Beans start with two heart-shaped leaves

The bacon and mozzarella buns were like grilled cheese sandwiches, only cooler. They were warm crusty circles slivers of fresh basil poking out of the melted cheese and crispy bacon.

"Shine is a vegetarian. Cheese and tomato buns for her." Linda had baked two sizes of sour dough buns. The bacon mozzarella were open-faced hamburger bun size. The cheese and tomato buns were small and thick. Perfect for little hands; hands that reached out across the blue sky of the tablecloth. Into Dumpling's right hand she left words. She did the same with her mother's left hand.

"She's saying, 'Thanks for everything.'"

"Yes!"

There was plenty. The soup was creamy and hot, and the Blue Lakes were crispy, tangy with a very light hand with lemon and olive oil dressing. Shine ate with her hands, facile with them her eyes spoke her delight. "These," she held up the dried cranberries, "are fun." With one hand free she asked "What is their name?'' Her mom answered.
"Let's stroll toward the pea patches, we have something special to show you."

"What about dessert?" Restraint was one thing, but, it didn't include giving up dessert.

Linda reached into the picnic basket and pulled out a long narrow caddy-- one of Dumplings specialties. Shine signed. Linda translated, "Cookies!" The tube of checkered cotton was like a crossword puzzle. Sewn in shades of orange and green squares with white piping between the orange and green, black letters were quilted like the rest of the bag. In capitals C O O K I E S. A thermos with small mugs dangling off a short chain was filled with chocolate milk made with coconut milk.


"That will do." Dumpling tickled Shine transferred her delight to the little girl whose laughter was .... hmmmm. Dumpling batted her resource of words and found "like a colt whinnying." Yes, she thought this was a Ponita.

The pea patch was just one more of those didn't know till now kinds of things. A whimsical wire fence framed in brightly painted yellow slats with stalks and faces of Sunflowers greeted the trio. Standing at different heights the Sunflowers were Shine-height, Linda-height, and Dumpling-height. Each flower had its own name tag to prove 'identity.' "We're been out here every night after work all summer," Linda had a look unfamiliar to her old friend. Soft and relaxed, Dumpling was falling down delirious with the sight.

PLOP! onto the dirt in front of the Sunflower gate, she uttered, "Feed me cookies. I am faint with delirium. Feed me cookies." Shine joined in, signing exactly what she read on Dumpling lips the two shorter humans rolled into each other pleading with voice and fingers flying.

The gate pushed in. A potting shed, simple metal sides and a clear plexi-glass roof housed a weathered wooden bench and small iron table. The shed was sweet, but it was what grew in the dirt between the Sunflower gate and the shed that was completely unexpected.

From her place on the ground, the smell of vanilla filled Dumpling.  Two thick rows of long and floppy grass grew. "Grass? You're growing grass."

"Not just any grass, Dumpling. Sweetgrass." There'd be a story here, she knew that for sure.

Linda continued talking as she helped Shine unsnap the metal mugs from their clasps. "Around the Plantain, we're growing mounds of Three Sisters: corn, beans and squash. There are lots of medicine plants here, we left them alone to do their jobs! Between the squat rows of grass a thick furry sort of green filled in. "Lambs quarters. So many people just think they are 'rubbish weed'. The tall spikes rising from the thick clumps of thin veined flat leafed plants Dumpling knew was Plantain. "First-aid Plant."

Linda nodded to the mounds where green Corn stalks were nearly two feet tall. Dumpling recognized the umbrella shaped leaves of Squash already stretching over the dark black circles of dirt. "They're slow to grow, but they know what to do," Dumpling assured Shine who was beaming with pride. "You helped with all of this?" Shine read the question clearly and nodded.

"I've had a visitor." It was Dumpling's turn. The dark gray pouch embroidered with silk threads the color of red earth dangled around her neck. "Raven told me some of what to expect here, but he left a lot out. But what he did leave me was this. He said it needed to wait until after dessert." Shine's dimples creased her cheeks. She reached for the thermos of chocolate milk, twisted the top off and poured the first mug for Dumpling, and opened the zippered satchel.

"You first," Dumpling said. "Children always ate first in our house."

Freed up and breathing more deeply than she'd done in a very long long time Linda unfolded more story. "My father had a second family. You know my father's side of the family is from the South West. We always though Mexico, but that was a simple way of identifying. Not necessarily accurate."

The story that unrolled over Chinese Almond Cookies and chocolate milk was as much the story of what a family will do when they must leave home in a hurry. The papers that say Linda is her mother are the legality. "Shine is my sister, my very little sister." Dumpling got it, "She is your dumpling, your squash."

