Her laugh was unrepressed and joyful. I felt envious of that much happiness as I sat in my cubicle dreading the next ‘beep’ in my ear.

“No I’m not lying! Why would I lie to you about something like that? I really did. And this Yurok woman that I met in the woods in Northern California befriended me and taught me about Native remedies with plants and stuff. It was the best time of my life.”

I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation but it was clear that I was hearing the better half. Yolanda is a petite, raven-haired Latina woman in her later 30’s who had been at the call center a little less time than I had. I knew that she rode a motorcycle and I thought she was a dyke.

She had an unfortunate placement near our boss, which meant that she had to be extra perfect on her calls. We had a script to follow for part of our calls but we were encouraged to chat with our customers. Of course, the chat was expected to lead to a talk about what else we could sell them.

Yolanda might not be able to sell her customer anything that would lead to increased revenue for our company, but she had sold both of us on the story of her life.

How could this teeny Chola have been gifted such an extraordinary experience and yet it led her to work in a call center? Surely she was destined for something else.

“That’s my DREAM!”

She was so animated now that in the night-shift quiet of the relatively empty floor of the call center, the other workers were turning their heads to see Yolanda.

When I also stood up, I could see her gesturing toward her computer with the fingers of both hands spread like she was ready to catch a giant beach ball. She had a huge grin and was talking to her computer monitor like this customer was offering her a chance to leave the mundanity of her desk.

“That sounds just perfect. No, I couldn’t do that. I can’t do that. But I do have your name and if I ever end up there. I’ll look you up. That’s a promise.”

Chapter 1: Right Place Right Time

The woman was dressed in a white blouse and a skirt of pale yellow leather.  Her dark hair was in two thick ropes on either side of her face and torso as she stood to face Yolanda. She had just been picking berries with a young girl who was probably her daughter, but when Yolanda walked up behind them and surprised them, she stood and turned abruptly to face her. The woman smiled.

“Hi. I didn’t mean to scare you. Is this your land?”

“The land belongs to us all.”

“I don’t want to pick any berries if it will take food away from your tribe members.”

“The land will provide enough for all of us if we care for her.”

“That’s very true. I believe that too.” Yolanda reached into her basket and handed the yellow flower to the young girl who had been hiding behind her mother’s legs peeking at Yolanda.

“Here. This is for you.” 

“That’s yarrow. My people call it (unpronounceable). Very good for healing wounds and minor pain relief.”

Yolanda stared at the woman in amazement. Here was a source of knowledge for healing with what the Earth provided. 

Yolanda is the type of woman who has survived abusive siblings in a ghetto California childhood, panned for gold, was a flight attendant, met a bear while collecting mushrooms and berries, learned plant medicine from a First American, heals others, caught a fish half the size of her body and didn’t die from water moccasins after she jumped in the coal hole, crabbed off Puget Sound and describes a mouth watering seafood chowder, can make a wild harvested blackberry pie with a broken arm, taught clog and line dancing, worked next to me in a sales call center, is a skilled horsewoman with an indomitable pioneer spirit, and has a laugh that is the one of the finest sounds on Earth. I started collecting her stories that I might attempt to write of her and do her vivid YOLO life some justice. May you be so blessed as to encounter her, and other humans of her caliber in your journey here.

One of my finest memories of her is in a Sedona sweat lodge. Our leader asked us to sing a bit of a song that we loved. My brain began to churn, thinking of what to sing. After a few had contributed hesitant voices to our small seated gathering, and it being her turn, Yolanda said, “I can’t sing my favorite song, because you have to sing it.”

“Me?” said the leader, Artie Lookinghawk, “What song is it?”

“The sound of your laughter. That’s the best song in the world.” And she giggled. And he laughed heartily, and we joined them, and kept it going, past the ‘natural’ decline of a guffaw, past the trickling fading out laughter of a TV laugh track, because of all the Joy. And I, and the others after me, didn’t take a turn trying to sing after that, because that was the culmination of the experience. Thank you, Yolanda, for lending me your grace for a time.