So often in our lives, the world says no, no, no. Don’t touch that. Don’t feel that way. Don’t want too much. Don’t do that thing with your face. Don’t rest. Don’t eat. And whatever you do, don’t put that toad in your pocket. 

This month -- for the third year -- the gods give you permission, no matter what kind of creature you are. (As we know, most living beings are afraid to devote their lives to fossil hunting, to feel a little proud of themselves, or even to succumb, for the day, to a hideous mood.)

In this season of May, you may touch that. You may feel that way. Want what you want. Do that thing with your face! Rest. Eat. And please: put that toad in your shirt pocket, with its little triangle face peeking out. Whisper into its ear-holes, in the ancientmost language you know: Lead the way, sticky old pal. Align your nose-holes with its nose-holes. Go where the nose-holes point. 

Be free, be moss-green, be moisturized. Jump. Dip your toes into the bog where the hot dogs grow and the mud devours. Become amphibian. Become mind of action, mind that goes boing. Become body that leaps into land, water, sky. Body of leapingness everywhere. The gods give you permission: 

You may. 

You may. 

You may.

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