"Yes." Her mother was a muli ... a transitional being. The last of her line as I understand it. When my father died, so did she. My father's family has raised her for the passed two years. Outside of Taos, New Mexico. In the Rincon Hills. And then they came to visit."

"Raven said whatever is in this pouch is for you Shine," Dumpling put the last of the melt-in-your-mouth cookie in place, took a sip of chocolate milk then put the pouch in Shine's right palm. "Yours." She said making sure the girl could see Dumpling golden face.

Twelve Bean seeds in a variety of shades and sizes tumbled from the pouch.  "Beans start with two heart-shaped leaves." Shine talked with her hands. She knew the rest of the story, and it would come with time.

There's more magic growing with Shine's name on it. Skip over here. 

Celebratory times

Those raisin dimples were deep indentations. Shine kept busy with her fingers. "She says 'I like your name. It says the truth. My favorite is Apple.' The little girl giggled. She did that well and loud. Linda M continued translating, "Apple Dumplings." To say her eyes shined wouldn't be enough. The whole girl glowed.

This was a child able to laugh though she didn't talk. "She was born deaf, so words don't come easily. Would you mind?" Linda handed Dumpling the keys. "I'm riding in back. That way we can all talk." There it was, another something Dumpling had no idea her friend could do. 

"You sign!" 

"Yeah, I started taking private lessons with Susan, you know she runs the gift shop next to us. She's been teaching American Sign for years. Did you know that?" 

"Nope. And No. I'm the one whose supposed to have her ears to the ground. Life is funny and sometimes we miss a step, drop a stitch, kick the can," Dumpling wondered how Linda would sign all of that mush. "So ... where to?"

"The Prairie Front Gardens." 

"Ah ha. Sure we're going to gardens." Raven was spot on. Dumpling looked in the rear view mirror at her old friend. Beautiful blonde baker woman. Mother at sixty. Fertile ground. It was a short drive and good thing, Dumpling's stomach was rumbling. "Smells like ham sandwiches."

"Back bacon and mozzarella, on sour dough." Linda described the sandwich into her daughter's left palm. Shine started humming. The soup would be perfect together, and that girl.  "Is it too late to change those papers? Can we be co-mom's to this mini me and you? Really! The girl huuummms with pleasure. How often does that happen. Where'd you find her." Dumpling put her left hand to her mouth. "Don't answer that ... not yet. I wanna be sitting with a bacon and mozzarella bun in my hand when I hear the answer."

Linda didn't leave a word out. She approached learning to sign with the rigor of learning a new technique for making pastry. Her face was animated and her hands, strong from all the years of kneading, were agile as well. It was tough to keep her eyes on the road. This was a new side to an old friend. Something all friendships thrived on when they were true. 

At this time of day, the light on the prairie was a muted magical show of shades and near shadows. The gravel road needed work, Dumpling rounded a pot hole. Swallows dove and swooped at the van. Shine saw them and pointed! "Shall I park at the pea patches, or up at the tables?"

"Let's have the picnic up at the Pavilion and then walk over to the gardens after." The circular driveway was empty of course. Dumpling pulled onto the grass that was mostly yellow from no rain for such a long time. Shine was unbuckled, but waited for Dumpling to unlock the safety on the sliding door. Used to helping, she tried to lift the picnic basket. Too heavy. But the satchel fit easily in her two small arms. She carried it like a baby. Dumpling noticed.

"I don't get out here often enough," the smell of prairie grass and the swift flight of swallows are enough to make a critic soften. The old evil twin was sated with the sight of a young girl with life enough to share with a tribe of war-torn critics. Dumpling crooned. Linda wished her daughter could hear that. 

The picnic basket was covered inside with a lovely cotton table cloth of summer flowers. Bright blue background and Cosmos which is a color that ought to just be Cosmos. Red Poppies and Sunflowers. Cloth napkins to match. Dumpling and Shine spread the cloth over the rough wooden table. Linda pulled the still-warm buns out from their wrapped basket. Mugs for soup. A salad of steamed and cooled Blue Lake Beans, sprinkled with slivered almonds and cranberries. A cold bottle of Ginger Ale for Shine and a bottle of Hard Cider. Hand-blown cobalt glue glasses Dumpling recognized from back in the days of young hippy trips to Tijuana. A spoon, folk and knife were wrapped in each napkin.  It was a celebration. Births are celebratory times! 

Dessert would top things off. Dumpling was surprised; she could wait. The moon topped the Trees. Grandmother Moon, there for the arrival of all babies on Earth.

