted rubble?
With a ringed tail like that, I’d venture to say this trash-monger has some specific insight in how to navigate the worthless and the worthy, the valued and the tossed-aside.
As I watched a seven-year-old girl don a Raccoon hat I had tanned and woven together with teal and black suede cord - complete with teal flower patches on the sides of the aviator-style headwear - the smile beaming from beneath the striped tail fastened as the brim said it all:
There is glory hiding in the trash, and power in walking there with innocence.
***
Let’s back up to the tote of ten salted Raccoon hides I have under my front porch and the six tanned hides I have laid out on my studio floor.
Because I am someone who has never trapped a day in her life, you might be inclined to ask me how I came into possession of such a large loot of Raccoon skins.
Well, when you have a partner who grew up in rural Colorado and has a childhood friend who still lives in the same town with two teenage sons who enjoy hunting and trapping in the lineage of the Western pioneer - and that friend finds out you have an interest in learning how to tan hides and make garments, that friend will gift you dozens of salted hides that have been hanging in his garage, waiting for such an enthusiast.
So for about a year, I have been lugging around this large tote of dried hides, somewhat daunted by the task at hand. Not only does the tanning process require ample space and proper equipment, but there is a commitment to careful timing and climate control that must be upheld with utmost attention.
After landing in a place this past winter that has adequate space to undertake this micro-scale tannery, and acquiring the necessary chemistry and equipment to begin the process, I have managed to tend to six Raccoons, one Badger, and a Porcupine. The economies of scale at this point are not working in my favor, but the labor of love bares fruit like the joy of a young girl squealing “I LOVE IT!” at her reflection in the mirror with a Raccoon atop her head.
***
Through the fleshing and tanning process, the tactile nature of working a hide lends itself to a rather intimate exploration of the wisdom one animal can offer.
Given the frequent playground of our nocturnal subject, it’s probably no surprise that over the past months in my micro-tannery, the Raccoon has guided me through an exploration of my own trash - the unwanted rubble of my psyche.
For example:
A few weeks ago, surrounded by the tanned Raccoon hides splayed across the studio, I began a three-day water fast. I’d never done a fast of this length, and the time I set aside to do this coincided with a stubborn head/chest cold, so the level of phsyical intensity was… high.
By the end of day two, the trash bin of my inner landscape was teaming with millions of dying microbes screaming their swan song of annihilation. The unsavory thoughts usually kept at bay by a steady stream of digestive activity were loud and gaining steam.
Pathetic. Worthless. Useless. Tired, whimpering, loathsome. The rotting narratives of my inner critic stank to high heaven and my disgust of the proverbial smell resembled that one time I almost retched walking behind a Thai restaurant on a humid July day in downtown Seattle. It was obvious why I preferred not to air these thoughts near the front door of my conscious mind.
With tears of exhaustion and a deep hunger for something I couldn’t quite name, I collapsed in a heap of self-pity, the mantra “I can’t, I’m pitiful…” paving the way to a feverish night of shameful wallowing.
Raccoon, why would you even consider approaching such a trash pile? …
***
The night was long, restless. In the early morning, I finally got out my journal and spilled every seething thought of self-hatred onto the page. Then, something unexpected came to mind…
A recording I’d made many years ago - almost five to the day. Right as the pandemic was sweeping its way to North America in the spring of 2020, I had booked a solo retreat in a cabin in Western Maine for three days.
I wasn’t fasting from food during that retreat, but I was intentionally quiet - fasting from outside distractions and interactions. After two days in the quietude of the pine forest, I ate a few psilocybin mushrooms and laid in bed with a t-shirt over my eyes. As a well of emotion surged up my esophagus from my belly, sound began to pour from my mouth: unstoppable, glorious, alive.
I sang for hours. At one point, I reached over to my phone and started recording my voice - a voice of hopeful wisdom that had long been suppressed in the recesses of my viscera.
This was the recording I reached for during the third morning of my recent fast.
The resounding chorus flowing through my phone’s speaker was, “Let it be all of it.”
Let it be all of it.
The pain, the sorrow, the joy, the gratitude, the anger, the relief, the pitiful, the rested. Let life be all of it.
The permission of my own voice washed over me as the perfect medicine for my hungry anguish. Somehow, five-years-ago me - deep in the alchemy of a psychedelic-assisted solo retreat - had strung together the perfect words I needed to hear in the present moment.
Pangs of grief and loathing gave way to the sound waves of allowance. Let it be all of it.
Pity melted into compassion. Let it be all of it.
Hatred yielded to tenderness. Let it be all of it.
A little melodramatic? Maybe… but the magnitude of relief in this moment was real and cathartic for my heightened sensual experience, sans-food.
Embracing the trash as simply part of the mix somehow lessened the stench. My body softened, a smile I thought would take weeks to recover spread across my face.
This felt like the wisdom of the Raccoon, as illustrated by his dichotomous tail: the unwanted is still part of life; we can pretend it’s not there, but the malodor radiating from the dumpster will eventually make itself known. What would it be like to turn toward it with curiosity, with an acceptance of its presence? Perhaps we might find hidden treasures amidst the rubble - even a delightful morsel to bring back to the den.
***
The girl tugged on the ear flaps of her new hat, twisting her body left and right as the Raccoon hugged her noggin.
She is still innocent to the hardships of life. Her trashy parts might be whispering under the surface, but it will be years until she steps onto the wrestling mat with the duality of her own mind. For now, she confidently strides into any situation - trashy, classy, heavy, light, taboo, hallowed - with a willingness to see it all as god.
And with this masked companion now supporting her Earth-walk, I have nil doubt she will wield a cunning edge to navigate the nocturnal waters of the human experience with wit and mischief, and an uncanny ability to hold paradox with a wry smile. At least, this is my prayer for her as I hand her the hat on the backside of my psychic dumpster dive.
So let us lift a glass in gratitude for the Raccoon, willing to unify the savored and the jettisoned, daring us to accept the totality of life. Whatever shames or loathsome remnants might be lurking in the back alleys of your own landscape, may you come to appreciate the treasure buried in your trash; and may you receive the wily wisdom of this unlikely ally. Life can be all of it.
***
If you’re interested in donning your own custom Raccoon hat - or perhaps a purse to carry equally your gum wrappers, (condom wrappers? - oh, too trashy?), family photos, forgotten receipts, and dollar bills - please reach out to start the conversation! It is my honor to bring these animals to you in a way that empowers your personal reflection and accentuates your unique personality.
Be well, my friends. May the Raccoon bless your day ;)
xo, Joanna