The Talons and the Trickster

I was wandering one of my newfound rock-picking places — you know, the kind of spot where you go “just to look” and somehow end up two hours later talking to rocks like they’re old friends. The lake was calm, the air soft, and I told myself I was here to unwind, breathe, and maybe find a few treasures.

It wasn’t the first rock I picked up that day — but it was the first one that stopped me in my tracks. It was weirdly shaped, curved like it had grown that way on purpose. Smooth in places, sharp in others, with these wild streaks of color running through it like someone spilled paint from the sky. Not my usual “pretty pebble” type, but something about it said, Hey, you. Pay attention. So, I did. I stuck it in my bag like the good little rock hoarder I am.

A bit later, I found another — totally different kind of stone but curved again. I turned it in my hand and thought, huh, this one looks like a talon. Then I thought of the first one. That one looked like a talon too. Well, okay, Universe. You’ve got my attention. Two talons? Either I’m getting a sign or I’m building an eagle one piece at a time.

So there I was, feeling all spiritually connected and wise — eagles flying overhead, me being one with nature, blah blah blah — except I couldn’t stop thinking about dumb human stuff. Bills. Work. A conversation that went sideways three days ago. You know, all the things you don’t go into nature to think about.

At some point, I reached into my bag to put something away, and — bam — something sharp bit me. Reflex kicked in before enlightenment, and I said “fuck!” and tossed it out. Just like that. Gone. I didn’t even look. It hurt, so clearly it must be evil, right?

Then I froze. Wait. Oh no. I realized I’d just thrown away one of the talons. One of the special rocks. The ones the lake herself practically handed me. And the worst part? It hadn’t hurt me on purpose. It wasn’t some malicious little gremlin stone waiting to attack me. It was just being itself — a little sharp, a little wild, a little honest. Kind of like me on a bad day.

So there I am, on my knees, scouring the sand like a raccoon who dropped its favorite snack. Back and forth, back and forth. Total chaos. Then I remembered the eagle I’d watched earlier — just soaring above it all, chill as can be. What would the eagle do? I asked myself. Definitely not freak out. The eagle would rise higher, slow down, look clearly, and then — when the time was right — swoop in with precision.

So, I took a few steps back, deep breath, eagle mode. And guess what? I found it. Of course, in true trickster fashion, it wasn’t even the same stone I thought I’d lost. It was another curved one I’d almost tossed earlier because I didn’t like it.

Classic lesson: the one you judge too quickly might just be your teacher.

And right there, on that beach, I laughed — out loud, probably looked like a lunatic to anyone passing by. Because the message was so clear it was almost funny. Sometimes things (and people) that prick us aren’t trying to hurt us. They just have edges. It’s me who decides whether that’s danger or beauty.

I picked it up again, tucked it back in my bag like the humbled, slightly bleeding, much wiser woman I was now. I whispered, miigwech — thank you for the beautiful things and thank you for the tricksters who keep me humble.

And thank you, Eagle, Migizi, for the reminder to slow the hell down, rise above the chaos, and look with clear eyes — preferably before throwing sacred objects across the beach.

Medicine & Humor: The Sharp Edges Lesson

You know what’s funny? The world will hand you something sacred, beautiful, meant just for you — and then it’ll poke you a little. And half the time, we toss it out like, “Nope, too sharp. Not today.” But maybe the universe isn’t trying to hurt us. Maybe it’s just reminding us that beauty isn’t always bubble-wrapped.

The trickster medicine in this story is about learning to tell the difference between harm and honesty. Not every sting is an attack; some are wake-up calls. The sharp edges — in stones, people, moments, even in ourselves — aren’t necessarily dangerous. They’re just real. And real things have texture.

Sometimes the medicine comes with a little blood, a little laughter, and a good story for later. And if you can laugh about it while you’re still bleeding?

Congratulations — that’s spiritual growth with a sense of humor.

Reflection Prompts

1. Think of a time you reacted quickly to something that “hurt” — physical, emotional, or spiritual.

   • What did you toss away in that moment?

   • What might have happened if you had paused, like the eagle, and looked again?

2. Where in your life are you labeling something “too sharp” — a person, truth, or part of yourself — that might actually be sacred?

3. What’s one example of trickster medicine that made you laugh after the fact?

   • What did it teach you about your own edges?

4. Imagine holding that “sharp thing” again — gently this time.

   • What could it symbolize now that you’ve slowed down and softened?

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Closing Thought

Not all pain is punishment. Sometimes it’s just an introduction — the way spirit says, “Hey, look closer. "And if you can meet that moment with a smirk and a miigwech, you’ve already passed the test.