Cross-pollination

"Hi, Anna this is Dumpling." The woman on the other end of the cellphone sounded sleepy.

"Dumpling, hello. Oh god, I've overslept. Can I call you back?"

"No, this won't take long. Anna, I'm calling to say I won't be taking that order for medicine pouches."

There was a long silence on the other end. Dumpling continued, "I'm not the one to do what you've asked. I don't do those kinds of things anymore. So, no need to call me back." Dumpling hung up the phone.

For too long the expectations of others diluted her real love. Stitching and cutting shapes that held meaning for her was the only reason for doing her work any more. The phone call was not her favorite sort of thing, but, it was the practice she needed and there it was. The medicine was not something to buy or shovel into a showcase, which was what Anna Shields would do with Dumpling's stitchery. The pin money had always come in handy, but now? Now the money felt more like pins sticking into her. She had no room nor desire for the bloodletting.

The smell of chicken broth and freshly chopped and simmered leeks filled the small kitchen. The old Stanley Thermos with the wide-mouth opening was Dumpling's favorite way to tote hot food. She'd filled the glass liner with hot water to temper it. It was after 6:30 and she was walking down to the Beanery to meet Linda M. Replacing the water with soup, the Thermos lid tightened Dumpling slipped the food into a long flannel lined satchel. The long handle allowed the Thermos to ride like a baby across her belly. The warmth of the Thermos was comforting. A smile filled her.

It was still a warm summer evening. An extra shirt? Dumpling grabbed her colorful storyteller's shirt and a cotton hat. Her cellphone rang. It was Anna, she let the phone go to voicemail, pulled on her boots and shut the front door behind her. "There'll be collateral damage," Spirit's voice was a whisper. "Not much though," Dumpling felt the soles of her boots hit the gravel walkway. It was the right way to go.

The Beanery van was parked in the alley behind the bakery. The passenger side door was open, and a very small person was climbing into the back seat. Linda wasn't far behind. Her hair was pulled into a braid that fell just below her waist. A tan baseball hat covered the top of her golden hair.

"Hello, my name's Dumpling." The little person was a button-eyed girl with short black hair and skin the color of dark toast. She smiled and a pair of dimples put raisins in that cinnamon toast one in each cheek.

"She can't hear you. She's deaf." Linda said over the top of a huge wicker picnic basket. Dumpling slid the side-door open for her friend. With the basket on the floor, Linda said, "If you face her she's great at reading lips!"

"Right, okay. Let's do this again." Bending to get closer Dumpling introduced herself again. The girl smiled and started swiftly signing with her fingers. Linda translated, "My name is Shine, like the Sun."

"Well of course you are." Dumpling was in love. Turning to her friend again, "You are one surprising woman. I thought this was a picnic where I filled you in on destiny. Seems you've got some something goin' on here. Shine is?"

"Shine is my daughter. I signed the papers to adopt her this morning. It's a long story. That's why we need a picnic. Climb in." 

Making soup

There was always a batch of stock saved and frozen. The tall Ziploc bag filled with last week's chicken and onion broth would thaw enough if she plopped it into warm water. "Well then," reaching for the timer Dumpling turned it on its head. It was a small but significant ritual. Silly old woman she thought to herself. But not really, when the sand ran through she would have given herself to the lingering effects of grief ... her shoulders heaved, her chest pumped the sorrow up and out. Her face wet with tears she reached for her rag bag and pulled squares of soft, textured and familiar pieces.

Fondling and feeling the old denim jeans and turquoise corduroy jacket, her body softened, the grief moved. "We don't vanish when we die." What about the Alala in the cages? Their songs aren't heard in the forest anymore. But Eagles have made a grand come-back and Buffalo roam in some places, too. The sand had run through the tiny neck. Muddling in there the mismatched pieces of life in relationship to everything bumped through. Not simple, but there it was.

Alright, here I am pieced together again. 

Dumpling remembered the second scone.. A cup of Wild Forest Black tea and the Lemon-ginger scone would welcome the cheer back. Visions of a sturdy and pretty folding pouch wallet danced in her head as she headed for the counter. Setting the kettle for a boil, tucking the scone into the small oven, the request for a replacement wallet amused her creativity. The thought of the lean and lovely man who'd handle the wallet was a nice way to move the day into soup making. A bit of lusty fantasy always made delicious soup. From her side Spirit laughed, "Alright, all pieced together again."

