tie fifty reds

Last Updated on October 4, 2025

Tonight, driving home, I saw two young coyotes running alongside the road. I love when they appear near my house at night. I’m always a little sad when I don’t see at least one—like something’s missing. Their presence comforts me: out and about, making their rounds, living in the mystery.

An orange moon hung low over the bay, less than half full, curved side down like a slice of peach.

I’ve been eating peaches this week. Realizing summer was slipping by without one, I went straight to the farmers market and carefully picked five, each at a different stage of ripeness—hoping for one perfect peach each day. Day one was close to perfect, day two just past its prime, today’s not yet ripe. I’m still waiting for that true summer peach moment.

Now, as I write in bed, that same moon rises behind the trees, golden now. Crickets, screech owls, the occasional call of night birds drift through my open skylights. These sounds soothe me, finally restoring peace after two brutal weeks of roof work—the hammering, scraping, tar smells, plaster falling, workers pacing above punctuated by loud thuds and intermittent shaking of ceilings and walls. It felt like an assault, necessary but harsh.

I tried to escape to cafés to work, but it was never ideal. Expiring parking meters, unstable WiFi, $9 cups of coffee, crowded spots, a lack of outlet access, using both earplugs & headphones—I couldn’t focus. I missed a meeting. I fell behind. I felt invaded, exhausted, out of control, my yard & plants covered in tar dust, my cats unsettled at why I would allow such terrible, scary noises to continue

Beneath it all, there was a deeper feeling: like being under attack. Roofing is intense work—loud, hot, toxic, relentless. It stirred something bigger in me, deepening my awareness of all the suffering in the world. The cruelty, manipulation, oppression, injustice and so much more—it’s more than overwhelming just to take it all in. I let myself feel it, let it devastate me. Then I try to return to what I can control: the kindness I extend, the peace I try to root into my own body, the slow work of understanding love and bringing more of my true self to the world. This is what I can offer.

An elder, and now ancestor, I revere once said, “’Bout all you could do for ’em is tie 50 reds.” Red prayer ties. The act itself—fabric, tobacco, string, breath—gives the heart a direction.

Today, as I ironed red cloth, cut squares, and began tying, I snipped a chunk of my pinky finger with the scissors. Sharp pain, blood dripping, a reminder to stay present even in small injuries. With each tie, I whisper: help me, thank you, I love you, I’m sorry, please forgive me. In case it helps, in case it matters.

Most nights I drift to sleep without answers, without much hope, unsure of what “enough” would ever look like. But I know that I can be kind to those I meet. I can keep an open mind, stay curious, believe people, be a safe person and still keep myself safe. I can be in awe of my privilege and good fortune to be in the position that I am.

I stay connected to spirit, to my ancestors, to the prayers and hopes of those who came before me and those not yet here. It doesn’t feel like much, but it’s everything. It’s what I can do. For now.