It didn't take long for the kettle to sputter and sing. Her Thermos full of tea was still half full. She poured the scalding kettle water into a fresh mug to warm it, and left a bit of water in it. The morning's tea was still good and now it was proper hot. The day was filling with three of her favorite things: tea, scone and stitching. She was into a zone ... no interruptions for the next couple of hours. She fished into her purse and found her cellphone. It was one of the old burners, a small Nokia flip-phone. Pushing on the volume button she made sure the contraption was silenced.

Linda M was without question the best maker and baker of superb scones. Hot out of the oven and onto her plate the smell was the first clue. Dumpling started humming. The crisp outside of the fat triangle of pastry held a tender inside that was as good as sex. Oh my. Rather than bite into it Dumpling liked breaking small bits off and dunked skillfully. Then the bite. Yes, oh my! To make the treat last she set the scone down long enough to lay the sleeve of the faded turquoise corduroy flat on the kitchen table. Eyeing a wallet-size that would fold into thirds with a good seam she cut.

It was nearly 2:30 when the pieces of denim and corduroy were cut and the first row of thick embroidery floss stitched the rectangle together. The soup needed tending and at least one phone call needed to be made. "Then I'll need another nap." Thinking about the phone call made her tired, but, it was something that needed doing. And, maybe Jupiter's position in the heavens would lend her the luck she needed to have a good conversation. Dumpling crossed her fingers, just in case.

Uncle Stone

Dumpling spent the rest of the morning leisurely walking to the end of the spit, her bamboo stick leaving regular marks ahead of her boot prints. She missed seeing the slight but evident paw prints of her companion. "But I am here," Spirit assured. "We don't vanish when we die, nothing does." Philosophical was good, she loved a good banter and discourse about life, the one you see and the one you don't see.

"I miss your furry face, Sweetie Pie."
"But you don't miss the dander?" It was a sour sticking point, and one neither liked admitting Dumpling was allergic to cats.
"I miss the purring." Dumpling was trying not to go down on that old banana peel, but the tears pushed out and over the dam. Spirit brushed against the little woman's shin sending the purr across those invisible borders.
"I notice the birds and chipmunks don't miss me one little bit. Little beggars. I see them on my porch and under the steps."
"Yeah, they know you're gone. Know your scents no longer." Eagle circled above, golden eyes keen on the foot traffic on his beach. Spirit went automatically in a defensive posture with her head tipped up, neck tucked tight against her shoulders. "No nevermind honey. She can't hurt."

The small grey pouch weighed next to nothing in Dumpling's pocket. She was curious, but if there was one large lesson Dumpling Woman had eaten and digested it was curiosity could kill the cat. Creepy things grew close to the ground eating what they found in close proximity the woman who was kin to squash and pumpkins learned early how to duck and cover. For now, the contents waited for its rightful recipient, her life was full enough.

The two friends walked without much talk. Spirit ran ahead, leaped onto Uncle Stone and waited. "You should go now," the old man said in a whisper. He knew about change and loss. "You never get used to it, but time does have a way with the pain. She has something important to help with. That will take her mind off of you. I'll tell her you ..." The boulder's voice rumbled to match the slow incoming time.

Dumpling reached Uncle Stone and she could tell Spirit was gone. "She'll be with you every time you really need her."

"Promise?"

"I don't lie." Dumpling thought she heard the joke in that, but just to be sure she looked around to see if anyone else was on the beach. Two Eagles had reclaimed the spit, and more Crows scolded from the trees. There are things you need to finish before the picnic, she said to herself. Dumpling wanted to make soup, too. Linda M would supply some delicious sandwiches and dessert. She ran her hand deeply over the place where Spirit, and the chunks of scone had been, "Thanks."

Uncle Stone purred.

Wake-up call

The rough tongue was palpable. Dumpling squeezed one eye tight, then the other, then both. Trying to hold to Dream time doesn't work when it's over. Even from the other-side her Familiar was a potent force.

"Alright already! I'm up." Still horizontal Dumpling ran her hand across her cheek where the cat's tongue had licked. Wet. Tears seeped from their ducts, mingling with Spirit's wake-up call. Here and there, the two braided. Peeking through the eyelets covering her bedroom window Dumpling could smell the mud. A low tide and the Crows congregating were indeed a ruckus bunch.

The scones were cool when she opened the pouch. The small toaster oven would heat one within a few minutes, time enough to boil the kettle for some peppermint tea. With her Thermos mug filled, a tea bag dangling by a string the round woman slipped back into her boots.

"You know they'll want some, or all, of that scone," the cat watched as her favorite human slid the warm pastry back into the carrier and the second one onto a plate.

"One for us, and I'll keep the other for me later." To keep one hand free Dumpling slid the draw-string into a large safety pin and fastened it to her pocket. Boots on, she opened the door, reached for her walking stick and headed for the Horsetail-lined trail to the beach. Spirit led the way. It had always been her job.

The trail was steep, but well-tended with a stout hand-rail on one side. Blackberries were already coming ripe. Early for this time of year, but then the Seasons were changing in response to the Climate Change that was unmitigated. "Wonder what it's gonna be like come Fall?" Asking out loud, Spirit was quiet in respond. She couldn't predict the future but was undisturbed with being part of Dumpling's yet to come.

Four Crows, three adults and a yearling were busy pulling Muscles off shore rocks lining run-off of freshwater rivulets. "Cat!" It was one of the adults.

"That one won't eat you," the voice of a scarred male made it clear he knew the difference between a feline in the flesh versus one in spirit. "But watch your feathers, they like to steal them just for the fun of it!" The youngster wasn't having any sort of cat, and flew to a nearby Alder leaning from the slough of sandy bank.

This muliwai this transitional place between land and waters made all beings common. That is, the language used was understood by humans and nonhumans alike. Dumpling was gifted this home. The rent was minimal, affordable by any standard and the reciprocity? She tended. She attended. She gave thanks. She had the belly for all manner of digestion.

"I hear you have something for me," Dumpling addressed the Scarred One. She set the Thermos on a large Uncle of Stone and opened the safety pin, freeing the pouch. "Lemon-ginger made this morning." She replaced the Thermos with chunks of scone and stepped away. The Crows flew to her offering, the youngster swooped to join the others. They left the last piece for the woman.

"Thank you," Dumpling said smiling as she delighted in the taste of the superb flaky morsel. With a sip of the hot peppermint to wash it down she hummmmmed.

"Your friend, the Blonde one is about to make a very bold move. We've been watching, tracking her. She's not farmer, and what she's considering takes fertile ground." Crows can be very cryptic if you're not facile with their metaphors. Dumpling clarified.

"You're saying Linda M is about to start farming, and where she's headed might not be fertile?" It was a question and Crows like questions.

"I'm saying, your friend is heading to new territory and she doesn't have the right seeds for planting." Around the young Crow's neck hung a sack. Dumpling hadn't noticed it before. It was small and only a shade lighter than the shiny black feathers that are Crow. The Scarred One nodded to the sack carrying youngster. With nimble beak the sack slide off her neck and onto the Uncle of Stone.

"Take this with you when you two are on your picnic. After dessert your friend should have this. She's not to open it while you're with her, but she must open and use what's in the sack within the next cycle of the Moon."

"What to do with it?" Dumpling wondered whether her friend would need instructions.

"The contents will not need instructions. But. She will need to have ears that hear. That's where you come in. You with your ears close to the ground!" The Scarred One was chortling now that the gifting was done.

"Thank you for the superb scone. You are a generous one. We like that about you," The flap of wings fanned Dumpling better than a cool breeze. Spirit Cat blinked. They were done here, and that was that.

Hear, hear!

"Your strange hunger for ease should not mean a death sentence for the rest of Creation." - Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer

We set down on a patch of yellow grass. "It naturally turns a shade close to this one," Raven was pulling at a blade of grass with such tenderness my heart slowed, then raced. "But this field has been sprayed." That was what my heart knew before my head caught up. "It's in the way." With his wing and bill the Black Bird pointed to a solid black coil that wound around boxes and walls splitting into arms in front of the boxes. "Gated Community." I recognized the scene.

"This one is not far from your own mudflats, and our flight pattern has just begun." Raven was uncommonly serious. No banter or riddles, Dumpling felt a shiver in her toes and wished this was someone else's dream. This time Raven took both her hands encircling them about his neck. "Hold onto the beard! Hold tight." Dream travel is a miraculous mode of time, and relativity. As Dumpling did as she was told, the bird was now no less large as an Eagle. His wings combed the air, the sound like a great beast's heart beating.

From Raven's back Dumpling could see Ocean. From their position in the sky it was possible to see the coral reefs, songs of Whales bounced off the waves that rolled, specks of islands rose in a strand. Raven began his descent. "I've brought you here to visit a cousin," his voice was strong. Dumpling hoped this stop was a shift, a bit of socializing in dream time was one of the gems of astral travel.

A large wire enclosure ran the length of tropical forest. The smell of sulphur stung Dumpling's eyes and throat. "Volcanic?" she asked. "Yes, we are on the largest of the Hawaiian chain of islands." The light in the forest was soft. It was morning here. A sign about the size of a magazine cover front and back hung off one of the narrow sides of the enclosure.

ALALA
Habitat & Behavior:Endemic to the Big Island, this crow favored the upland forests between 3,000 to 6,000 feet in elevation on Hualalai and Mauna Loa. They were most often found in ‘ōhi‘a or ‘ōhi‘a-koa forests. The ‘alalā is omnivorous, preferring fruits of native trees and shrubs, but also eating insects, mice, and sometimes the nestlings of small birds.
Breeding usually occurs from March through July. The ‘alalā lays one to five greenish-blue eggs, but only two survive. The family groups stay together until the young learn to fly and eat on their own. The ‘alalā has a crow-like call: “cawk” or “ca-wak” but they also make many other sounds. Their vocalizations are more musical and varied than most other crows.
The ‘alalā’s natural predator is the ‘io (Hawaiian Hawk). Chicks are very vulnerable to tree-climbing rats, and after they leave their nests, to cats, dogs, and mongooses.
Past & Present:Since 1973, there has been extensive research on the ‘alalā. They were once abundant in the lower forests of the western and southern sides of the island of Hawai‘i. When coffee and fruit farmers began shooting them in the 1890s, their population was already declining. By 1978, only 50 to 150 crows were believed to exist. Disease, predation by alien mammals, and loss of suitable habitat due to grazing and logging are also factors in the decline of the Hawaiian crow. The last two ‘alalā vanished from their territory in South Kona in 2002.

"This is where Alala lives now. Restoration." Raven's voice resonated deep as drums. Dumpling held to the beating and matched her heart to his words.
"Your cousin?"
" Yes, though they are crows, the kinship thing is more about being Black Birds on their way to being no more. Any small genetic differential? It makes no never-mind. Unless humans get involved and kick in with the caring for the whole ball of wax, their songs will pass into the never-more. They're being raised by hand. Human hands."

The songs remember

It was Raven, not Crow, who met Dumpling at the threshold of Dreaming.

"It's been awhile," she said without pretense. "Where have you been?"

"Here and there. So much to do and so few of us have the energy left to meddle with this business of destiny." Spirit Cat had heard the ruckus of Black Birds, Dumpling suspected the day dreaming was Raven cloaking his calls.

"No," Raven interrupted the woman's speculations. "The cat was accurate in her discerning. She IS a Familiar that makes few mistakes when it comes to knowing the songs of truth. It's always been that way with that one. She heard Crow, and you will need to meet them later. For now, we have a bit of flying to do."

With no more than a split of a blink, Dumpling was soaring. On her own accord the view was unfamiliar. Not especially colorful, she felt Raven's presence as the two of them circled a field of long parched yellow grass. "Sweetgrass," Dumpling recognized it by the scent of its sweet nature. But the smell was more than slightly off. They were riding the thermals over a wide but mottled stretch of prairie. "No gathering," Raven said his voice caught in his bearded throat. "No gathering, no gifts passed. This field will die without having the bend and pull of girls and grandmothers harvesting."

Sweetgrass was not a plant Dumpling knew in real time. The sight of it was a mirror of her most ancient of selves, a self who had names she had forgotten. "Is it important to know?" She asked with that dreamer's voice who asks stupid questions. The stupid questions she'd be too embarrassed to ask another human. But Raven was Raven, and the question needed his answer. He was prepared to answer.

More Dumpling

The morning was a pup, Dumpling was used to the early rising and loved greeting the sun. Her cottage in town was a relic, a treasure of a place, sitting over the mudflats. It was a short walk home from The Beanery and by the time she pushed in her lavender door she was yawning. Normally, she only drank coffee at night. The reverse factor. She toed off her boots, tucked them onto the slatted shelf and padded across the sweet space old --the parlor. "An old-school name," Dumpling remembered telling her nephew when he was no older than three. "where family would gather to mourn the passing of loved ones." The boy was curious about 'passing'. His Aunty told him, "When we've worn these bodies out, we pass from them, some people say we die. We say, we pass from here ... to there." Chuckling to herself, Dumpling loved thinking of Kalani, Little Teacher, who was now a full-fledged card carrying Journeyman Carpenter. Time passes.

The scones could wait in the soft patchwork carrier. Made of recycled silk sari ribbons stitched with cross-stitches and lined with the flannel sleeves from a favorite work shirt, it was a nest for precious things. Smiling, and then yawning. She headed for the bed.

"Just a little nap," she said out loud.
"Likely story," it was her Spirit Cat.
"Don't you ever sleep!" Dumpling snapped knowing full well she depended on Spirit to keep her in line, or at the very least, keep her on the broad trail with her name on it.
"I smell scones," the purring voice of her Familiar sounded. "A nap would be good, and then a walk down to the beach. That old crow has been making a racket of commentary. Tide's out, we could see what that's all about." Family gods are persistent, and especially vocal when humans were caught up in distraction or illusion. Between Spirit and the Black Birds Dumpling knew with certainty it was time for a nap.

A cool breeze rippled the eyelet curtains bringing the brackish smell of mud and water. The transitional space that is the estuary fit Dumpling's domicile. Fresh water streams ran beneath the sandy base that was the island's floor. At one time in the long ago salmon would have made their way up the stream that used to be. The People's name for this place was Where salmon come. Few knew its true name, and even fewer could sing the songs that clam and gooey duck longed to hear. They would gladly give themselves to the ones who sang those songs. There was so much to remember, the round one wondered about having enough time for all of it.

The picture of Dumpling and her Familiar looked back at her as she slid into horizontal. She gave the framed memory a loving peck, checked the shallow glass bowl for fresh water and curled her knees up. Sleep came quickly, her dreams primed by the posture of the small black cat.

The breaking news

Customers were filling in the booths, the counter stools had been full since opening. "You doing anything after work?" Dumpling had her eye on one of the freshly-baked Lemon-ginger scones sliding into the four tiered display. Dumpling was no longer on payroll to anyone, freed of that contractual railway, she wondered what Linda M was thinking. "I'm always free after work? What work?" She caught Miki's eye with a nod and pointed at the scones with a "V" ... and mouthed 'Save me a couple, pleasssse!" Two thumbs way up, the tiny curlicued brunette retrieved two warm Lemon-ginger scones and put them into a a soft cloth bag. Dumpling was a stitch wizard. Scraps became any number of fabric and cloth doo-daa. If there was work she did, this was it. She always brought her own pastry bag along.

"Come to the house about seven okay. Let's take a drive. I'll pack a picnic for us. It's light till after nine, and I need more scoop on this destiny thing." Linda was already clearing cups and balancing them with one hand while she pushed her chair under the table. "Date?"

"Unless I get a better offer," Dumpling Woman was joking but it was always possible a better offer would come her way. At sixty, she was still a gloriously sexy woman who much enjoyed the company of men of all ages. Linda knew that better than most, "Promise!" Dumpling put out her right pinkie. They pulled, Linda still balancing the empty espresso cups.

The scones were still fresh hot, their citrus and gingery smell tempting. Linda never let her pay for anything, but there was no limit on tipping. She pulled a five from her pocket, blew Miki a kiss and called out "Thank you!" leaving the money in the ceramic pig.  More than one of the customers, raised a hand, eyebrow or their whole self to acknowledge Dumpling. She was no less tempting than the pastry she toted, and she loved it that way.

The business, or whimsy of destiny

From Dumpling's vantage point there were many paths and choices.

"Really, you have always believed that?" Her oldest and longest-time friend was not convinced of the free-wheeling whimsy of destiny. The straw haired lanky woman ran a coffee and pastry bar. "We used to be able to call ourselves a bakery, but the public is fickle. They like to park with the trendy. So we are The Beanery." Successful in three towns within a hundred mile radius, Linda M was a third-generation baker with a head for business. Her vision was to be the best, and that was how she made her mark. The menu for coffee and tea were the marks all others reached for. They measured themselves against Linda M. Her pastry ran in three tracks: good, better, superb. Good sandwich breads. Better muffins. Superb scones. On the first weekend of every month a Special Bake had customers lined up an hour before opening, and that meant they were out there at 7 AM. Once the special was gone, they were gone. No one wanted to be in line to be told, "Sorry. We've sold out."

Over a freshly brewed cup of thick espresso made from Guatemalan beans, the ones harvested in the cool lands, not the volcanic usuals, Dumpling poured a stream of coconut milk, stirred and sipped. Her eyes scanned for the raw sugar. She sprinkled the molasses colored granules into her cup. Sipped, her smacking lips curled into approval. "Hummmmm." This respond was what her friend never got enough of. "Shouldn't it be yum? You like it right. You love it!"

"Oh yeah, I love it. But anybody can say yum. Me? This stuff turns on my Hummm." Dumpling was roaring with the laughter that was among her signatures. Deep roaring laughter.

The morning coffee chit-chat was meant to be a kind of business discussion. But, mostly it was Linda M's version of friends just mullin' things over. This was informal and loose compared to real business. "The thing about having many paths and choices. That never occurs to me. Never. When Pop said it was time to hand things over. I was fully formed, more than able and that was that!"

"You're an only child. I'm the third of three sisters, the muli ... the tail-end!" The round cheeks on Dumpling face were still as golden as Butternut though lines etched them with fine winkles like sand on a slack tide when she smiled or laughed. She did both, often. "Expectations for you were cemented, what your father wanted you wanted."

Linda M was fifty-nine, her sixtieth birthday was less than a month away. "Pop Molinas" had been dead five years. His voice, his dreams were still the directives of everything important. "Are you saying it's because I was the only child this kinda free-flowing destiny never occurred to me?" Seriously, she was considering new information here. Most people could never get this close to her to dare a conversation like this. Dumpling was a different story all together.

The espresso was working in reverse. That's the way things went with Dumpling Woman. The caffeine was relaxing her. The sugar doubled the effect. If it weren't for the coconut milk she would have been asleep. "Where else was all that verve, that talent for dough going to go but into you. Your father was a Mexican success story in this town, and your mom made service look easy. Those heels. Did she always wear them?"

"Always! She was born with 'em, I swear." The tall Blondie genes were her mother's. Dumpling had a fleeting smart ass thought about dumb blondes. She swallowed hard remembering it was her mom who kept the business crisp, and profitable. Money wasn't important to Mrs. M but that didn't seem to stop it from growing like plantain. What was important was Pop Molinas, and when he died suddenly, it didn't take long, three months, for her heart to stop beating. She passed in her sleep three months to the day of Pop's death.

"Why do ya think about these things now. What's the difference anyway. Questioning your destiny, your fate. Are you not happy doing what you're doing here!" Dumpling looked around at the comfortable tables, the cozy booths that were old-fashioned in a now sort of way. The tapestry wall hangings were real, the wooden table were truly solid maple or oak and the chairs held a body like her own with ease. "People like being in your place. Your places. Every one of them chairs you picked out yourself. You know the carpenters who make these tables.This is not Made in China. No offense to the Chinese. Everything in here was made right here."

"I'm married to this business. I have no children, and I never thought there were options other than to keep making dough." It was the closest Linda M got to a joke. Dumpling didn't let it pass. Her laughter was communicable and her fingers in her friends ribs made laughter impossible to stop. "The dough, the dough. Oh let us have some good, better, superior dough."

Dumpling Woman

"Pumpkins and squash take their time--they are the slow sister. The corn is the firstborn and grows straight and stiff; it is a stem with a lofty goal. Making a strong stem is its highest priority at first. It needs to be there for its younger sister, the bean. Beans put out a pair of heart-shaped leaves on just a stub of a stem, then another pair, and another, all low to the ground..." - a snip of the story of The Three Sisters gardening style

There was no doubt age and her love affair with good food made her who she had become. Beautiful, soft, and round the woman certainly filled her clothing well. Waves of white streaked through her wild thick hair. "It's a good thing that wicked sister-self has taken to that nectar," the birds chittered as they flew between the tips of the huckleberries, leaving Dumpling Woman's dreams at the first sign of dawn. Hummingbird was the last to leave her, suspecting there was still too much residual wanderings. They were especially good friends, this round little woman and the fast-moving iridescent feathered one. Now that there was no cat to threaten the winged ones, Hummingbird felt the bond grow between them; she'd always liked this human.

All around her the chattel-of-connect reminded her that life persisted. "In spite of all the obstruction, those weeds find a way to get to the sun." Sleep was still clotting her eyes. She rubbed, and then cursed, "Damn!" The pain in her wrists had not gone somewhere other than with her. Propped against the wall she made small circles to ease the discomfort. Bigger circles to encourage taking the leap off the bed. Eased enough Dumpling Woman ran her hands through her still thick, but now, totally unruly hair. The motion seemed to be exactly what she needed to be reminded of her femaleness.

Onto her feet she leaned into the small mirror dangling from the short length of yellow cotton seam binding. "Well," she was muttering. This was the first voice of the morning. "Here we are, not quite the bright and perky face of the ingenue." Cackling now the other voices chimed, "But then ... we aren't!" "There there ... those cheeks are still as smooth as Butternut." Within sixty ticks on the clock the three sisters had had their turn. It was the beginning of yet another slip on that banana peel of a life in this companion garden.

The birds had gone about their business of finding food save for Hummingbird who was grateful for the very well positioned neck of glass tubing protruding from a sweet mixture of berry juice. Hanging in the ceiling from the porch the feeder could only host her needle fine proboscis. Hovering as she drank, Hummingbird counted. "There are four. Four voices. However does she manage it?" She mused. How indeed does a human being manage the many voices that co-exist within one self?